Gunshy by setissma

Fandoms: Supernatural RPF

AO3 Categories: F/M, M/M

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Kristen Bell/Jeffrey Dean Morgan

Characters: Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Kristen Bell

Freeform Tags: Alternate Universe

Status: Completed

Chapters: 2

Words: 36,743

Publisher: archiveofourown.org

Published: 2017-01-10

Updated: 2017-01-10

Packaged: 2022-03-30 16:51:28

Summary:

Special Agent Jared Padalecki’s gut instinct is a pretty reliable indicator of a lot of things.

It lets him know when a suspect is lying through his teeth, whether a house is safe to walk through, and when he’s about to step into a fire fight. It’s only been really, stupidly wrong about a couple of things in his entire life, which is why Jared’s surprised when, twenty minutes after the first time he takes Jensen Ackles into the field, he finds himself crouched underneath an FBI suburban, bleeding all over his suit.

I Bookmarked Story: True

My Bookmark Tags: Fave, Podfic, Read, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000

My Bookmark Summary: Probably my new favorite J2 AU. I’m a sucker for law enforcement and medical procedurals, though, so it’s not a shocker that this one played right into my interests. The attention to detail coupled with really wonderful characterization makes everything even better. Also idiots in love trope, my beloved. Listened to the podfic & also highly recommend that.

1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note:

Another repost, this one is (slightly???) more recent - 2009. Author’s Notes still apply. There’s a glossary as a second chapter if you’d like it.

Author’s Notes

About a year ago, I was taking a forensic anthropology class, and I sat down to watch an episode of Bones when it returned after the Dramatic Writers’ Strike Hiatus of ‘08. With about a month of osteology and forensics behind me, I suddenly had just enough knowledge to realize that just about everything presented in the show was wildly inaccurate in ways that I had previously never imagined. They made up bones! They made up science! Crimes were solved based on evidence that wouldn’t have been admissible in a court of law! I decided, just to show them up, that I was going to prove that an undergraduate with just a couple anthropology classes could totally show up their pathetic attempts at science. I wrote a couple of pages and then stuck them in a folder.

Over the course of the semester, I accidentally became one of those people who takes a class and realizes it’s what they want to do with their life. This fic became about something I love - something I’m passionate about, something I would happily spend the rest of my life doing - and instead of telling the right story, this became about telling this story. This is the story of Jared and Jensen - or Brennan and Booth, if you’re looking at it a particular way - but it’s also a love story to an emotionally difficult, sometimes traumatic, unbelievably challenging science.

I want to point out that since the very premise of Bones itself is essentially impossible, the general accuracy of this story is low. That said, I did my level best to ensure that the science here (or at least the forensic anthropology) was as accurate as I could make it. Some details have been changed for the sake of having a story; to name a few, several of the characters working at the Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office probably wouldn’t really work at an ME’s office in real life. The Field Museum does not, to my knowledge, have an extensive human skeletal collection. (Although the Smithsonian does!)

It lets him know when a suspect is lying through his teeth, whether a house is safe to walk through, and when he’s about to step into a fire fight. It’s only been really, stupidly wrong about a couple of things in his entire life, which is why Jared’s surprised when, twenty minutes after the first time he takes Jensen Ackles into the field, he finds himself crouched underneath an FBI suburban, bleeding all over his suit.

“You do realize this was supposed to be a routine follow up,” Jared manages, trying to keep himself between Ackles and the open space to the left of the car.

“Don’t worry,” Ackles says, holding his balled up shirt to Jared’s shoulder while they wait for backup. “There are clear entrance and exit wounds and I doubt your clavicle is fractured.”

“Great,” Jared says, and manages to wait for the ambulance to show up before he passes out.

It only goes downhill from there.

When he shows up at the Cook County ME’s office a couple days later with the rest of the case file and a stack of witness paperwork, his luck just gets worse.

“Sorry, we don’t have anyone under that name,” the receptionist says.

After twenty minutes of arguing, Jared’s still trying to manage two folders full of legal documents and an ID badge with one good hand, so he’s not surprised when half the papers slide out of his hands and onto the lobby floor.

“Look,” he says, “I just need the bone guy.”

The receptionist doesn’t any anything, and after another thirty seconds, Jared starts trying to collect the paperwork. With the day he’s having, he’s stupidly glad when somebody else stops to help and starts passing over documents. His shoulder still aches, badly enough that jostling it around while trying to grab pieces of paper feels like a phenomenally bad idea.

“Thanks,” Jared says.

“You do realize that isn’t actually immobilizing anything.” When Jared looks up, startled, he realizes that Ackles is trying not to laugh.

“Thanks,” Jared says, again, dryly, and Ackles reaches over and undoes the knot holding together Jared’s makeshift sling one handed, fingertips pausing against his collarbone.

“Hold still,” Ackles says, and slides his palm beneath Jared’s suit jacket to wrap around his shoulder.

He grabs Jared’s elbow with his other hand and pushes back against his shoulder with the heel of his hand, firm and steady. It hurts like hell for thirty seconds and then it’s suddenly better than it was to begin with. Jared can even move his shoulder again, which he only realizes when Ackles pulls his hand back to absently pick up the rest of Jared’s paperwork. Jared knows four separate ways to put a guy on the floor from this position, and he should have on instinct alone, but there’s something there, something that feels like it might click. It’s fucking stupid, because Jared doesn’t even like the guy; he’s a scientist, straight-laced and overly analytical. Jared just wants to drop off his case file for the requisite signature. He’d be more than happy never to see the inside of the ME’s office again.

“You should stop carrying so much tension in your trapezius,” Ackles says, then, looking at the top sheet of the file, “Is that blunt trauma?”

“We think so,” Jared says. “There are some close ups –”

“Beveling,” Ackles says. “Possible gunshot. You should have the remains transferred.”

He’s already halfway down the hallway, still flipping through the file, before Jared realizes he’s supposed to follow.

-

Six months later, a pair of new renters finds the skeleton. It’s locked in a trunk in the attic, and by the time Jared gets to the house, they’re already reloading the moving truck.

“We thought it was just some old magazines or something,” the girl says, arms wrapped around herself. Jared doesn’t bother to point out that finding a set of bones in your attic is nowhere near as bad as it gets; she looks terrified enough already.

The landlord is already on the scene, talking to the police. Jared’s probably going to have to interview him, but he doesn’t even have to talk to the guy to know he’s not responsible – he’s the same shade of green as the girl, handing over renter records as fast as the police will take them, and he looks shaken. It’s not something you can fake.

Jared checks his watch. He’s got enough time to check upstairs before he has to go. It’s an old house, three stories and an attic with a cupola, and Jared barely fits up the attic stairs; he has to duck to get through. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust. There are footprints all over the floorboards, probably the renters’, and Jared can see a pile of new boxes and a couple of chairs that look like they don’t belong. The trunk is half way across the attic, dragged across the floor, and Jared pulls on a pair of gloves before he reopens it. The police department has already photographed the scene; they’re just waiting for the ME’s office. The lock is rusted off, barely recognizable, and when Jared swings the lid open, there’s a skeleton curled up inside. The inside of the trunk is intact, no scratches or marks, which probably means that she wasn’t locked in alive. Jared can’t size up skeletons the way Jensen can, but six months of working together is enough to tell him that this one is on the small side, gracile rather than robust. A woman or a child. Maybe both.

He puts the lid back before he leaves and tries not to let himself think about it in the car. Some cases are easier than others – gang violence, car accidents, murder with a clear motive – but Jared hates the ones with bodies locked away in attics and basements almost as much as he hates the ones that involve children. Luckily, Jensen’s already waiting on the street below the El stop, and the look on his face is more than enough to distract Jared. He stops the car far enough away to make Jensen cross the parking lot and tries not to laugh while he watches Jensen make his way across the asphalt like it’s a mile instead of a couple hundred feet.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jared says, and hands over a cup of coffee before Jensen tries anything violent.

“Why do people feel the need to discover bodies at seven in the morning?” Jensen says, buckling in, and Jared pulls the suburban out of the side exit and heads back down the street. “Most people have circadian rhythms that indicate mid-morning as the optimal activity time. Even entrapment doesn’t explain why every case for the past month has started at seven.”

“Seven’s mid-morning,” Jared points out, hiding a grin behind his espresso.

“Shut up,” Jensen says, and settles in against the window, holding his coffee.

Jared’s been up since five, but Jensen’s usually nonfunctional until nine or ten unless there’s a body, which is why Jared doesn’t actually take it personally when Jensen falls asleep in the passenger seat after two minutes of driving. Jared knows how to get him to wake up.

Unfortunately, he has to physically pull the coffee away before Jensen goes in the house, and getting him up the attic stairs is like pulling eyeteeth. Once Jared gets the damn trunk open, though, Jensen finally focuses.

Jensen leaves his jacket at the foot of the stairs, rolling his sleeves down, and pulls on a pair of gloves. He hands over the Nikon from his bag, which means Jared’s stuck with taking pictures, and slides his laptop open on the floor next to the trunk, plugging in his wireless card and pulling up the video conferencing link to the lab before he settles in.

“Morning, Jeff,” Jared says, grabbing the laptop, mostly because Jared knows that all Jeff Morgan can see right now is Jensen’s right shoe.

“Agent Padalecki,” Jeff says. “I’m half way through the renter records they sent over.”

“And?” Jared says, while Jensen finds a flashlight and digs out a reference book with several thousand post-its stuck to the pages. He checks his watch and puts down a north arrow and the reference scale as Jared opens the voice recording software.

“Dead, dead, ten for grand theft auto, retired in Arizona, moved downtown,” Jeff says.

“Pull the last three, I’ll take a look when I get back,” Jared says, changing the camera settings for low light.

“Let’s go,” Jensen says, and Jared turns on the microphone and abandons the computer to start taking photos where Jensen’s pointing.

“Unfused clavicle end means an age of less than eighteen, partial fusion of the iliac epiphysis puts the age above twelve to fifteen, no deciduous teeth but the third molars are still unerupted –” Jensen lifts the pelvis a few inches, shining the flashlight down into the bottom of the trunk. “Femoral head epiphysis is partially fused, so – sixteen to eighteen, I’ll refine it further at the lab. Subpubic angle is reasonably wide, ventral arc is minor but present, pelvic shape is wide and bowl-like, pelvic opening is oval from a superior view, all strong indications that these remains are female.”

Jared stops photographing while Jensen sweeps down with the flashlight. “No obvious signs of blunt or sharp trauma. Postmortem fracture to the tibia, mm – fractured hyoid.”

“Strangled?” Jared offers, and Jensen shifts.

“Or rough handling of the body, or just a failure to fuse,” Jensen says, snapping the flashlight off and pulling off his gloves. “That’s just a preliminary, I’ll need to take the remains back to the lab to confirm and complete the biological profile.”

“I’ll check the missing persons records for the area,” Jeff says.

“Run both sexes, I’m only eighty percent,” Jensen says, getting up off his knees. “We’ll use FORDISC to narrow down the sex. I’ll meet you back at the lab.”

Jared gets a call about a bank robbery turned shootout on his way back to the ME’s office, and he barely has time to drop Jensen off before he’s turning on the siren and heading toward the lake. He spends the rest of the day overseeing the transport of bodies back to the morgue and filling out an endless mess of jurisdictional paperwork. He gets a text message from Jensen letting him know that the skeleton’s arrived safely and they’re running tests, but by the time he gets back to the lab two days later, there’s still not even a presumptive ID, let alone a suspect. It’s almost midnight, and Jared doesn’t really expect anyone to be around but Jensen, especially considering it’s a cold case, but Jeff’s in the front room next to the exam tables, a laptop next to the spread out bones.

“No missing persons matches,” Jeff says, “I’m doing my best to extract dental mtDNA, but the sample’s gotten contaminated twice, so I keep having to retry PCR.”

“I’ll send someone over tomorrow to help check dentals,” Jared says, loosening his tie.

The light in Jensen’s office is on, and Jared’s stepping around the second table to get to it when Jeff clears his throat. “He’s working on trauma analysis for ICTR,” he says. “Don’t go in empty handed.”

Six months ago, Jared would have opened the door anyway, but now, he knows better. Jensen spent four years at JPAC-CILHI after finishing his PhD and a year after that doing consulting work. Jared doesn’t know a hell of a lot about forensic anthropology – almost nothing past a section of a forensics class in college and the season of CSI he watched, which he knows better than to think was anything close to accurate – but he knows that Jensen’s professional pedigree is impressive. Jensen worked for the Smithsonian for three months cataloging Native American remains, and Jared’s heard rumors about the bidding contest the Field Museum and The American Museum of Natural History got into over his next assignment. Jensen’s put in time at most of the major institutions with skeletal collections, done work for the government and the NYC ME’s office, and he’s worked for the UN. A few months before Jensen started working in Chicago, he spent most of a summer doing work in Rwanda. Most of the remains have already been cataloged and sent back, but Jensen’s still running paperwork for ICTR, putting together profiles and trying to identify victims in a system with no dental records and few surviving relatives. He only works on the files when there aren’t any other open cases, and Jared knows he has a tendency to push through them in three days with no sleep rather than doing it in pieces.

Jared’s seen some of the worst things that people can do to one another, but anything he could bring up pales in comparison to the genocide Jensen’s working with, so he ignores the sudden personality change and doesn’t push. He also knows a hell of a lot better than to go into Jensen’s office if he’s working on Rwanda without some sort of an excuse, so Jared lets himself out the front entrance and walks a couple blocks to an all night coffee shop. He gets a couple of muffins and some sandwiches, plus two of the largest size of black coffee they have. By the time he gets back, Jeff’s gone, but the light’s still on underneath Jensen’s door. Jared’s deliberate about opening it.

“Jesus, Jeff, I told you to just go ahead and run it again,” Jensen says, not even looking up from the computer, and Jared leans up against the doorframe.

“Jeff went home,” Jared says. “On the bright side, I’ve got dinner.”

“Your parents were apparently remiss in teaching you how to knock,” Jensen says, but he slides his chair around the side of the desk.

“My mother tells me I was born in a barn all the time,” Jared agrees, grinning. “I figure she ought to know, right?”

“I always think your sense of humor can’t actually get any worse, and then you have to go and prove me wrong,” Jensen says, but there isn’t actually any bite behind it. He gets up to sit down on the couch, where Jared’s spreading dinner out across the coffee table.

In the two months that Jensen’s job position was vacant, his office space became a repository for the furniture no one else wanted. Jared’s been trying for months to get Jensen to redecorate – his office is supposed to comfort bereaved families and impress colleagues, not terrify them, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the funds for it – but Jensen’s weirdly attached to his enormous leather sofa and the Asian coffee table that Jared knocks over every time he tries to put his feet up.

Jared’s normally the one eating the majority of their take out, but he’s glad he got four sandwiches, because Jensen puts away three without coming up for air, and demolishes two of the four muffins before he looks like he’s starting to slow down.

“I’ve been working since ten,” Jensen says, through a mouthful of apple. Jared’s betting that means he hasn’t had lunch or dinner. “Jeff said he’s getting nowhere fast.”

“No missing persons, no hope in hell of finding a dental match without at least an idea of where to look, and DNA’s a maybe, because I’m betting, whoever she is, she’s not going to be in the system,” Jared says, leaning back in the world’s least comfortable chair. “My guess is it’s gonna come up cold.”

Jensen’s quiet for a minute – quiet enough that Jared thinks he’s going to go back to eating, but he slides his coffee back onto the table and rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus,” he says. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

“At least she’s not in an attic anymore,” Jared says.

“The thing is,” Jensen says, “identification is for closure, the analysis to catch the murderer is broadly for the good of society and narrowly for justice for the family, so these cases –” He picks up his coffee again, rubbing at the sleeve. “Dignity doesn’t do the dead any good.”

Jared figures it’s a reasonable guess that Jensen’s not talking about their case anymore; he stands up to get another piece of fruit and sits down again next to Jensen on the sofa. “No, but sometimes it’s about respect,” Jared says. “Murder takes that away, we give it back, and we give them a chance. Maybe we don’t know now, but in ten years somebody’s going to uncover a missing persons report we missed, or they’re going to find a building with records, and so there’s a shot at giving some closure. That’s why you do the job, why we put in the hours.”

“Maybe,” Jensen says, tilting his head back. “I went to the storage facility at the Field earlier. Do you know how many cases like this there are?”

“Thousands,” Jared says. “But if we manage to identify even one person, it’s worth it.” He reaches for an apple, nudging his knee against Jensen’s. “And we’ve gotten way more than one.”

“You do realize you’re the most obnoxiously optimistic person I’ve ever worked with,” Jensen says, dryly, but he sounds better.

“Sure,” Jared says. “You know you –”

Jared puts his feet up on the table and doesn’t actually manage to get any further, largely because the entire thing flips over with a crash. Jensen stares at the coffee in his hand and then covers his mouth. It takes Jared a couple seconds to realize he’s trying not to laugh.

“Son of a bitch,” Jared says, without any real rancor behind it.

Jensen gives up, burying his face in his hands and laughing uncontrollably.

“Come on,” he manages, finally. “I’ll help you clean it up.”

The next two weeks are slow. Jared’s used to crime rates going up around Christmas, not down, but there’s almost nothing for him to do at the office. He’s even caught up on paperwork, which is why he finds himself spending a significant amount of time reading abstracts on the couch in Jensen’s office and driving with Jensen to the Field to pick up remains for analysis. Jared’s reasonably sure that he’s just getting in the way, but the alternative is reorganizing his office space for a twentieth time, so he just hangs out around the lab. It’s different; Jared’s spent seven months working with these people, but he’s never spent this much time watching them work.

“I thought you had a job,” Kristen Bell, Jensen’s forensic entomologist, says, after the third time Jared inadvertently knocks over the butterfly collection on her desk. “You know, saving us all from bad guys. Shooting innocent bystanders.”

“I don’t shoot innocent –” Jared starts.

“Sure,” Kristen says. “Want to see something cool?”

Jared’s definition of cool includes well-developed guns and Hail Mary passes, so the likelihood of Kristen presenting something really interesting is low, but he’s attended enough lectures on team camaraderie to know that he ought to give it a shot, especially since he figures it’s not likely to kill him. Kristen turns off the desk light, which Jared figures might indicate something glow-in-the-dark – Jeff has some DNA analysis chemicals that are actually pretty interesting.

“Sure,” he says, and Kristen reaches into the fridge under her desk and pulls out a brown paper bag, then opens the lid on some glad ware.

“Hey,” Jared says, “thanks,” because sandwiches are always great, even if he’s not all that sure why the lights had to go off. He’s even close to thinking that Kristen might be growing on him, but when he reaches for the sandwich, Kristen pulls the container back.

“Don’t contaminate it,” she says, which is when Jared realizes that what he thought was a perfectly innocuous ham and cheese is in fact crawling with maggots.

“Jesus,” he manages.

“They like bologna,” Kristen says, fondly. “Aren’t they cute?”

“Hey, are you showing off the blow flies again?” Jeff says, leaning over from his desk. “Are they to the second instar yet?”

Jared decides it’s definitely time to go find Jensen.

“Your team is weirdly obsessed with trying to feed me bugs,” Jared says, pushing open the door to Jensen’s office.

“Good source of protein,” Jensen says. “But blow flies are actually insects. Bugs are only the hemiptera.”

Jensen finishes off the last of his apple and shrugs into his jacket, brushing off his jeans before pulling his keys off the hook under his desk.

“I’m going to go compare some pathological specimens to a case,” he says. “Want to come?”

The first few months they worked together, Jared didn’t actually think Jensen owned a car; it took him a while to figure out that Jensen just possessed a love of public transportation bordering on obsessive. As far as cars go, Jensen’s isn’t exactly exciting – Honda Civic, hybrid engine – but Jared doesn’t mind letting him drive, mostly because Jensen’s contempt for people who don’t follow traffic laws is entertaining.

“Really, no right on red actually means no right on red, not that inching out and then turning while it’s still red is allowed,” Jensen mutters.

Jared finds a radio station playing Christmas carols, which shuts Jensen up until they’re almost to staff parking. Jared’s getting used to the museum; he’s been here enough in the past two weeks that he’s pretty sure he could actually find the anthropology wing on his own. Usually, though, they just pick up remains in one of the labs so that Jensen can take them back to his office – which often involves at least twenty minutes of paperwork, so Jared’s getting damn familiar with the cases of ancient pottery – but this time, Jensen leads him down three flights of stairs and flashes his ID pass at four separate doors.

They end up in a corridor full of built-in cabinets with drawers; Jared figures they’re probably for storing artifacts, just like the ones in the lab upstairs.

“They’re classified by year, look for the late 1800s,” Jensen says, holding a file open. There are a lot of numbers scrawled in it.

“1890, 1891,” Jared says, about a quarter of the way down the hall, and Jensen makes a satisfied noise and starts looking at the numbers on the fronts of the drawers. He pulls one open, pulling out a pencil and opening one of the files.

“1896, Mary Whitebrook, Pennsylvania, cause of death: tuberculosis,” he says. Jared realizes that they’re looking at a skeleton laid out in the drawer.

Jared pulls out another drawer (1896-FM-103) and sees foot bones. Another one only has a skull and a few longer bones, and the one underneath it is another nearly complete skeleton, which is when Jared has the sudden realization that he’s standing in what amounts to an aboveground graveyard.

“Jensen,” he says, slowly, “are these all skeletons?”

“There are preserved tissue samples toward the end,” Jensen says, pulling a digital camera out of his messenger bag and taking a series of photos with no flash. “But the Field has one of the best skeletal collections in the US. Outside of St. Louis and DC, it’s the most complete –”

Jared’s getting ready to make up an excuse to go upstairs to the museum gift shop and find an extremely large cup of coffee to make up for the fact that he’s just spent twenty minutes hanging around hundreds of dead bodies when Jensen pulls open a second drawer and shakes his head. “Whatever I have, it’s not consistent with TB,” he says. “Maybe a strange presentation of tertiary syphilis. I’ll do some research, come back tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Jared says. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. You shouldn’t spend it with bones.”

Jensen looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “I like this collection,” he says.

He walks a few lengths down the hallway and pulls open a drawer. “This is a Mayan skeleton collected by the museum in 1902, one of the best examples of cradleboard deformation in the world.” He pulls open another drawer. “And this is a set of Crow remains, one of the few the tribe was willing to let us keep, and –” Jensen crouches, to the lowest drawer in the cabinet. “This was a burial recovered from Williamsburg in the early 1900s, look at the intact fetal remains. It’s almost 400 years old.”

Jared can only see a few tiny bones next to a much larger skeleton, but Jensen pulls a set of tweezers out of his bag and points. “Those are ear bones,” he says. “Maybe seven or eight months along, definitely not full term. It’s a remarkable find.”

Jared has to admit that the skeletons might be interesting, especially considering the fact that they’ve looked at three years worth of drawers and the hallway extends pretty far in both directions, but he’s more impressed by the way Jensen is looking at them. Jared’s not sure he’s ever going to get used to the way Jensen looks at bones, like they’re the most important thing he’s ever seen.

“Come on,” Jensen says, “we’ll stop for coffee on the way back.”

Jared spends the rest of the afternoon carrying file boxes for Jeff, but when he starts thinking about going home for dinner, Jeff pulls him aside and hands him directions. “Chinese food is traditional,” he says, finally putting aside his laptop. “You’re new, so you can pick it up. Don’t forget the spring rolls.”

Jared doesn’t bother pointing out that he’s been around for a while, just goes and gets the car – there’s really no use arguing with Jeff – but by the time he gets back, there’s a body laid out on one of the exam tables. Jared’s starting to wonder why in the hell there isn’t the usual buzz of people and why nobody paged him to bring the food into a different entrance when he realizes that the body on the table is Jensen. Jared only avoids dropping an entire bag of Chinese food by realizing that there’s a jacket stuffed underneath Jensen’s head.

“Jesus christ,” he says, and Jeff comes up behind him, laughing.

“He’s got this thing about napping there,” Jeff says. “You’re just usually at your office when it’s slow enough for him to sleep.”

“Hey,” Jensen says, drowsily, from across the lab, “you better not have forgotten the spring rolls,” and sits up.

“Isn’t that unsanitary?” Jared manages, and Jeff slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Welcome to the team,” Jeff says. “Now are we eating or not?”

Usually, Jared has somewhere to be for the holidays – a girlfriend’s, an invitation to his brother’s, dinner at his sister’s boyfriend’s place. But this year, Jeff’s doing Christmas at his in-laws’ and Megan’s in the Bahamas, which mean that Jared’s Christmas plans involve some mailed presents and watching football on his own with the dogs. By ten o’clock on Christmas Eve morning, though, he’s really goddamned bored. It makes sense to take some paperwork over to the ME’s office. It’s not like anyone’s going to be there, but he’s got keycard access and it’s something to do outside of repainting the spare bedroom or going for a run.

Jared’s expecting the entire building to be deserted, which is why he’s surprised to find the lights on and someone at the front desk. “People don’t stop dying just because it’s Christmas, Agent Padalecki,” the receptionist says. “Dr. Ackles is in his lab.”

According to the whiteboard in the hallway, though, all of the morning’s cases were pure pathology, over in the autopsy wing, which does a lot to explain why Jeff, Jensen, and Kristen are playing Monopoly on one of the exam tables. “Boardwalk, with a hotel,” Jensen says, which mortgages out the last of Kristen’s properties.

“Next time, I’m not dragging you out of your office,” Jeff threatens, but he’s laughing, and Kristen notices Jared and waves him over.

“Jesus, Padalecki, tell me you’re better at Monopoly than the rest of us. I don’t think Jensen’s ego can take much more.”

“I wasn’t actually going to stay,” Jared says, more because he doesn’t want to impose than out of fear of Jensen’s Monopoly skills, and Jeff holds up a red plastic cup.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got eggnog, and you can’t possibly want to go to some obnoxious family gathering this early.”

“You should play, but avoid sitting next to Kristen, she’s got mistletoe,” Jensen says, grinning in a way that makes Jared suspect that the eggnog may have been tampered with.

“Damn it, Jensen,” Kristen says, laughing. “You have no holiday spirit.”

“I’m a grinch,” Jensen agrees and holds out the pieces to Jared. “I’m the hat, Jeff’s the shoe, and Kristen’s the boat.”

“I’m starting to think it’s the Titanic,” she says, dryly. “I’m switching, give me the horse.”

“I’ll take the dog,” Jared says, finally, and sits down next to Kristen with a grin. “But I’m not letting her kiss me without significantly more eggnog.”

“Attaboy,” Kristen says, and rolls the dice.

Twenty moves and four glasses of eggnog later, Jared’s significantly less sober and significantly more convinced Jensen’s cheating. Somehow.

“Indiana,” Jensen says. “Pay up, Padalecki.”

“You know, it has to be a statistical impossibility for the past five turns to all have landed on Jensen’s spaces,” Jared points out, rummaging for a fifty.

“I could run a z-test just to prove you wrong,” Jensen says, grinning. “But you’d still owe me rent.”

“Your turn,” Jeff says to Kristen, and Jared’s too busy trying to focus to pay attention to her roll, at least until Jensen starts to laugh.

“Z-test, my ass,” Jeff says, and Kristen throws one of Jensen’s houses at his head.

“It’s not my fault you’re all bad at Monopoly,” Jensen says, taking Jared’s cash. “Who’s up for making this a little more interesting?”

“Who’s up for shoving a motel up Jensen’s –” Kristen starts, laughing, before Jeff clamps a hand over her mouth.

“Risk?” Jensen says, brightly, and everyone groans.

It’s almost five by the time Jensen gives up on the possibility of any new cases, and Jeff gets charged with making sure Kristen doesn’t do anything awful to Jensen’s car while pulling it around.

“You have family around here or something?” Jeff says, while they’re waiting for Kristen to finish packing up things in her office.

“Nah,” Jared says. “I’m just gonna head home and walk the dogs, probably watch some football.”

Jeff looks at him for a minute, long enough that Jared starts feeling uncomfortable about it.

“You know,” Jeff says. “I was the TA for this forensic odontology class at U New Mexico, and there was this kid in it that drove me crazy for an entire semester.”

“Yeah?” Jared says.

“Yeah, mostly because he was a second year student who was a hell of a lot better at it than I was,” Jeff says. “We haven’t missed a Christmas together since his senior year of undergrad, and Kristen’s mom passed away a couple years back, so I figured it wouldn’t kill us to invite someone who could actually cook.”

“Sounds nice,” Jared says – he wishes he had something that stable.

“It’s mostly Kristen getting unbelievably drunk and hitting on everyone,” Jeff says, “but there’s pizza and god awful Christmas movies, if you’re up for it. Bring the dogs, my backyard’s fenced in.”

Jared knows he should turn them down, but the truth is, going back to his empty apartment on Christmas Eve is about the least appealing thing he can think of. “Actually,” he says. “That sounds really good.”

“Hey, Jeff,” Kristen says, sticking her head out from around the corner. “Can I keep my hawk moth cocoon in your fridge? I think it’s getting ready to hatch.”

“Sure,” Jeff says, “as long as this isn’t a repeat of the time with the spider.”

“He was hibernating,” Kristen says. “You left him to thaw in the recycling!”

“And this is why Kristen no longer stores arachnids in empty margarine containers,” Jeff says, laughing. “Hey, Jared’s coming over tonight.”

“Awesome,” Kristen says, ducking back into her office. “Fresh meat!”

“Do you ever feel… sexually harassed?” Jared says, finally.

Jeff snorts. “You really haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Drop this and you die, Padalecki,” Kristen says, handing him another tupperware container.

“The worst part is, she likes you,” Jeff says.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Jared says, grinning in spite of himself, and goes to get his car.

-

Two days after New Year’s – which Jared gets roped into spending at Jensen’s, and remembers almost nothing of – Jared gets a call. Skeleton in a trunk in an attic in an abandoned house, found by a bunch of kids using the building as a hideout. The crime scene is a mess, kids and parents and two squad cars and forensics. Jared finds Jensen on the front steps, wrapped up in the thickest coat he owns and two scarves. Jared can barely see his face.

“Caucasian female, about sixteen or seventeen, broken hyoid,” Jensen says, his voice oddly flat. “And does this neighborhood seem familiar to you? Because two similar crime scenes might just be coincidence, but I don’t like the odds if they’re three blocks apart.”

“God damn it,” Jared says, and goes to make some calls.

They find the third victim a week later; the police have been checking foreclosed houses within a six-block radius. Somebody at forensics leaks it to the press. Jared doesn’t even make it to the crime scene; he’s too busy trying to appoint PR people to handle the sudden slew of god awful serial killer nicknames and falsely leaked information. The radio on his way over to the ME’s office claims there are six victims, a different channel says five, and one misses the MO entirely and says the skeletons are being found in trash bags.

“Shit,” Jared says, because there’s nothing he likes less than a serial killer who thinks the FBI is being sloppy, and pulls into his parking spot.

The three skeletons are spread out on individual exam tables, one of which is portable, borrowed – if the tag is any indication – from pathology, and Jensen’s bent over one, moving a suspended magnifying loop closer to the skull.

Jeff’s at his normally organized desk, half hidden by piles of paper, and Jared’s first impression is that he looks exhausted.

“I have nothing,” he says, when Jared stops by his desk. “No hits on CODIS for any of the three DNA samples, no possible missing persons matches, no idea where to begin with dental records, no means of making a presumptive ID.” He keys a sequence out on his laptop, barely glancing up at Jared. “I can tell you that there are absolutely no clothing fibers at any of the crime scenes, which either suggests a sexual element or a very careful killer, that the steam trunks are of three completely different models and years and all were mass produced and could’ve been bought at any garage sale or antique store for less than a hundred dollars, and that there are no fingerprints anywhere on any of the trunks. All of which,” Jeff continues, face going tight as he slams the laptop closed, “adds up to absolutely nothing.”

“Hey,” Jared says, leaning up against Jeff’s desk. “It’s a hell of a lot further than we were before. We’ll get an ID eventually.”

“Maybe,” Jeff says, then gathers up an armful of files. “I’m going to keep trying with dentals.”

“Good,” Jared says, “really good,” and goes to find Jensen.

“You know, this hyoid is practically crushed,” Jensen says. “I had to collect the pieces out of the bottom of the trunk. Different from the others.”

He pushes a folder across a pulled out tray at Jared with his wrist, keeping his gloves clean, and nudges his glasses up on his nose. “The isotopic analysis report came back, though. There’s an interesting PMI pattern.”

“English, Jensen,” Jared says, patiently, and Jensen frowns at something, then looks up, finally focusing.

“PMI, post-mortem interval,” he says. “The radiography is using dental samples and isotopes, placing approximate lifespan and –” Jensen focuses on something else. “Interesting, healed Monteggia’s fracture to the distal ulna, at least six months antemortem –”

“Jensen,” Jared says, significantly less patiently.

Jensen shoves his glasses up with his wrist again, taking a deep breath. “Certain radiological events –”

“Ackles,” Jared says.

Jensen looks at him for a long minute. “In the last century or so of human history, people have demonstrated an anthropological tendency to blow shit up.”

“Great,” Jared says. “What’s that mean for the skeleton?”

“We can use samples from the teeth to analyze levels of nuclear radiation, isotopes, so on,” he says. “Along with diet, it gives us a signature of where and when individuals lived. It’s a relatively new technique, but it’s more efficient than carbon dating for recent samples. So something interesting came up.” Jensen points to the skeleton in front of him. “We’ll need to confirm with more traditional methods, but this skeleton dates to approximately the nineties, so the body was probably abandoned in the last several years.”

“Damn it,” Jared says, tiredly. It means they’re going to have a manhunt on their hands, that this isn’t someone from the 1960s who might be dead already.

“But,” Jensen says. “The other two are from the eighties, one slightly later than the other, so –”

Jared suddenly understands what Jensen’s been frowning at all morning. “So we’re probably dealing with a serial killer,” he says. “One who’s been killing women for at least the past ten years.”

“Three bodies over ten years is a low average,” Jensen says, finally. “It’s likely there are more victims.”

“Fuck,” Jared says, and that just about covers it.

Unfortunately, the case dies down. There aren’t any new bodies, Jeff’s getting nowhere fast, and Jensen goes to Hawaii for four days to attend a seminar and weigh in on a complicated set of Vietnam remains. Jared meets him at the airport with a case – a skeleton in a park in one of the suburbs. Jensen spends the entire day excavating the grave and shows up at the scene at six in the morning; he’s standing there when Jared pulls up, and turns down Jared’s coffee in favor of resuming excavation, which Jared takes to mean that something is either seriously wrong with the crime scene or with Jensen.

“Didn’t sleep last night,” he says, shortly. “Jetlag.”

Jensen glances up at the sky a few times as the rest of the forensics team starts to show up, and Jared shoves his hands in his pockets and zips up his coat. “Not supposed to start snowing until eight or nine tonight,” he murmurs. “Get him out so you can get to bed.”

It takes most of the day to finish documenting and excavating the site, and Jared signs off on the chain of custody paperwork and takes Jensen and the bones back to the lab. They’ve got a presumptive ID based on a medical bracelet, and when Jeff runs dentals, they come back as a match.

“Thomas Fielder, 34, attorney at law, formerly of Fielder and Bates,” Jeff says, passing over a print out.

“We’ll notify his family in the morning,” Jared says, and Jensen pulls a cover over the bones and locks it, fumbling.

“There’s no way we’re going to beat the snow,” Jeff remarks, pulling up Weather Underground, and Jensen takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

“Gonna have to drive slow anyway,” Jensen says, rubbing the lenses on his shirt, “something’s wrong with my glasses.”

“Maybe the part where you haven’t slept in thirty-five hours,” Jared suggests, dryly. “I’m not letting you drive. I’ll take you home.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jensen says, and Jeff claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Go with Jared,” he says. “He might even feed you on the way.”

“Asshole,” Jensen says, but there’s not really anything behind it, and he gives up and follows Jared to the parking lot.

Jensen lives on the far side of the city near the airport, far enough away that it’s a relatively long commute, and Jensen falls asleep ten minutes in. Jared barely gets outside of downtown before he realizes that even with four wheel drive, it’s just not happening; the snow’s falling fast enough that he has almost no visibility, and the car starts to fishtail on an easy corner. He turns around and stops at a grocery store to stock up on food and the brand of coffee Jensen likes – or at least drinks at work – and then heads back toward his apartment.

“Hey, wake up,” he says, and Jensen finally stirs after Jared wraps a palm around his shoulder and shakes him.

“I slept the whole way back?” he says, then blinks at Jared’s streetlight.

“There’s no way we were going to get over there,” Jared says. “And the radio says power’s out at O’Hare, so I’m guessing you don’t have heat.”

“I’ve got a gen –” Jensen yawns, barely managing to cover it with his hand. “Generator. For the fish and the fridge and the space heater.”

“I’ll call your neighbors,” Jared says; he and Jeff trade off coaxing Jensen’s neighbors into feeding his fish and watering his plants while Jensen’s pulling all-nighters and flying to Guatemala. “You can crash here tonight.”

Jensen looks like he’s about to say something, then rubs his eyes again. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

Jared takes the groceries and manages to fumble the key out of his pocket, but Sadie gets past him before he can grab her collar. Jensen wakes up just enough to grab her before she decides to take off down the stairs, rubbing behind her ears.

“Hey, dog,” he says, drowsy, and kneels down to her level to say hello. Jared has to admit that he didn’t expect Jensen to do all that well with the dogs, the first time they came by; Jared forgets paperwork a lot, even if Jensen’s never really come over. Jensen only has a perfectly maintained fish tank and exactly one surviving spider plant – Jared doesn’t really understand how Jensen can keep plants alive inside an aquarium and not out – which is why Jared was more than ready to lock the dogs in the bedroom, but Jensen spent the first ten minutes rolling around on the floor with them and the second ten chasing Sadie up and down the stairs.

“I’m not home enough to have one,” he said, trying to put himself back together, Harley trying to pull on one sleeve. “Dogs require additional attention,” which was about when Jared stopped thinking of him as a scientist and started thinking of him as his partner.

Jared finally manages to get Jensen and the dog inside, then shoves Harley into the kitchen before he can knock Jensen over.

“Shower’s through the bedroom,” he says. “Help yourself to whatever you can find in my closet that fits.”

“Thanks,” Jensen says, and disappears into the hall.

Jared walks the dogs – a short walk, considering how hard the snow is falling – and feeds them, calls Jensen’s neighbor about the generator, then sticks an oven bake pizza in. He’s sitting down to CNN by the time Jensen comes out, wearing a pair of jeans that Jared hasn’t fit into since college, pulling on one of Jared’s FBI sweatshirts.

“What are you, size giant?” Jensen mutters, pushing back the hood and trying to roll the sleeves up, and Jared tries not to laugh.

“Don’t fall asleep, there’s pizza in ten minutes,” Jared says, and goes to find a clean set of sheets to put on the bed.

Jensen manages two slices before he starts nodding off, and Jared figures that seven forty-five is definitely late enough for bed.

“Go ahead,” he says, taking Jensen’s plate. “Bed’s clean. Kick Sadie off if she bothers you.”

“I can take the couch,” Jensen starts, and Jared ignores the next three minutes of some sort of logical argument, putting the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Go get some sleep, Jensen,” Jared says, in the tone of voice that he typically reserves for particularly recalcitrant suspects, and Jensen makes a low noise.

“I’ll move before you go to bed,” he says, finally, and Jared hears the bedroom door click shut a few minutes later.

When Jared goes to shower after the evening news is over, Jensen’s sprawled out across the middle of his bed, still in Jared’s sweatshirt, jeans neatly folded on the top of the dresser. It’s not weird to see Jensen asleep; they’ve pulled overnight hours in the lab and shared a motel room once or twice, but it’s strange to see Jensen asleep in his bed, undressed and without a watch or glasses. Jared comes back after Law and Order to find the book he’s been trying to get through and a pillow for the couch, and Jensen’s in the same position, Sadie tucked against his back and Harley asleep between his feet.

“Traitors,” Jared murmurs, grinning, and heads back to the living room.

The problem with taking the couch is that Jared really, truly doesn’t fit, and when Sadie tries to bring him a tennis ball at ten past one, he wakes up and can’t get back to sleep. Jared gets a glass of water and looks out at the balcony for a while, watching the snow fall, before he gives up on the couch and heads back into the bedroom. He’s got a king, and Jensen’s balled up on the far left with Harley, which means there’s more than enough room on the other side. It shouldn’t be weird; it’s Jensen, who’s seen him covered in blood and gotten him more than a little drunk and who’s spent more time with him in the past year than anyone else, who probably – as sad as it is – knows Jared better than anyone else.

Jared still feels like he did with his first girlfriend, when he spent all night trying not to move so he wouldn’t wake her, and twenty minutes later when Sadie gives up on the living room and jumps onto the bed, Jared’s still wide awake, trying to toss and turn quietly, which is why the sudden voice from the other side of the bed startles him.

“Knew you weren’t going to stay on the couch,” Jensen says, rolling over, and reaches out to rub Sadie’s head, yawning in the dull glow of the streetlamp through the window. “Just go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jared says, and surprisingly enough, he does.

Jared’s used to waking up at five, so when his phone goes off at 4:45 telling him not to bother to come in – the snow’s still falling, at least from the corner of the window he can see – he almost gets up. Jensen’s still asleep, though, and Jared doesn’t want to wake him, so he rolls over for ten more minutes of sleep and wakes up five hours later when Harley jumps on the bed and gets snow all over him, then races back into the living room.

“You better not have woken him up,” Jared hears Jensen say, then some scuffling. “How am I supposed to dry you off if you take the towel?”

“Tackle him,” Jared suggests, yawning, and relocates from the bedroom to the couch, where Jensen is holding on to one end of a towel, trying to tug it away from Harley, and Jared’s not awake enough to keep from laughing at the look determined look on Jensen’s face.

“Drop it,” Jared says, and Harley gives up and walks over to lick Jared’s feet.

When Jared looks up, Jensen’s smiling in a way that makes him feel significantly better about being stuck inside all day. “You want a cup of coffee?” he says, and Jared yawns, gesturing him into the kitchen.

“Thanks for walking them,” he says, and Jensen comes back with a mug.

“I talked to Jeff,” Jensen says. “He says thank you for not leaving me to freeze to death in the street, he knows it must’ve been tempting.”

“Anytime,” Jared says, grinning.

“He’s stuck at Kristen’s,” Jensen says, sitting down next to Sadie on Jared’s throw rug. “But they may need to come over here once more of the roads are cleared, her heat’s been less than fully functional.”

“Sure,” Jared says, “although I doubt they’re having any trouble keeping warm.”

Jensen grins. “They’re obvious, but I think the likelihood of Jeff actually doing anything about it is low.”

“On the other hand, I get the feeling the probability of Kristen giving in and jumping him is close to one hundred percent.”

Jensen stretches out on the carpet, letting Sadie settle her head on his stomach.

“Might be good for him,” Jensen murmurs, setting his coffee cup down so he can pet her. “Endorphins lower stress levels. But I don’t think he wants something casual.”

“So that’s the deal with Jeff’s vow of celibacy,” Jared says, giving in to curiosity, still not awake enough to be tactful. “What about yours?”

In the entire time that Jared’s known Jensen, he’s never dated anyone, and even though Jeff never stops teasing Jensen about how stunningly obvious he supposedly is whenever he gets laid, Jared’s never caught the slightest hint, which Jared figures is a pretty good indication that Jensen isn’t exactly having any casual sex, either.

“I didn’t take a vow of celibacy,” Jensen says. Jared spends a couple seconds worrying that he’s actually offended him before Jensen starts laughing. “I love sex. I was just –” Jensen gestures, reaching for his coffee cup. “I was in a relationship with someone who didn’t appreciate my job and didn’t want to move to Chicago when I took the position here. It ended badly.”

Jared feels suddenly guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Still not over it?”

Jensen looks startled, then laughs again. “I’m fine. Just too busy to go out and pick someone up, let alone date.”

Jared’s usually decent at classifying people, which is why Jensen’s words settle somewhere in his stomach; he’s always thought Jensen was the type of guy who likes to wait until the fourth or fifth date, who only sleeps with women he cares about. The idea of Jensen picking up a girl in a bar or a club is foreign, and Jared’s not entirely sure what to do with it. He’s spent months assuming Jensen wasn’t having sex because he wasn’t up for being casual about it, not because of a nasty breakup and a heavy caseload.

“You should make some time,” Jared says, finally.

“You know, we can’t all be the FBI bicycle,” Jensen says, obviously teasing, and Jared feels himself flush.

“Jesus, does Jeff tell you everything?”

“Yes,” Jensen says, grinning. “But I don’t care if you’ve got a bad habit of fucking the women in your department.” He yawns while Jared’s still trying to wrap his brain around the idea of Jensen fucking anyone. “Kristen’s off limits, though. Not because I care about workplace sex, from an anthropological perspective, it’s actually one of the most logical relationships, but because –”

“Jeff’s in love with her,” Jared says, dryly. “I do have some common sense.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Jensen says.

“Shut up,” Jared says, laughing, and goes to find something for breakfast.

A couple days later, they’re standing around waiting for a crew to haul a car with a body in the trunk out of the Chicago River when Jared gets an idea.

“How do you feel about blind dates?” he says, while Jensen’s attempting to keep his scarf from escaping in a sudden gust of wind.

“Logical,” Jensen says. “A means of extending one’s kin-group and if you think about Dunbar’s number, they make sense from the perspective of –”

“I meant, would you go on one,” Jared says, laughing.

“Probably,” Jensen says. “If you found someone who was capable of holding a conversation.” He considers. “On the other hand, if you’re just trying to get me laid, I like height.” He glances at Jared. “Also, large hands.” Enough of Jensen’s face is hidden by his scarf that Jared can’t actually tell whether he’s kidding or not. He probably is.

“Anything else, your highness?” Jared says, grinning, as the work crew breaks open the back of the car.

“That’s about it,” Jensen says, then brightens. “Hey, adipocere!”

Jared realizes the entire process might be more challenging than he thought.

It takes Jared a couple of nights to narrow down his list of potential dates for Jensen, and two more days to catch his choice in her office. Katie Heigl is blond, 5‘9”, and better with a gun than almost any other agent Jared can think of. She also minored in anthropology, which Jared figures ought to give Jensen something to work with. The only reason Jared hasn’t slept with her is because she keeps turning him down, but he figures it’s worth a shot. Jensen’s starting to get too enthused about new cases.

“Hey,” he says, when he finally manages to find her. “You want to go on a date with my partner?”

“Open relationship, Padalecki?” she says, leaning back against her desk with a grin. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Hilarious,” Jared says. “I meant Jensen.”

Katie looks vaguely amused. “At the ME’s office?”

“Do I have some other partner?” Jared says.

“Aside from the five you got rid of?” Katie says. “What is this, eight months? Nine? He’s got to be interesting to have put up with you that long. Although I must admit I’m disappointed, the pool on how long you’d stick with him ran out last August.”

“I’ll be sure to invite you to our commitment ceremony,” Jared says. “Friday night?”

“Why not,” Katie says. “I can torture you with explicit sexual details if it goes well.”

“Thanks,” Jared says. “Looking forward to it.”

By Thursday morning, Jared would actually welcome explicit sexual details if it meant Jensen would loosen up; after two hours of Jensen snapping at him over Jared’s apparent failure to know every bone marker, Jared makes an excuse about needing to check on some dental records and goes to avoid him near Jeff’s desk.

“Are you ever worried he’s going to shove an instrument into a vital organ just because you don’t know what the medial malleolus is?” Jared says under his breath, picking up a file when Jensen glances over at Jeff’s desk from the exam table.

“No, mostly because I know it’s on the tibia,” Jeff says, grinning, and turns his chair around. “Jensen?”

“What?” Jensen mutters, still poking at a bone, and Jeff leans back in his chair.

“Either go shut your office door and take advantage of the porn Kristen keeps downloading to your laptop or take a walk and get some coffee,” Jeff says. “Your bad mood is starting to scare your FBI agent.”

“I’m fine,” Jensen says, and Jeff rolls his eyes and gets up out of his chair before Jared can point out that he doesn’t really mind.

“Jensen,” Jeff says, and wraps a hand around his shoulder. “Seriously. Coffee.”

Jared’s expecting Jensen to push out of it, but he inhales and leans into Jeff’s hand for a second. “You want anything?” he says, finally.

Jared knows Jeff and Jensen have known each other for almost fifteen years, but sometimes watching them together is still weird; Jensen’s different with Jeff than with anyone else Jared’s ever seen him interact with.

“Double espresso,” Jeff says. “Ask Jared.”

Jensen pulls off his gloves and shoves his hands in his pockets after Jeff backs off, then sits down in Jeff’s office chair. “Coffee?” he says, without really looking at Jared.

“Large and black,” Jared says, nudging his shoulder against Jensen’s with a smile when he stands up, and Jensen looks relieved.

It takes him an hour to come back, but Jared’s coffee’s still hot and Jensen’s in a significantly better mood. He settles in to sort through a tray of bones found at a construction site – supposedly animal, but they need to be checked under a microscope – and Jared leans up against the table beside him.

“So,” he says. “Don’t make plans for tomorrow night. I found you a date.”

“Oh, god,” Jensen says, pulling back. “I didn’t think you were being serious.”

“Tall, blond, and more than capable of handling a gun,” Jared says, cheerfully, and slaps Jensen on the shoulder.

“The sad part is,” Jensen says, “you probably don’t even mean that as a euphemism.”

“Nah,” Jared says. “Best shot in the Chicago office.” He grins. “Well, mostly.”

“Good to know you’re selecting potential partners based on their ability to shoot me,” Jensen says, leaning back over the scope. “I’m so glad you value our partnership.”

“Hey, sarcasm,” Jared says, taking a long drag of his coffee. “You must be excited.”

“No idea how I’ll survive until tomorrow evening,” Jensen murmurs, and puts on another slide of bone.

Joking aside, Jensen doesn’t seem too put off about the idea, which is why Jared’s more than a little confused at the look that crosses Jensen’s face when Katie steps into the lab around seven. He looks like Jared’s just tried to set him up with an ex, which doesn’t make any sense considering he’s reasonably certain Jensen and Katie have only met once or twice, in passing.

“Jensen, you know Katie,” Jared says, wondering what in the hell Jensen’s problem is, but Jensen’s face clears after a minute and he offers a hand with a slightly forced smile.

“Pleasure,” she says, barely pausing at the way Jensen’s looking at her, and offers him a grin.

“Nice to meet you,” Jensen says, and Jared’s about to try to break the ice when Katie leans around both of them.

“Hey, is that one of the new PCR systems?” she says, gesturing over Jensen’s shoulder, and Jensen’s suddenly relaxed again.

“Would you like to take a look?” he says. “Our DNA specialist has been customizing the method it uses to amplify.” Neither of them notices when Jared slips out the door.

Jensen sends him a text just after midnight – “had a nice evening, thanks” – so Jared has no fucking idea what the problem is when Jensen ducks his head and disappears into his office a minute after Jared steps into the lab the next morning. He doesn’t even say hello, and Jeff gives Jared a look before he walks across the lab to try the door, which is apparently locked. He’s about to turn around and come back with coffee later when Kristen comes around the corner, grabs his sleeve, and hauls him into the walk-in refrigerator used for storing samples.

“Hey,” Jared says, jerking his hand back. He’s tired and confused and Jensen’s apparently avoiding him. Kristen’s manhandling isn’t helping the situation.

“Sit,” Kristen says, pointing a crate in the corner. “I lost rock-paper-scissors, so you get to talk to me instead of Jeff.”

“Talk?” Jared manages, and Kristen rolls her eyes and starts sorting through Ziploc bags of bone fragments. She looks serious in a way that Jared’s not used to; Kristen cracks jokes even when they’re working on brutal murder cases. The way she’s looking at him is uncomfortable, focused and slightly determined.

“I looked at your file,” she says. “You aced your psychology courses at Swarthmore, you have an MA in criminalistics from the University of Michigan, everyone you worked with in Iraq had nothing but good things to say about your teamwork, and you passed the profiling section of your FBI training with flying colors, so how the hell can you be so bad at reading people?”

“Uh,” Jared says.

“Jeff and I have categories for dealing with things that come up with Jensen,” Kristen continues. “He talks him out of falling for people he shouldn’t, I deal with his incredibly stupid exes, you get the idea.” She gives him a long look. “And we had to invent a category for you at two in the morning last night, because seriously, Jared, no one on the planet has ever known Jensen for more than a week and still been laboring under the delusion that he was straight.”

“What?” Jared says.

“You tried to set him up with a girl,” Kristen says. “Not really a smart move.”

“He’s never mentioned anything about – that he was gay,” Jared says, finally. “Ever. I didn’t actually know.”

“Putting aside the fact that he owns tropical fish and is really terrible at remembering to clear the gay porn from his browser history,” Kristen says, “it’s Jensen.”

In retrospect, Jared knows it probably should have been obvious; Jensen doesn’t flirt back when Kristen does, has never looked twice at any of the women they’ve interviewed, and dodged the question every time Jared brought up ex-girlfriends.

“Yeah,” Jared says, softly, and Kristen pulls out a bag.

“He thinks you know and that you’re pretending he’s straight because you disapprove,” she says. “Jeff’s trying to convince him that you’re just an idiot, but you might want to fix it.” She looks at him for a long minute. “The guy trusts three people on the planet and surprisingly enough, you’re one of them, so try not to fuck this one up.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, getting to his feet. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“That or Jeff’s locking you in here for the rest of the century,” Kristen says, with a smile. “Just don’t let either of them throw anything at you.”

Jeff’s still standing outside Jensen’s door when Jared comes out, obviously trying to hold a conversation through it, but he shuts up when Jared settles a hand against the doorknob.

“I didn’t know,” Jared says, finally, just to stop Jeff from looking at him like that, and Jeff steps back.

“I know a lot of ways to get rid of a body,” he says. “I considered several of them this morning.”

“I get it,” Jared says, and waits for Jeff to head back to his desk before he leans up against the doorframe and knocks.

“Jensen,” he says. “Open the door.”

There isn’t actually an answer, so Jared gives it another minute, then jiggles the doorknob again. “If you make me shoot this off, I’m going to damage evidence, but I’ll do it if I have to. Easier if you just open up, though.”

Jared’s starting to think he’s really going to have to go ask the medical examiner for the master key when the lock clicks. “Please just go away,” Jensen says, pulling open the door. “I don’t want to see you.” He looks exhausted, red-eyed, and Jared can’t tell if it’s from not sleeping or something else, but he hates it either way.

“Hey,” Jared says, low. “It’s not what you think. Let me in.”

Jensen steps back, but Jared’s almost positive it’s more out of exhaustion than actual belief. Jared shuts the door and moves to sit on the sofa, giving Jensen plenty of space.

“I get it, okay?” Jensen says. “Working with me was novel, you got to pretend you were doing something cool, and it was going great until you realized, and I don’t know if you just think it’s wrong or if you’re worried that I spend all my time thinking about fucking you, but –”

Jared stands up fast and narrowly manages to avoid tipping over the coffee table as he wraps a hand around Jensen’s wrist and puts a hand over his mouth, cutting him off. He keeps his grip loose enough that Jensen’s not going to start freaking out, but holds it until he’s sure Jensen isn’t going to keep trying to talk himself into something.

“You didn’t tell me you preferred men,” Jared says, quietly, taking his hand down. “And you haven’t dated anyone since I met you. I should have asked, but I didn’t think about it, because you’re my partner. It didn’t matter.”

Jensen doesn’t relax, and Jared watches him for a minute, then realizes that he hasn’t said what Jensen needs to hear. “I don’t care,” he says. “It doesn’t matter to me who you date or don’t date. You’re good at your job and you’re a good guy, that’s all that matters.”

Jensen looks at him, close enough that Jared can feel it when the tension finally leaves his shoulders, and he tugs his hand out of Jared’s grip and rubs his face. “I hate it when Jeff’s right,” he mutters, and Jared pulls Jensen into a fast hug before he starts over thinking it again.

When he pulls back, Jensen looks embarrassed and faintly pleased, like he was expecting something else entirely, and fumbles on his desk for a file. “Some of us have to get work done,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Don’t you have suspects to apprehend and paperwork to do?”

“Probably,” Jared says, “but I’m sure someone else can handle it for a day.” He tugs the file out of Jensen’s hands. “What are we working on?”

“Possible gang violence,” Jensen says. “They found the body at a construction site on the South Side.”

“Oh, look, witness testimony,” Jared says, grinning, and settles in on Jensen’s couch to start figuring out a suspect list.

About three weeks later, Jared’s sitting in traffic on Lake Shore Drive, approximately a hundred yards from where he was an hour ago, and seriously considering abandoning the FBI Altima and claiming it was carjacked. He’s had plenty of bad mornings since he moved to Chicago, mostly involving blood-covered crime scenes and missing kids, but Jared’s starting to think that today might top them all.

The worst part is, it’s not like his morning is the only part that’s been lousy; last night wasn’t exactly great either. He hates running people down at the best of times, and he hates it a hell of a lot more when he gets shot. While bulletproof vests are a fantastic invention and he’s really fucking glad not to have his internal organs plastered all over the pavement, they don’t do much about absorbing force. Katie brought down the suspect, but Jared’s got a cracked rib and his chest is about eight different shades of purple and green, but it’s not like he hasn’t taken a hit before. Policy dictates that anyone who gets shot with a vest on has to see a doctor, which ordinarily Jared fully agrees with, mostly because vicodin tends to make the whole getting shot thing a lot more bearable, but the FBI medical position at the Chicago office hasn’t been filled for six months. Jared had to spend half the night waiting in the ER for someone to take two chest x-rays and give him a bottle of Tylenol-3.

Jared also managed to forget to tell them not to call his emergency contact, and he’s still considering heading back to the hospital and punching the lights out of whoever called Jensen and told him that he’d been shot in the chest, no mitigating details, because Jared’s never seen him that hysterical.

He knows, technically, that he’s supposed to be in bed, but casualty number two of the gunshot – past Jared’s favorite shirt – was his cell phone, which Jared left in his suit pocket. Apparently it couldn’t withstand the trauma of being clipped by a bullet. Jared doesn’t have a landline – he never bothered to have one put in when he moved back from Iraq – and there’s absolutely no way that he can be completely out of contact for two days, which is why he’s stuck in a car next to Grant Park; two traffic accidents and construction on one of the main streets mean that this is the only way for Jared to get to the Verizon store.

Jared’s GPS won’t stop pointing out that he’s exactly half a mile from his destination, which really isn’t fucking helping, and he has absolutely no idea what’s going on at the office or with Jensen. He’s seriously considering stopping at the Starbucks across the street just to have something to do when traffic finally picks up, and the reason for the total fucking mess becomes more obvious when Jared gets closer to Roosevelt.

There’s something strange going on at the Field; instead of the usual crowds of tourists and middle school kids, there are five or six police cars and an ambulance parked right in front of the steps. Jared can’t see into the parking lot, but there’s a police cordon in place, and Jared can see someone putting up yellow caution tape across the entirety of the front steps. They don’t usually close the museum for medical emergencies – and Jared can tell the museum is being closed, because the group of people milling around on the front lawn have to be employees – but there isn’t anything identifiable about most of the cars parked near the museum. Jared’s best guess is a robbery, but he figures he’ll hear about it soon enough, so he takes a right, parks the car, and finds the goddamned cell phone store.

It takes half an hour for them to deactivate his old phone and for Jared to convince them that he doesn’t actually want a pink RAZR, and by the time the sales associate starts programming his new phone, Jared’s seriously starting to regret not taking any painkillers.

“It’ll just take a minute to sync up,” the guy says, cheerfully, then jumps when the phone rings. And keeps ringing. “Whoever’s calling has good timing,” he jokes, and Jared’s stomach sinks.

“Jesus,” Jensen says, the second Jared picks up, “we’ve all been calling for the past two hours, I almost sent Jeff to your apartment. Get the hell over to the Field.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, adrenaline already kicking in to combat the dull ache across his chest, “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Two police officers meet him in the rotunda, and Jared sees Jensen halfway up a staircase, looking anxious and more than a little keyed up.

“You want to fill me in?” Jared says, and Jensen passes over a pair of gloves and a flashlight, walking straight through a door marked Museum Staff Only.

It’s a wing of the museum Jared’s never been in before. “These are the Ancient American collections,” Jensen says. “I’m not entirely sure they should have closed down the museum, I don’t think this is the crime scene and the press attention is going to be phenomenal, but –” he pushes open a door and Jared’s faced with a sudden rush of people.

“This room is exhibit preparation for a display on the Crow they’re conducting later this year,” Jensen says; the lights are dim, and there are artifacts spread out on low exam tables that are lit from underneath, just like the specialized ones they have in the side lab at the ME’s office. There’s clothing arranged on mannequins – delicately beaded regalia and an enormous headdress – and two people in lab coats who seem distinctly nervous and unhappy.

Nothing looks out of place – no blood, no signs of a struggle, and Jared doesn’t even see the body until he finds Kristen, who’s crouched in the corner with a photographer over what Jared first thinks is one of the labeled crates stacked against the walls and then realizes, with a sinking feeling, is a trunk.

“Jesus christ,” he says, and Jensen sidesteps a tray of instruments to stand beside him.

“Now we know where he’s cleaning the bodies,” he says, and Jared has to look away when Kristen steps back with a vial and he catches sight of a perfectly preserved hand lying against the edge of the lid, like someone’s sleeping inside.

An hour later, Jared’s in the hallway trying to have a conversation with the museum director – who wants the artifacts moved out of the room, even though it’s an active crime scene – when Kristen interrupts and pulls him down a hallway.

“I need Agent Padalecki,” she says. “It’s crucial.”

Jared has no idea what he’s supposed to do about bugs, let alone why they’re leaving the crime scene, but she unlocks another side room, this one almost empty, where Jeff’s sitting next to three or four laptops and Jensen’s setting up a table.

“You look like hell,” Jensen says, and Jared’s suddenly incredibly aware of the fact that he didn’t feel up to a shower after leaving the hospital and that he’s still in jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Sit,” Jensen says, and hands him four ibuprofen, a cup of coffee, and a sandwich from the downstairs café. “Eat. You’re no good to me if you collapse.”

“Bossy,” Jared says, but he’s more relieved than irritated.

Jeff’s got a button down from the gift shop’s travelers’ section that he passes over without looking up from the laptop, and Kristen goes back to the crime scene while Jared’s eating. She’s long gone by the time Jared starts trying to get his sweatshirt off – the sweatshirt he put on last night, before he had a chance to get stiff. He’s mostly stuck by the time Jeff notices, and by the time Jensen looks up from his dog-eared bone manual, Jared’s managed to elbow himself in the rib. He narrowly avoids falling over.

“Jesus,” Jensen says, looking like he’s trying not to laugh, and stands up from the plastic collapsible chair he’s been sitting in for the past half hour.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Jared manages, and Jensen crosses the room to slide his hands underneath Jared’s sweatshirt, tugging up.

“No bones yet,” Jensen says. “The pathologist is dealing with the body. Can you lift your arms?”

Jared gets them half way up, so Jensen pulls Jared’s sweatshirt over his head and off, hands warm through the t-shirt he has on underneath.

“I can take it from here,” Jared says, mostly because Jensen’s still got a hand spread out against his chest, frowning, and it’s weird.

“He’s lying,” Jeff says, still not bothering to turn around.

“I can see your bruises through your shirt,” Jensen says, running his thumb along the edge of one, and Jared shivers involuntarily. Jensen’s got the look on his face that means he’s trying to solve a problem, and Jared’s bruises really don’t need any more attention than they’re already getting, let alone some sort of solution.

“It’s threadbare,” he says, “and it’s also cold in here.”

Jensen steps behind him to let Jared slide into the shirt without having to lift his arms again, then pushes Jared’s hands away and buttons it.

“I know you’re not going to go home if I tell you to,” Jensen says, pushing Jared back toward a chair before he can start trying to protest. “But you’re going to sit while you interview because you have a fractured seventh rib and substantial contusions.”

Jeff stops typing and passes over a laptop, and Jared decides against protesting that Jensen’s treating him like he’s a five year old because the idea of staying off his feet is starting to sound really fucking good. Jared’s pulling up the FBI database to take notes when Jensen comes back with one of the anthropologists working on the exhibition.

“Special Agent Padalecki is speaking with persons of interest in our mobile command center,” Jensen says, just outside the door, and Jared narrowly avoids choking on his coffee.

“Thank you, Dr. Ackles,” he says, trying to keep a straight face, and starts a new document: Lisa Albright, curator.

“So,” he says, “how long have you been working at the museum?” and settles back in his chair.

Jared’s entire afternoon of interviewing provides almost nothing to work with; no one remembers the trunk being brought in, but then again, no one remembers it being there in the first place either, and the upper corridor is a security nightmare. There are multiple access points, and only the rooms designed to store valuable artifacts have security footage; the hallway and the room the body was found in have cameras, but they’re nonfunctional and haven’t recorded since the system was installed. All it takes to get into the room is a museum ID card – available both to museum employees and consultants –and a set of keys. Since the lock hasn’t been changed in the last five years and the room is designated as general storage, the official keys have passed through god knows how many curators. Jared doesn’t want to think about how many copies are in existence.

The only major discovery is Kristen’s; she stops by between a security guard and another curator, the last of the people on Jared’s list, and presents him with a vial. It has a couple of beetles inside, and Kristen looks exhausted.

“Jensen thought that the remains had been sitting for a long time, but he couldn’t figure out why the bones were so clean yet still held together, which ruled out any sort of physical cleaning process,” she says. “These are why, they’re dermestid beetles. They eat flesh.”

Jared looks at the beetles scrambling around in the bottom of the vial. “I thought they fumigated the collections. How’d they find their way in?”

“They were put there,” Kristen says. “They wouldn’t have colonized the body for days yet in an ordinary scenario, if any had been able to find their way into that trunk. But when I got here, there were probably somewhere between a thousand and fifteen hundred beetles in with the body.”

“Jesus,” Jared says.

“That many, you could clean a body in a couple of weeks to a month,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “The pathologist can give you a better estimate, but I can tell you that the body’s been here for less than two days. Otherwise, with that number of dermestids, it would be in worse condition.”

“Are these hard to get a hold of?” Jared says. “Please tell me this is the beetle equivalent of that moth in Silence of the Lambs.”

Kristen snorts. “You can order them off the internet, Clarice,” she says, then grins. “Or steal them from the museum’s bone room. They have a colony they use to clean specimens. I’m going to run a DNA comparison. If it’s a match, then we’ll know that the beetles with the body came from the museum.”

“Which increases the likelihood that we’re dealing with a museum employee,” Jared says, trying to lean forward on the table without bothering his rib.

Jeff pulls off a pair of headphones and surfaces from the position he’s been in all afternoon, stretching. “Pathology got viable fingerprints, but IAFIS hasn’t kicked back a match yet. I’ll do some facial work when we get back to the lab, see if I can put together a sketch from the soft tissue before I start looking through missing persons reports. And there’s always DNA.”

Kristen’s cell phone goes off, and she stands up. “Jensen and I have to sit in on the autopsy,” she says. “I’ll call you when we’re close to done.”

“We’ll get dinner,” Jeff says, then glances at Jared, who’s trying hard not to notice the fact that his side’s starting to feel like it’s on fire. “More accurately, I’ll prop Jared up on Jensen’s couch and get dinner.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jared mutters. “I think I can manage take out.”

“God, you’re worse than Jensen,” Kristen says. “You know, I think there are men out there who aren’t into stubborn denial.”

“Yeah, but they’re boring,” Jeff says, grinning.

“Boring would be nice,” Kristen says, laughing, and lets herself out the door.

By the time Jared finishes up the last of the interviews, he’s actually willing to let Jeff drive him back to the ME’s office. Jared feels every single bump in the road, and when they get there, he’s so far beyond caring that he sits down on Jensen’s couch and thinks about actually letting someone else do all the paperwork.

“You haven’t said anything for the past half an hour,” Jeff says, leaning against the doorway. “If we have to take you back to the ER, Jensen’s going to be pissed, so where are the drugs I know they prescribed and that you’re so valiantly refusing to take?”

“In my apartment,” Jared says; it’s not so much that he’s refusing to take drugs as the fact that he thought he was going to be out of the house for an hour this morning, and it’s been an entire day of talking to people and climbing stairs.

“I’m really starting to question the FBI’s intelligence requirements,” Jeff says and disappears back into the lab.

Jared’s starting to think that maybe he’s been left to die in Jensen’s office when Jeff comes back with his keys in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other. “You owe me a favor,” he says. “I got Fred to write you a prescription for enough vicodin to get you through the night.”

Fred is Fred Lehne, the medical examiner, and Jared vaguely recalls at least ten lectures from Jensen on the differences between coroners and ME’s, one of which is that ME’s have to actually go through medical school.

Jeff hands over two pills, a bottle of water, and a granola bar. Jared eats the granola bar first, mostly because he knows what happens when you take vicodin on an empty stomach. Puking with a broken rib is up there on the list of experiences he never wants to have.

“Get some sleep, they’re probably gonna be another hour or two,” Jeff says, reaching to pull the blanket off the back of Jensen’s sofa – it’s from Peru, where Jensen did some work on Incan mummies – and covers Jared with it. “We’ll wake you up for dinner.”

“Thanks,” Jared says, and even though he isn’t expecting to be able to sleep until the drugs kick in, he’s out within a couple minutes.

When he wakes up an hour later, Jensen’s at his desk, showered and in clean clothes.

“Hey, take it easy,” he says when Jared tries to sit up, and shuts his laptop to come sit on the sofa. “Jeff and Kristen went to get pizza.”

Jared’s warm and pretty much pain free, and Jensen’s close and easy to lean up against. “Hey,” Jared says, drowsily, settling his head on Jensen’s shoulder. “How’d the autopsy go?”

Jensen stiffens up for a second, then relaxes and starts to laugh. “You’re stoned, aren’t you,” he says, and Jared decides that it’s a fair assessment, considering the fact that he’s getting distracted by how good Jensen’s shirt smells.

“Vicodin is awesome,” Jared says, and Jensen’s just sliding a hand up to the back of his neck when Kristen shoves open the door, holding two boxes of pizza.

“I hear Jeff drugged our friendly neighborhood FBI agent,” she says. “Can I pry state secrets out of him?”

“Maybe after dinner,” Jensen says, dryly, and Jeff pushes Kristen out of the doorway.

“Cheese for you and Kristen, bacon and mushroom for those of us with actual palates,” Jeff says.

The pizza’s good, but it’s hard not to notice how off everyone seems; Jensen and Jeff both look exhausted, and Kristen barely touches her pizza. Jared knows they’re not used to dealing with bodies instead of skeletons, especially not young women, and that serial cases tend to take a lot out of everyone. Jared’s seriously considering giving Jensen a hug when Kristen leans across the table to look at him.

“You know,” she says, “your pupils are about twice their normal size. Which one of us is taking you home with us tonight?”

“I just need a ride,” Jared says, firmly. “To my apartment.”

“Yeah, no,” Jeff says, between bites of pizza. “You shouldn’t be left alone, and you can’t even stand up, let alone walk your dogs.”

Jared’s briefly considering conceding that Jensen can stay over – Jensen’s warm, and Jared could probably talk him into taking Sadie and Harley downstairs – when Jeff glances at Jensen, who hasn’t said anything since the pizza showed up.

“It’s Friday night and today absolutely sucked,” Jeff says. “I’m up for getting phenomenally drunk at your place, who’s in?”

“God, yes,” Jensen says, leaning back from Jared.

“Like I’m leaving Jared alone with you idiots and alcohol,” Kristen says. “I’ll watch him.”

“Hey,” Jared says, mostly because he doesn’t need watching and he’s not allowed to mix alcohol with painkillers, but Kristen’s already standing.

“Jeff’s truck?” she says. “We can put him in the back.”

Jared knows that normal people don’t talk about their friends like cargo, but Jensen looks significantly more relaxed, so he decides to shut up. The back of Jeff’s car – with Jensen’s blanket and a pillow stolen from one of the lounges – actually is pretty comfortable, and it’s substantially improved when Kristen and Jensen go upstairs to his apartment and bring down the dogs, who promptly pile in on top of his legs.

“Nice porn collection,” Kristen says, handing over an overnight bag, and Jared briefly considers killing her before he realizes that Jensen’s laughing, which probably means that she’s fucking with him.

“Good to know you’re into firemen too,” Jared says, and sleeps the rest of the way to Jensen’s house.

By the time Jeff pulls in, the vicodin-induced fog has mostly lifted, and some of the pain is coming back, although it’s not as bad. Jensen lets Sadie and Harley out into his backyard while Jeff pours them a bowl of food, and Kristen disappears and comes back a couple minutes later in a sweatshirt and jeans, then wanders into the kitchen while Jared settles in on the couch.

Jared got too used to transfers to think about buying a place like this – DC, New York, London, Baghdad, Chicago. This posting’s permanent, or at least it’s solid until he wants to move, but Jared’s used to living in apartments, and the idea of owning a house on his own is strange. He’s willing to admit, though, that if he did ever think about it, he’d want to own one like Jensen’s; it’s open, with big windows and high ceilings, comfortably modern furniture and a yard for the dogs. Jensen’s even got a fireplace and a plasma screen, and even if Jared’s only been here a couple of times, it feels familiar and warm.

“They broke out the tequila,” she says, passing over the bowl of popcorn. “I’m thinking cars getting blown up, scantily clad women, and plenty of high speed chase scenes.”

“Sounds good,” Jared says, and Kristen passes over an ice pack.

“Jensen said to ‘focus that on the epicenter of the trauma,’” Kristen says. “I’d just put it on the biggest bruise.”

The movie isn’t bad – it’s got an appropriate amount of violence and cars – but Jared can’t seem to focus, probably because of the drugs, and half an hour into it, he’s starting to think about going outside to check on the dogs or maybe taking a shower.

“Stop squirming,” Kristen says. “Go get some more popcorn and another ice pack.”

“Sure,” Jared says, and he’s halfway into the kitchen and reaching for the freezer door when he realizes that he’s interrupting.

The bottle of tequila they stopped for on the way home is three quarters empty, and Jensen’s a lightweight, at least in Jared’s relatively limited experience, which means that he wasn’t kidding about getting really fucking drunk. The alcohol explains why Jeff’s got Jensen pressed up against the kitchen counter, but Jared can’t quite wrap his head around the rest of it: that they’re kissing, or Jeff’s hands at Jensen’s belt, or the way Jensen looks, flushed and laughing. Jared’s almost positive they’re just screwing around – it looks friendly, comfortable, without anything behind it – and he’s made out with friends for worse reasons than wanting to blow off steam, but it still feels weird. Jensen’s open, leaning into Jeff’s touch, and Jared can see a whole lot of skin where Jeff’s got a hand underneath Jensen’s shirt, spread out against the small of his back. He’s already way too warm, and when he watches Jensen’s head go back and Jeff’s mouth against the curve of his jaw, he feels his face heat. He’s pretty sure it’s embarrassment.

“You need something, Jared?” Jensen says, low, hips lined up against Jeff’s. It’s friendly, almost concerned, and the fact that he’s got Jensen’s full attention is what throws him, more than anything else.

“Just an ice pack,” he manages, fumbling his way into the freezer, and then backs the hell out of the kitchen.

“Hey,” Kristen says, “forgetting something, Padalecki?”

Jared realizes he’s still holding the empty popcorn bowl. “You know,” he says, finally. “I figured if Jeff was going to get drunk and make out with someone, it’d be you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kristen says, and turns up the DVD. “They do that once in a while.”

Jared waits for further explanation for a minute before he realizes that Kristen isn’t going to say anything else. It’s probably just another dysfunctional thing – and Jared doesn’t mind putting up with most of it, mostly because it’s been a long time since he had people to look out for him in addition to people he looked out for, but the fact is that Jensen and Jeff have known each other for well over ten years and Kristen’s worked with Jeff for five or six, so there’s a lot he doesn’t get about the relationships – that he should let go of, but Jared can’t get the image of Jensen out of his head, relaxed and obviously turned on.

It’s almost another half hour before Jeff and Jensen come out of the kitchen, and as Jensen slides in beside him on the couch, Jared realizes exactly what’s behind the running joke about how obvious Jensen is when he’s getting laid.

“Hey,” Jensen says, less tense than Jared’s ever seen him, and smiles, starting to wrap himself around Jared’s side, a knee already across Jared’s thighs. “You find your – uh, ice pack?”

Jared feels himself go stiff before he realizes that he’s pushing Jensen back.

“Sorry,” Jared manages, just to keep Jensen from thinking he’s freaking out about anything, which he’s not, “I need more ice.”

Jared manages to get into the kitchen without Jensen saying something, and he’s standing with the freezer door open, debating between a bag of frozen peas and a box of spinach when he realizes that Jeff’s leaning up against the counter, waiting for him to say something.

“It’s not the gay thing,” Jared says, which is about when he realizes that he’s still probably too drugged to be having this conversation. “I’d – be hypocritical, I’ve –” And really, it’s not like Jared’s never fooled around with another guy, in college and at Quantico, he just likes women a hell of a lot more. He inhales, slowly, and reaches for the peas, not looking at Jeff. “I’m just – not used to it.”

Jared’s expecting Jeff to be angry – he’s really hoping nobody decides to throw any punches, considering the state of his ribs, but he’d understand it, because Jensen is Jeff’s best friend, and Jared gets that kind of protection – so he ends up more than a little startled by the laugh from behind him.

“I was in here to get a beer,” Jeff says, and nudges him out of the way to grab a Corona. “But Jensen’s just –” He pops the cap on the countertop, watching Jared. “He’s smarter than both of us combined, but he’s bad with people. He’s had a couple god awful relationships that really didn’t help, and add that to the fact that he’s always been close to cold and you start to figure out why he doesn’t have a social life.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, waiting.

“And he’s even worse with –” Jeff gestures with his bottle. “Getting close to people, so he gets drunk because that’s the only way he’s figured out to ask for it. That’s how he’d be if he let himself, but it’s Jensen.”

It clicks, why Jensen’s so different when he’s overtired or when he’s drinking, and Jared feels better about it.

“Thanks,” he says, and Jeff laughs again, and pushes him toward the living room.

“Play nice,” he says. “Stop over thinking things, that’s Jensen’s job.”

Jensen stays back for a minute while Jared sits down and rearranges the peas, but Jared only hesitates for a second before reaching out to slide an arm around Jensen’s shoulders, pulling him in; Jared’s used to casual contact, and Jensen’s his partner. They should be better at this. It’s as easy as that.

“Sorry,” he says, tugging him in, “just watch my side,” and Jensen’s stares for a minute, then relaxes into it all at once, curled in against Jared’s chest.

By the time the movie ends, Jensen’s asleep, face against Jared’s shoulder, his palm warm underneath Jared’s t-shirt. As new and awkwardly uncomfortable as it is, the second vicodin Jeff pushed on him is starting to kick in, and Jared’s warm and sleepy. Having Jensen this close feels good, mostly because Jared can make sure nothing bad is going to happen, and he’s settling in closer and thinking about a blanket when Kristen stands up to turn the television off.

“So,” she says, and Jeff pauses half way into a stretch when she leans in close, “how drunk are you?”

“Pretty drunk,” Jeff admits, low, and Jared realizes that they both think he’s asleep.

“Yeah,” Kristen says. “I think you should leave Jensen to Jared. Then we could go upstairs and have sex that isn’t friends with benefits.”

Jared realizes, abruptly, that he probably should’ve moved; on the other hand, the look on Jeff’s face is going to provide Christmas party stories for the next twenty years.

“What?” Jeff says, after a long pause, and Kristen’s face softens.

“I like you,” she says. “And I’ve got it on good authority that you have elaborate fantasies involving cohabitation and dogs, so I figure we should just get the awkward first time sex out of the way and then go on some dates.” She grins. “Just to put you out of your misery.”

“I might have to kill Jensen,” Jeff says, and Kristen closes her fingers in his collar and wraps her other hand around his wrist.

“Later,” she murmurs. “Right now, I want to know what you taste like.”

“God, yes,” Jeff says, rough, unsteady, and Jared focuses on Jensen’s shoulder, not watching them kiss, but it’s hard to miss the way Jeff’s looking at her, something entirely different than what Jared walked in on earlier.

Jared pretends to be asleep until he hears them hit the top of the stairs, which is about when he realizes that even with the second vicodin, he really can’t spend the entire night on the couch with Jensen half in his lap.

“Hey,” he says, wrapping a palm around Jensen’s shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck, and Jensen wakes up with a yawn, blinking at Jared’s collar.

“I don’t know where your bedroom is,” Jared murmurs, and Jensen stares at him for a minute, obviously not awake and still more than a little drunk.

“I probably shouldn’t sleep on the couch,” Jared coaxes, and Jensen suddenly relaxes, sliding out of Jared’s lap to stand up.

“You melted my peas,” he says, drowsily, and takes the bag of them, disappearing into the kitchen. Jared’s just starting to wonder if he should follow when Jensen comes back, reaching out to pull Jared up off the couch.

“Upstairs,” he says, steady enough that Jared wonders for a second if he’s sobered up, but he’s way too relaxed, climbing the stairs – Jared’s really starting to fucking hate stairs – and when they hit the bedroom, Jensen starts losing clothes with no hesitation.

Jared’s used to Jensen in multiple layers, t-shirts and button downs and jackets, and it’s personal to see him in less, like some sort of invasion of privacy. Jensen’s reserved, cautious, and even if they just spent an hour together on the couch, Jared can’t quite match up the Jensen who gets overly enthused about bone fragments to the Jensen who’s pulling off his shirt and stepping into the bathroom.

Jensen comes out a minute later, holding something, and makes a soft, impatient noise when he realizes that Jared’s still by the door.

“Come to bed,” he says, tugging on the hem of Jared’s sweatshirt, and Jared lifts his arms, trying not to wince as Jensen pulls it off, standing a hell of a lot closer than usual.

“Relax,” Jensen says, peeling the back off the heating pad he’s holding and sticking it to Jared’s shoulder, right where the muscle’s starting to get tense. “You’re translating –” He pauses, then smiles. “You’re keeping your shoulder muscles tight because it – uh, it makes your rib hurt less. But it’s just making everything worse.”

“Might’ve overdone it,” Jared admits, leaning into it instead of pulling away when Jensen rubs the palm of his hand over Jared’s shoulder and pushes his thumb right at the worst spot, just between Jared’s shoulder and neck, nudging the tension out. His hands aren’t as steady as they usually are, but it still feels good.

“Come on,” Jensen says, and Jared doesn’t really question it when Jensen slides behind him, face against the curve of Jared’s shoulder.

There’s a long, easy silence, long enough that Jared’s staring to think that Jensen’s gone to sleep, when Jensen shifts back.

“I stole your x-rays,” he says. He sounds hesitant, like he’s worried Jared’s going to be angry about it, so Jared rolls onto his side, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah?” he says, trying not to laugh. “Spying on my very complicated fracture pattern, Ackles?”

“No,” Jensen says. “Maybe.” He reaches out and traces his fingers over Jared’s side, brushing his thumb in a slow circle. It should hurt – Jared knows it should hurt – but it doesn’t. Jensen’s hands are just warm. “I wanted to –” He stops at a scar, one Jared got playing touch football in somebody’s backyard in high school, and presses his thumb up against it. “I thought I should know your skeleton. So I could identify you.”

As morbid as it is, Jared understands the impulse; he never wants Jensen to be one of those skeletons in the attic, unknown and unlooked for, with no identity and no one to grieve for them.

“Yeah?” Jared says. “Find out anything interesting?”

“You broke your left arm four or five times when you were a kid,” Jensen says.

“Bicycles and I didn’t really get along,” Jared says, settling in, so close their stomachs are almost touching.

“Your triquetral’s reconstructed,” Jensen murmurs. “You broke your right ulna, parry fracture, probably two or three years ago. You’ve got a pin in your femur, and you’ve rebroken this rib three or four times in the same spot. You get shot at a lot, but none of the bullets have done more than graze a bone.” He closes his eyes, wrapping his palm around Jared’s ribcage. “Your os coxae are more gracile than I expected.” Jensen smiles. “And you have an additional costal notch on your sternum.”

“You’re drunk,” Jared points out, and Jensen laughs.

“Probably,” he says. “But I could match you to medical records.”

“Sure,” Jared says. “Maybe you could steal those too.”

“Could make Jeff do it,” Jensen murmurs, drowsy. “Kristen already stole your FBI file.”

“I know,” Jared says. “I’m sure everyone enjoyed reading about the time when I snuck a bunch of girls into Quantico.”

“Sneaked,” Jensen corrects, softly, and a minute later, his body relaxes into sleep, hand still pressed against Jared’s side.

Jared’s unfortunately more skilled than he’d like at untangling himself from sleeping, partially clothed people; football meant a lot of bus trips, Iraq meant a lot of sleeping in tents and sharing sleeping bags, even if he wasn’t, strictly speaking, in the military, and Jared’s lost count of the number of stakeouts he’s been on that required sleeping in the backseat of a car. The next morning, it’s not hard to get away from Jensen, who rolls over into a new position and takes Jared’s spot. Jared pulls an extra blanket up so he can feel less guilty about leaving Jensen to freeze and finds a button down in his overnight bag that he can actually shrug into.

Kristen’s in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal, watching the dogs play in the backyard, and Jared pours himself a cup of coffee.

“So how was the awkward first time sex?” he says, trying not to laugh, and Kristen lifts a hand to hit him, then lets it fall, laughing.

“Less agonizing than expected,” she says, “or did you enjoy listening in on that too?”

“No thanks,” Jared says, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “How’s Jeff? I heard the shower.”

“Hung over,” Kristen says, adding more milk. She smiles at her cereal bowl, the kind of smile Jared knows isn’t meant for him. “Happy, though. I think.”

“You think?”” Jared says.

“I think,” Kristen says. “He woke up this morning, stared at me for fifteen minutes, and got in the shower without saying anything, so there’s still a strong possibility he thinks he’s hallucinating.”

“Oh god,” Jared says, laughing. “You should probably take him coffee. Maybe get in the shower with him.”

“I thought about it,” Kristen says. “But he might get the mistaken impression that I’m nice, and then where would we be?”

“Think of it as lulling him into complacency.”

“True,” she says, still smiling. “That way he won’t be expecting me to torture him all the way to work.”

Jared’s not surprised that Jeff and Kristen are going in; even if it’s Saturday, the body needs processing, and Jeff’s going to want to run DNA.

“Listen,” Jared says. “If the pathologist decides they’re going to get something out of the bones, get Jeff to clean them. Jensen can take a look Monday.”

Jared can’t remember the last time Jensen actually took a weekend off, and considering the fact that Jared woke up to a text message informing him that he was officially on forced medical leave, he’s in a good position to pretend that he shouldn’t be left alone.

“Sounds good,” Kristen says, and pours an extra cup of coffee. “I’m going to go make sure Jeff hasn’t died.”

“Hey,” Jared says, and she turns around for a second. “You did good, Bell.”

She smiles. “Yeah,” she says, “I’m really starting to think so.”

Jared showers downstairs – there’s a bathroom off of Jensen’s office, which has bones and paperwork on nearly every surface – and he’s halfway through his second bowl of cheerios when Jensen stumbles into the kitchen.

He stares at the coffee pot for a minute, leaning against the counter, then pulls a bottle of Advil out of the cabinet and takes four, sinking down into the chair next to Jared’s.

Jared nudges his cup of coffee into Jensen’s field of vision, and Jensen immediately wraps his hands around it and starts to drink.

“You might want some water,” Jared says, trying not to laugh, and Jensen makes a noise and shuts his eyes, tilting his chair away from the window.

“I hate tequila,” Jensen says. “What happened last night?”

“You hooked up with Jeff, then Jeff and Kristen slept together,” Jared says. “I just want you to know that as the only one who didn’t get any action last night, I reserve the right to bring a date next time.”

Jensen goes abruptly pale and stands up fast; Jared’s starting to wonder if maybe the Jeff thing wasn’t a bigger deal than Kristen implied when he disappears down the hall.

“Sorry,” Jensen says when he comes back, wrapped up in a robe from the downstairs bathroom, glasses on again. He looks miserable enough that Jared takes pity on him and shuts the blinds, then steps up behind Jensen – who’s reaching for a mug – and slides his hands up. Jensen freezes with his hand on the cabinet handle, and Jared pulls back the collar of his robe and presses his thumbs into the back of Jensen’s neck, pushing his head forward gently. It seems stupid to Jared that the only time Jensen really relaxes is when he’s drunk.

“Take it easy,” he murmurs, and Jensen lets his arm fall and spreads his hands out against the counter, unsteady, as Jared rubs his shoulders.

“Better?” Jared says, pouring Jensen another cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, sounding surprised, and takes the mug. “Did Jeff say anything about cleaning the bones?”

“He’s handling it,” Jared says. “You’re keeping an eye on me to make sure I don’t do anything reckless.”

Jensen laughs. “Define reckless.”

“Putting in a full day of work interviewing people, apparently,” Jared says. “You’d think they’d appreciate my dedication.”

“I’m sure they’d especially appreciate it when you develop a collapsed lung and can’t run down criminals because you’re on forced bed rest,” Jensen says. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

“I did,” Jared says. “I was sitting down.”

“I remember when I thought having an FBI partner was going to be educational,” Jensen says.

Jensen downs three more cups of coffee and disappears to shower, and by the time he comes downstairs again, it’s clear it’s not going to rain. It’s early March in Chicago, so the likelihood that any decent weather will last longer than a day is low, but if Jared can’t be at work, he might as well be outside.

“You want to go to the park?” Jared offers. He’s almost positive Jensen’s going to try to get some work in, so he’s expecting to have to argue for it, but Jensen just reaches under the counter and pulls out a thermos.

“Let me put a blanket in the back of the car for the dogs,” he says. “I’ll bring some files.”

It takes an hour to get across the city, but Jared falls asleep ten minutes after Jensen pulls out and doesn’t wake up until the car is already parked. Jensen pulls on a sweater and takes the dogs while Jared finds a suitable spot to spread out a blanket. He folds over one of Jensen’s old comforters a couple times to keep from actually lying on the ground, which mostly takes care of his rib, and steals some of Jensen’s coffee. Jared’s fully expecting Jensen to bury himself in casework, but he reaches into his bag and pulls out a can of tennis balls. They’re new, and Jared’s abruptly confused – Jensen won’t stop claiming tennis is one of the most traumatic sports for the skeleton, which makes Jared pretty sure he’s just never played football – but he works it out when Jensen tosses a ball to Sadie.

“Hey,” he says, feeling suddenly warm, “you bought them toys.”

Jensen looks embarrassed, suddenly stiff and formal. “You always forget when you bring them over, I thought it would be okay.”

“It’s great,” Jared says, reaching out to rub Harley’s head when he flops down next to the blanket. “There’s just one problem.”

“What?” Jensen says.

“I think they’re starting to like you better than me,” Jared says, grinning. “Stop trying to steal my dogs, Ackles.”

Jensen’s shoulders come down as he laughs, and Jared settles in with his book while Jensen chases the dogs around, down to the edge of the water and back. Jared’s almost asleep again by the time Jensen gives up on throwing the tennis ball – the vicodin’s starting to be irritating – but he wakes up when Jensen stretches out beside him, Sadie curling up against his back.

“Hey,” Jensen says, sounding vaguely surprised. “You’re reading White?”

“Yeah,” Jared says, with a smile. “Figured it might come in handy to be able to figure out what the hell you’re talking about.”

He ordered a copy of the bone manual Jensen never leaves behind from Amazon a couple weeks back, and he’s not exactly up to identifying teeth yet, but he knows all the bones. When Jared rolls over, shading his eyes against the sun, Jensen’s looking at him in a way that makes him swallow hard. It’s not entirely readable, somewhere between stubborn affection and frustration, and Jared can’t begin to place it.

“Hey,” he says, managing a smile. “It’s not like I’m any good at it. Your job’s safe.”

“Good,” Jensen says, softly, and reaches out to spread his fingers out against Jared’s chest, propped up on one elbow. “I like working with you.”

It’s been a long time, Jared realizes, since he’s had a partner, someone who he trusts to have his back just as much as he has theirs, and it’s easy to acknowledge that the way he feels about Jensen, the protective instinct and affection and respect that go with knowing someone, doesn’t go away when he leaves the ME’s office. It’s been a long time since Jared’s had this kind of family, and it’s easier to admit to himself than he thought it’d be that he’s done moving around and working with people he doesn’t trust.

“Yeah,” Jared says, “me too,” and falls asleep in the sun.

Jared doesn’t even bother pretending that he wants to spend the weekend alone; they take the dogs back to his apartment and eat at The Italian Village – Jensen’s into eggplant parmigiana, and Jared’s not going to complain about Italian food – and spend most of Sunday at Jared’s kitchen table. Jensen finishes writing up the reports for the cases they’ve had in the past few months, and Jared catches up on the backlog of paperwork. Monday morning, he’s still not cleared for fieldwork, but it’s not like they can ban him from sitting around Jensen’s office.

Jared stops at the coffee shop down the street while Jensen’s parking the car, and by the time he gets inside, he realizes that something’s going on, mostly because Katie Heigl is standing next to Jeff’s desk.

“We got a fingerprint match on the victim,” Jeff says, leaning back at his desk.

“Missing person?” Jared says.

“Criminal,” Jeff says. “But the record is sealed.”

“My guess is it was petty,” Katie says. “Misdemeanor at best, because they shut the record with some community service, but the prints are still valid.”

“Diana Ford,” Jeff says, hitting a couple of keys. “We’re running records now.”

“Autopsy indicated asphyxia,” Jensen says, swiping his coffee from Jared’s holder. “In conjunction with the crushed hyoids of the prior victims, it’s probable that the cause of death is a unifying factor.”

Katie blinks, twice.

“Strangulation MO,” Jared translates.

“Completely different neighborhood than where the victims were found,” Jeff says, pulling sheets of paper out of the printer. “So either our killer’s expanding his range or the original bodies were moved in.”

“The methodology has been similar every time,” Jared says. “And they’ve all been teenage girls, so my guess is that there’s a victim pattern.”

“I’ll have the family’s contact information soon,” Jeff says, and Katie tosses her jacket over the back of Jeff’s chair and jerks her head toward the hallway.

“You got a minute?” she says, and Jared’s not exactly surprised when she runs a hand through her hair and makes a face he recognizes from years of FBI work.

“It’s your case,” she says. “I’m not messing with that, and I’m sure as hell not trying to step on your toes, because you do good work and if there’s anyone I’d want knocking on my door if this were my kid, it’s you. But they assigned me to cover the field aspect until you’re back on your feet.” She leans back against the door. “It’s not like you’re off the case, you’re just not canvassing. They need you to stay here and put it all together. Coordinate the taskforce.”

Ordinarily, Jared would fight forced leave like hell, especially since he knows they’re bribing him with taskforce leader to keep him off active duty, but Jensen’s watching him across the room, and Jared knows that the only way they’re going to catch this son of a bitch is if they can weave together the forensic evidence with the human aspect.

“Yeah,” Jared says. “Headquarters is going to be around here, though. I’m not making my people run across town every time someone finds something in the lab.” He doesn’t think too hard about the fact that Jensen and Jeff and the other people at the ME’s office are his first priority; science always gets pushed on the backburner in serial cases, and Jared’s got a feeling that science is what’s going to nail this one.

“Fair deal,” Katie says, and Jared’s almost ashamed to note that she looks relieved. “I’ll bring back my notes.”

By the time Katie and her partner leave, Jared’s already being faxed paperwork. It only takes half an hour for the temporary workstation permit to come through; Jared’s officially in charge of office space in an office building a few blocks away.

“You got it covered here?” Jared asks Jensen, who looks up from the skeleton spread out across the table, focusing on Jared over his glasses.

“Absolutely,” Jensen says. “Go exhibit leadership capabilities.”

“Thanks,” Jared says, dryly.

By the end of the morning, Jared’s finally starting to get somewhere, even if he’s confined to a chair while junior Agent Westwick sets up the victim profile boards. They have three Jane Does and Diana Ford, arranged in chronological order. Jared looks up half way through arranging a designated tip line to find Westwick shoving the boards apart violently. Jared doesn’t know the guy all that well, but the frustration is obvious.

“Mid eighties, late eighties, nineties, now,” Westwick says. “Look at the pattern, it doesn’t add up. There’s a ten year gap, and the years are off.”

“We’re missing bodies,” Jared says, finally. “Stay here and wait for Agent Heigl, I’ll talk to forensics.”

Unfortunately, talking to forensics mostly involves Jensen and Kristen dragging him to lunch before he can point out much of anything.

“Nice of you to order the kid to stay in the office over lunch,” Kristen says. “What’s the rush again?”

“Look,” Jared says, sliding a timeline across the table at her. “We’re missing at least two skeletons, probably more like four.” He gestures with a chopstick at the gaps in the timeline. “Not to mention how long it’s been since the media coverage first broke.”

“You need a more detailed PMI and a better idea of the killer’s motivation and method,” Jensen says, between bites of lo mein. “More accurate time of death could indicate a stronger pattern. Serial killers tend to progressively increase their number of kills. We might only be looking at two skeletons in the 80s, but the likelihood of there being none between the early nineties and now is, statistically speaking, incredibly low.”

“Great,” Jared says. “For the first time in my career, I want to find more bodies.”

Kristen spears one of Jared’s dumplings. “I’ll make some calls,” she says. “I’ve got a friend who might be willing to give you a hand. We’ll see what we can do.”

Jared takes Westwick back some chicken fried rice and a container of egg drop soup, but when he gets back, he finds him in the middle of a sea of paperwork. Westwick ignores the food and holds up a folder.

“I think I found something else,” he says. “Agent Heigl will probably back it up, but –” He passes Jared a piece of paper. “I’ve been looking at the records for Diana Ford. No parents, just an aunt who’s been hit on possession charges three times in the last two years, and she dropped out of high school at sixteen. There are night school transcripts and she’s got a job at the local grocery store, but I doubt there’s anyone who’d notice if she’d gone missing. Maybe missing persons reports weren’t filed on these girls because there was nobody to file them.”

Jared knows from years of experience that things in the criminal justice system always come out uneven; prostitutes and runaways and people living beneath the poverty line are easier to murder than anyone affluent, mostly because nobody gives a damn. This guy has been killing women for thirty years and they’ve only noticed in the past three months, and there’s something incredibly wrong about that.

“Nice work, Ed,” Jared says, because fury at the lack of social justice in the world isn’t going to help anyone catch the bastard. “Go across the street and talk to Jeff Morgan. He’s working on identifying the victims.”

Jared’s about to follow Westwick over to the ME’s office when someone knocks on his door; it’s Katie’s partner, Agent Meester.

“Hey, Jared,” she says, and Jared suddenly knows why there are rules against sleeping with coworkers. An inability to stop thinking about what someone looks like naked isn’t all that great in a crisis situation. “I heard you’re stuck on desk duty, Jay.” She grins. “You should really stop letting Katie get you shot.”

“Spoken like someone with experience,” Jared says.

“Sorry,” Leighton says. “It’s just that aiming for you is like shooting at the broad side of a barn.”

She passes over a folder, suddenly looking less amused. “No one’s seen her since last week, which fits into the timeline, but there wasn’t really anyone to notify. Parents are dead, the only surviving adult in the household is serving three months. She left her little brother with the neighbors last Tuesday on her way to night school and never came back to pick him up. Child services is over there now with Katie.”

“Thanks, Lee,” he says. “I’ll get it to Jeff.”

“Not a problem,” she says, and lets herself out with a smile.

Jared uploads the notes to the system, sending Jeff an e-mail, and spends the rest of the afternoon finishing the command center. The problem is, they’ve got no suspects, not even a profile, and no DNA evidence. Jared knows a dead end case when he sees one, and without better identification or more bodies, it’s going nowhere fast. He’s almost through the last of the paperwork when he notices Jensen leaning in the doorway.

“Jeff’s onto something,” he says. “Do you mind if I stay at your place? I don’t want to have to come back to confirm at 2 a.m.”

Jared’s used to wanting space when he works cases like this – reason number one that at least two of his former partnerships didn’t work out – but he’s surprised to realize that he doesn’t actually want to go home to an empty house.

“Yeah,” he says. “You want to stop for pizza or something?”

“Sounds good,” Jensen says, with a smile. “Just don’t try to sneak on mushrooms again.”

Jensen works at Jared’s desk for most of the evening while Jared watches bad disaster movies with the dogs, and when Jensen gives up around eleven and takes the other side of the couch, Jared feels some of the tension starting to ease out.

“This is completely scientifically inaccurate,” Jensen points out, looking simultaneously horrified and fascinated; Jared’s not entirely sure if he means the aliens or the computer science.

“Yeah, but Will Smith is awesome,” Jared argues, trying not to laugh.

Jensen grins. “In terms of Will Smith alien movies, Men in Black was a lot more entertaining.”

“On the other hand, Independence Day wins this argument based on one crucial factor,” Jared says.

“Yeah?” Jensen says, reaching across the table to take Jared’s beer.

“No talking dogs,” Jared points out, laughing, and Jensen holds up his hands in mock surrender and spends the rest of the movie pointing out just how inaccurate everything is. Jared’s surprised to find that he doesn’t really mind.

Jensen’s still awake when Jared goes to bed, and he’s exhausted enough that he barely wakes up when Jensen slides in on his other side. Jared’s so far under that he sleeps through both his cell and Jensen’s pager going off; he only wakes up when Jensen shakes his shoulder, pulling on a sweatshirt.

“Jeff’s got another ID,” Jensen says. “I have to go confirm. You staying or coming with?” Jensen’s hand is oddly warm against his shoulder, and Jared leans into the touch, still not awake, pressing his face against Jensen’s shirt for a second. Jensen pulls back abruptly, and Jared blinks, trying to wake up.

“I don’t think I’m good to drive,” Jared admits; he’s unbelievably tired, and the vicodin he took before bed isn’t exactly lending itself to the ability to focus.

“I think I can handle it,” Jensen says, with what seems like forced smile, and Jared manages to pull himself together enough to put on some jeans and a sweater.

They don’t talk on the way downtown, and Jared’s starting to worry when Jensen pushes him back past the skeletons and toward one of the holding rooms. Jeff’s sitting at one of the tables lit from underneath, x-rays spread out across the entire surface. There’s an enormous stack of files next to him, and he looks exhausted, which is when Jared looks at his watch and realizes it’s close to three in the morning.

“Here, and here,” Jeff says, pointing to two of the x-rays, marked with sticky notes, and Jensen leans over the table and slides them around.

“Similar fillings, distinctive bite pattern,” Jensen says. “Left mandibular canine tilts in a mesial direction. More pronounced in the second set.” He pulls over a magnifying glass. “And there’s been work done to the TMJ, sinus pattern is similar, although we’d need a different radiographic view to confirm that.”

Jensen looks up. “I’d want to finish off the loose ends if we were presenting in court, but the dental records match up.”

“Then the first skeleton we found was Anna Barlow,” Jeff says.

Looking for matching dental records with no presumptive ID is the equivalent of finding a needle in a stack of needles; most dental records are hard copies, physical x-ray films rather than electronic images, and it’s not possible to search the database for specific characteristics.

“Did CODIS turn up a hit after all?” Jared says, and Jeff shakes his head.

“Your agent was talking about selecting unobtrusive victims, and there’s a low cost dental clinic in the neighborhood where the most recent woman disappeared,” Jeff says. “I got a warrant to check their records for matches against our skulls.”

“Two out of four victims from one neighborhood,” Jared says, finally. “I guess we know his hunting grounds.”

“I’m going to check the rest of the dental records in the morning,” Jeff says. “If I don’t get a match for the other two skeletons, I’ll try medical.”

“I’ll send Katie over for the address,” Jared says, and waits for Jensen to lock up in the car.

“I could drop you off,” Jensen says, tight, once he’s in the driver’s seat, and Jared stops fiddling with Jensen’s mp3 player attachment and leans over until their shoulders are touching.

“Hey,” he says, “what’s wrong?”

Jensen looks at him for a long minute, and Jared settles closer, watching him.

“Sorry,” Jensen says, with a tired smile that’s still too tight around the edges. “I’m just – it’s been a long day.”

“Hard case,” Jared says, nudging his shoulder up against Jensen’s again.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, and Jared watches the tension ease out of his shoulders. “I hate not knowing.”

There’s a long pause, and Jared reaches a hand up to settle against the back of Jensen’s seat, wrapping his hand just behind Jensen’s shoulder, reassuring.

“We’re rushing,” Jensen says, breathing out, hands tight on the steering wheel. “It’s four in the morning and Jeff’s still in the lab. It’s bad science, you miss things when you’re on this long. I would’ve missed that dental match if it hadn’t been right in front of me.”

“Yeah,” Jared says. “But you would’ve gone back. It’s just –” he feels his hand go tight involuntarily, and winces when it hits his ribs. “Serial killers and kidnapping victims, we’re all fighting the goddamned clock, and it’s been a hard week.” He manages a smile. “But you should stay at my place. It’s four in the morning.”

There’s another long pause, Jensen just looking at him in the dark, and Jared spends a minute thinking that maybe this case is getting to both of them more than he thought when Jensen’s grip abruptly relaxes on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” Jensen says, “okay,” and when he pulls out into traffic, things feel better.

The ID files for all but one of the victims are on Jared’s desk the next morning, and he’s not even half way through his first cup of coffee when Westwick shows up, hauling a file cart full of boxes.

“The records are too old to be electronic,” he says, “but I’m going to scan them and start looking for common names.”

Jared takes a break from transferring victim data to the whiteboard to make a bagel run, and when he gets back, there’s someone in the conference room, looking at Anna Barlow’s board.

“Can I help you?” Jared says; he’s expecting more agents, but the guy obviously isn’t FBI.

“Special Agent Padalecki?” he says. “I’m Zach Quinto.”

Jared’s got a nagging sense that he’s heard the name before; maybe in a paper abstract or on a case file.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Jared says, sticking out a hand, and Zach looks at him for a moment before shaking it.

“I’m a friend of Kristen’s,” he says. “I usually consult for Washington, but I was up from Langley on a serial homicide in Detroit. She said you needed some assistance.”

“CIA?” Jared says.

“Not exactly. I’m a forensic psychologist,” he says, with a polite smile. “You can hold the requisite Hannibal Lector jokes. Bell said you had victim profiles I could take a look at?”

“Be my guest,” Jared says.

Jared has three of the whiteboards almost completed, but he’s not surprised that Zach heads for the unfinished one first.

“There’s an idea that serial killers are all sociopaths,” Zach says, absently. “Living in abandoned houses, stalking people, socially maladjusted. Jeffrey Dahmer, Eddie Gein. But it’s really just a polite fiction. There are plenty of highly functioning murderers. People would rather think of things that go bump in the night.”

“Most murders aren’t committed by strangers,” Jared agrees, and Zach puts his hands in his pockets.

“This is all about control,” he says. “There’s precision to it. You’re looking for someone – late forties to fifties, white male, with a solid grasp of anatomy. It’s not actually easy to strangle someone, and it’s unbelievably difficult to do it in the same way over and over again. It means he has a method.” Zach rubs his thumb through a stray mark on one of the white boards, and Jared watches him think.

“High education level, something like a PhD or MD, and he definitely was in contact with the victims. They’re brutally murdered, but the crime scene photos –” Zach gestures to Westwick’s incomplete timeline, filled in with polaroids. “There’s something delicate about that. They’re arranged, not just stuffed in the trunks.”

“We think there might be more bodies,” Jared says.

“Almost definitely,” Zach says. “Everything else here has ritual. You’re missing at least two victims, late 1990s, maybe around 2002 or 2003, but there might be earlier kills that were less precise. You should look for the strangulation MO and bodies in trunks, but don’t expect the skeletons to be cleaned and don’t expect the victims to have the same link that the others do.”

Jared doesn’t particularly want to think about the amount of work that’s going to have to go into finding an earlier victim; most of the 1970s case files aren’t digitized yet, and that’s operating under the assumption that they aren’t looking for a body that’s still in an attic somewhere.

“I apologize,” Zach says, leaning back against Jared’s desk. “That probably wasn’t what you wanted to hear.” He shifts, straightening one of his cuffs absently. “I’d be happy to take a closer look later, but I told Kristen I’d meet her at the lab, and I’d really like a cup of coffee.”

“There’s a Starbucks near the lab,” Jared says, and when Zach holds the door open, Jared grabs his coat and follows him downstairs.

Jared’s used to sizing people up for a living, and over the years, he’s gotten decent at figuring someone out in under thirty seconds and trusting his first impression. It doesn’t take much to tell that Zach is intense but solid, the kind of guy Jared would trust to have his back, and Jared likes him off the bat, but there’s something that doesn’t quite fit. It isn’t until they’re downstairs and halfway through the line that Jared manages to place it. He can’t stop looking at Zach’s hands, casually wrapped around a cup of coffee, the way he stirs in sugar, and Jared’s pulse picks up when he offers the barista a smile.

Jared doesn’t go for guys that often, but he grew out of trying to deny occasional attraction when he was twenty, and Jared figures looking a little too long at Kristen’s friend isn’t exactly going to hurt anyone. Zach’s formal, thoughtful, not Jared’s usual type, but even if Jared hasn’t seen him anything less than completely calm, he’s almost positive there’s something underneath the calm exterior, something that makes him want to push.

“Through here?” Zach says, glancing at the right hallway when they’re in the lobby of the ME’s office, and Jared stops himself from stepping too close.

“Straight back,” he says, following with the coffee carrier, and narrowly avoids spilling all of it when Kristen appears out of nowhere and grabs Zach.

“I’m going to spill,” Zach protests, but he’s laughing. Jared’s stomach flips.

“You said you’d be here at ten, Quinto,” Kristen says, grinning, and hits him.

Zach rubs his shoulder, then pushes back, finally looking something close to relaxed.

Kristen’s friendly with almost everyone, but there’s something different about the way she and Zach are nudging each other. Jared steps back to watch, and barely notices when Jeff comes up next to him to grab a coffee.

“They were housemates for four years in college,” he says. “It’s a sibling thing, not a romantic one.” He sounds amused. “And you’re looking at them like Jensen looks at bones. Stop overanalyzing.”

Jared grins. “People are a lot easier to figure out than skeletons.”

“To the contrary,” Jeff says. “Jensen thinks he’s got another dental match.”

“I do,” Jensen says, leaning around Jared to take the last cup out of the carrier. “I cross-checked medical records for the ulnar fracture, came up with some names, and started looking at dentals. Crystal O’Conner has four distinct fillings and a chipped maxillary M2.”

“From the same dental clinic as the others?” Jared says.

“Don’t make me do your job for you, Padalecki,” Jensen says, grinning.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jared says, and heads back to headquarters.

Six hours later, they’re not exactly closer, but Jared at least feels like they’re making progress. Westwick and Zach have been bent over the same folding table since lunch, adding details to the victim profiles, and when Jared tries to stretch, he realizes he’s been in one position for way too damn long.

“Dinner break?” he suggests, and Westwick glances at his watch and winces.

“I’m supposed to be meeting Lee in twenty minutes,” he says.

“Kristen says there’s a decent pizza place two blocks north of here,” Zach says. “If you weren’t planning on heading home –”

“Pizza sounds great,” Jared says.

Twenty minutes later, sitting across from Zach, Jared’s starting to realize that he’s way too tired to compartmentalize. Every time their legs brush under the table, he’s trying not to jump, and the way the guy is unwrapping his straw is turning Jared on. It’s starting to get pathetic.

“Case getting to you?” Zach says, finally, leaning back in the booth, and Jared finally gives up on rearranging the sugar packets and laughs.

“Something like that,” he says.

“Didn’t anyone ever mention that lying to psychologists is inadvisable?” Zach says, grinning. “Kristen claims you’re intelligent, but I’m not entirely sure I’m convinced.”

“Thanks,” Jared says, amused in spite of himself.

“She likes you,” Zach says. “She says she approves of Jensen and Jeff taking in strays when they’re as attractive as you are.”

Jared should probably be embarrassed, but it’s Kristen. “And people think she’s nice.”

Zach grins to himself. “Individuals who haven’t discovered her venomous spider collection.”

“It’s the ones she keeps in the fridge you have to worry about,” Jared says, and Zach’s smile widens as he leans forward, bracing himself against the table.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really seem like the type,” Zach says. “Two years in Iraq as a contractor when you could have had a desk job, spending time with scientists, turning down a promotion to second in command at the D.C. field office just to work on a bunch of unsolved murders in the Midwest. Not the typical Special Agent.”

“What’d you do, steal my file from Jeff?” Jared says.

“Something to that effect,” Zach says, and Jared lets himself play with the silverware.

“I hate desk work,” he says. “They put me on Jensen because they ran out of agents in the Chicago office to partner up with me. Something just – clicked with him, you know? Felt right. Kept clicking. That’s worth more to me than a promotion.”

“So you two are –” Zach says, with a gesture that it takes Jared a minute to interpret, and then he almost chokes on his beer.

“God, no,” he says. “Just partners. Friends.”

Zach looks at him for a long minute. “Kristen either didn’t know or wasn’t comfortable telling me. Are you interested in men?”

“Uh,” Jared says, trying to figure out how they got from Jensen to here. “Sometimes.”

“I’m only here until the case is closed,” Zach says. “But if you were interested in something casual, I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to getting dinner and spending a few hours at my hotel.”

“We’re eating already,” Jared says, then lets his brain catch up to his mouth and feels his face heat.

“Something off the FBI’s tab,” Zach says, smiling again. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, “yeah, I’d like that,” and manages to grin back.

The next morning, Jared’s phone goes off at 4:58 AM, half an hour before he’s planning to be up.

“Padalecki,” he says, still not entirely awake; he’s getting soft.

“Sleeping in, Jared?” Katie says, sounding amused. “Westwick thinks he’s got something. Skip the morning run.”

“Give me half an hour,” Jared says.

In reality, it’s an hour before he makes it in; Jared’s five minute shower routine isn’t too effective with a broken rib, and traffic near the loop is murder. When he gets to the temporary field office, it’s full of agents, and Zach is there, wearing the same clothes he had on at dinner the night before. He passes over a cup of coffee, looking tired.

“If you’re looking for Special Agent Westwick, he’s sitting at your desk,” Zach says.

“Thanks,” Jared says, and ducks around three or four people to get across the room.

Westwick’s sitting in Jared’s chair, holding a cup of coffee and trying to type one handed, and Jared gets the impression that he’s been here all night.

“What’ve you got?” Jared says, and Westwick jumps, staring for a second, then turns the laptop around.

“Jim Beaver,” Westwick says. “Fifty-nine, Field Museum security guard, med school drop out, and,” Westwick’s grin is almost triumphant, “security consultant for the West Dental Clinic.”

“Well, goddamn,” Jared says, and claps Westwick on the shoulder. “Let’s bring him in for questioning.”

Zach clears his throat. “You don’t have evidence,” he says. “He won’t just confess. He may be brutal, but he’s not entirely lacking in intelligence.”

“We need something solid,” Katie says. “Something to nail him.”

“He’ll be frustrated by the discovery of his last victim,” Zach says. “It’s possible he may become careless.”

“We could assign a detail,” Jared suggests.

“You’ll want to switch out the agents and the cars every few hours,” Zach says.

“Lee and I can take point,” Katie says. “Four hour rotation?”

“That should be enough to avoid suspicion,” Zach agrees. “You’ll want civilian clothes and civilian cars.”

“Let’s start tonight,” Jared says. “Nice and easy. Talk to some of the neighbors this afternoon while we’re sure he’s at work, get their cooperation. Lee can head over to the Field, investigate a docent or two just to make sure of his location while we scope out the neighborhood.”

“You got it,” Katie says.

Three hours later, Jared’s on his third cup of coffee, trying to coordinate a twenty-three agent rotation from a second floor glorified supply closet. It’s the only place he’s been able to get any quiet since the rest of the task force trickled in at seven a.m. When the door to his makeshift office slams open, he’s not entirely sure who he’s expecting, but it’s not Jensen.

“Jeff says there’s a suspect,” he says. “He says you’re planning on participating in a stakeout.”

Jared realizes, belatedly, that Jensen’s pissed.

“Uh,” Jared says. “Just one shift?”

Jensen’s mouth is set in a very stubborn line. “I’m going with you.”

“You’re not FBI,” Jared says.

“I’m your partner,” Jensen argues. “You have a broken rib. If anything goes wrong, I should be there.”

“Do you even know how to use a gun?” Jared says, a little desperately. He already knows he’s going to lose this one.

The corner of Jensen’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “I lived in Rwanda for two months,” he says. “I’m… proficient. You can give me a refresher after lunch if you’re that concerned.”

“I really can’t teach you to shoot in an afternoon,” Jared says.

“I’ll see you at one,” Jensen says. “Don’t sign anyone else up for your shift.”

When Jared shows up at 1:15, Jensen’s already at the range, holding the Beretta Jared keeps in his desk at work.

“Thanks for stealing my gun,” Jared says, dryly.

“Thanks for arranging a stakeout without me,” Jensen says. “Let’s make this fast, I’ve got remains to identify.”

“Seriously,” Jared says, pulling on safety glasses and a pair of ear protectors. “I can’t teach you to shoot in an afternoon.”

“Jared,” Jensen says.

Jared gives up and steps in behind him, settling his hands on Jensen’s hips to guide him into the right position, pressed up close against his back. “Watch for the recoil,” he says. “Just feel it out. You’re probably not going to hit anything right now, but just learn how to let your hands absorb the force.”

Jared slides his hands up to readjust Jensen’s shoulders, staying close. He feels Jensen’s breathing pick up – Jared wasn’t exactly too steady his first time shooting either, so he’s not exactly surprised. Jensen’s not bad with the posture, even if he’s too tense, and Jared allows himself a brief moment of thinking that Jensen might be able to hit something by the time he takes him on detail.

“Just relax into it,” Jared says.

“Jared,” Jensen says, patiently, and Jared steps back.

He’s about to warn Jensen that taking more than one shot is probably unnecessary when Jensen fires three times, rapid and easy. He doesn’t break posture and doesn’t fight the recoil, and when Jared hits the switch to bring the target forward, there are three bullet holes clustered in the center of the bull’s-eye.

“You want me to hit it moving?” Jensen says, sounding more than a little amused.

Jared swallows. “I’ll pick you up at 11:30,” he says. “Civilian clothes.”

Jared’s thinking about going home to make some kind of dinner and maybe fit in a run with the dogs and a few hours of sleep before his rotation, but when he gets back to the office, Zach’s leaning up against his desk. He watches Jared’s briefing on where people should pick up non-FBI issue cars and the current schedule, then steps in when Jared steps away from the white board, settling a hand in the small of his back for just a few seconds, casual, leaning in like he has something private to discuss.

“Dinner?” Zach says, and Jared swallows.

“Take out?” Jared says. “My place isn’t too far.”

“Sounds good,” Zach says.

A couple hours later, Jared feels like he’s in college again, rushing through dinner to get to the after, and when he burns his mouth on his pad thai for a third time, watching Zach work his way through a green curry, he gives up on the food.

“Impatient?” Zach teases, eyes darker than Jared’s used to seeing them, and Jared flushes, laughing.

“Sorry,” he says. “The food’s not bad.”

“Don’t be,” Zach says, and slides down to stretch out on the floor, pushing Jared’s coffee table out of the way.

“Come here,” he says, and Jared ends up on his stomach next to him, propping himself up on one arm.

“This feels kind of – unconventional,” Jared admits, and Zach laughs.

“But you’re interested,” he says, reaching out to cup Jared’s face.

“Very,” Jared murmurs, finally, letting his eyes close, and a moment later, Zach’s curling a hand around his shoulder and dragging him in for a kiss.

Jared knows better than to think that this means something – hell, he doesn’t want it to – but there’s something good in the hard press of Zach’s mouth over his, and when Zach rolls him onto his back and straddles him, Jared arches up until pleasure tips over into pain from his rib, settling his hands on Zach’s back to pull him down, bringing their hips together.

Zach grins against his mouth, thrusting down, and Jared doesn’t bother to break the kiss, just reaches down to undo Zach’s jeans. Zach lets him, then pushes Jared’s hands aside to undo his belt, sliding a hand down into Jared’s pants, pulling his cock out. It’s hot and fast and messy, exactly the kind of adrenaline rush Jared needs after a week of tilting at windmills.

“Jesus, Zach,” Jared manages, pushing Zach’s boxer briefs down, and Zach wraps a hand around both of them and starts to stroke. They’re trading hard, rough kisses, shoving back and forth, in each other’s space, and it only takes a couple minutes of quick, firm strokes and a twist of Zach’s wrist before Jared’s coming over his hand.

“Fuck,” Zach says, breathless, throwing his head back, and Jared pulls his hands away and returns the favor, dragging his thumb in slow, easy sweeps across the head of Zach’s cock until he follows Jared over.

Zach rolls off and sprawls out on the carpet, leaving Jared panting on his back, and they stay there for a few minutes.

“There’s a Rangers game at 8,” Zach says, finally, and Jared laughs, still breathless and warm all over.

“I’ll get a couple of beers,” he says. “Just give me another half an hour to recover.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Zach says with a grin, and Jared fumbles the remote off the coffee table and turns on ESPN.

Jared’s sat through a lot of stakeouts over the course of his career. They’re ninety-nine percent boring, one percent action, so he’s not expecting anything to happen. He’s also really not expecting Jensen to be good at sitting in the dark, parked across from Beaver’s house, but he’s surprisingly quiet. Jared has a tiny, battery-operated space heater, so even with the rear windows cracked the car is comfortably warm, and the slow endorphin rush from getting laid still hasn’t faded. Jared has coffee and Jensen, and the likelihood is pretty damn low that anyone’s going to get killed on his watch, which ought to make for a decent evening. Unfortunately, Jared’s also sleepy.

“I could wake you up if anything happens,” Jensen says, after another of Jared’s muffled yawns.

“Thanks for the offer,” Jared says, taking another gulp of coffee, “but I haven’t fallen asleep on a stakeout since my first year in the FBI.”

He wakes up an hour later to Jensen leaning over him with the binoculars, a hand braced on his shoulder. “Something’s not right –” he says.

Jared’s almost fully awake in an instant, but Beaver’s just walking his dog in the front yard. There’s something odd about a serial murder suspect with a golden retriever, but Jared doesn’t see an imminent threat.

“Jensen?” he prompts, but Jensen’s frowning, focused on something.

“Do you think you could get me his medical records?” Jensen says.

“With a court order, yes,” Jared says, and Jensen leans back, face still tight.

“Have them sent to the ME’s office,” Jensen says. “I think – I need to look at something.”

“I’ll need specifics,” Jared says, and Jensen glances at Beaver again.

“Anything having to do with his hands,” he says. “Look at the way he’s holding the leash.”

Jensen passes over the binoculars, and when Jared glances through them, he can see what Jensen’s referring to; Beaver’s hand is curled awkwardly around the leash, his grip insecure, and when the dog pulls, Beaver follows instead of pulling him back, obviously trying to leave slack.

“I’ll call tomorrow morning,” Jared says, and Jensen grins.

“Go back to sleep,” he suggests, and Jared flushes bright red.

Getting an order for a specific portion of medical records isn’t particularly difficult, especially when Jared makes it clear that it’s due to Jensen’s personal observation. Katie heads over to collect the records, and Jared knows they’ll be at the ME’s office before lunch. He has two agents watching Beaver, Westwick organizing more of the victim profiles, and after Jared responds to yet another media inquiry – he can only articulate that the FBI is refusing to comment on an ongoing investigation so many times – he figures an early lunch might kill some time until Jensen’s hunch – whatever it is – can be confirmed.

Half an hour later, Zach’s got Jared backed up against the desk in his makeshift office, biting along the curve of his neck.

“This is really unprofessional,” Jared manages, sliding his hands underneath Zach’s button down to pull it free, trying not to tilt his hips up already.

“Are you really trying to tell me you’ve never fucked anyone in your office?” Zach says, sounding amused, and Jared feels his face heat, letting his head fall back as Zach undoes his belt.

“Well,” he starts, but the door to the storage room slams open before he can get any further.

“Jared, I found –” Jensen says, then stops short, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Uh,” Jared says. Zach backs up, leaving Jared to fumble with his belt, trying to tuck his shirt back in.

“I apologize,” Jensen manages, flushed, still staring, and Jared gives up on his shirt and steps out from behind his desk.

“No big deal,” Jared says. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse from Jensen and Jeff, but something about this feels different. Jensen looks miserable, and Jared feels abruptly guilty.

“I just wanted to –” Jensen holds out a folder, his other hand still tight on the door. “Jim Beaver has severe osteoarthritis in his right hand. It would be physically impossible for him to strangle anyone.”

“Fuck,” Jared says, finally.

“I’m going to –” Jensen says, putting the folder on Jared’s desk, and backs out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

“You know, I like you,” Zach says, after a long pause, “but I’m reasonably certain that it would be better for you if we were just friends.”

“What?” Jared says. “I –”

“Trust me,” Zach says, settling a hand against the back of Jared’s neck for a moment. “You’ll work it out eventually.”

“Zach –” Jared says, but Zach’s already out the door, leaving Jared staring miserably at the folder of evidence and his forgotten lunch.

Two hours later, after Jared puts Westwick back on hunting for another suspect and calls off the detail on Beaver, he heads across the street. The door to Jensen’s office is closed and locked, but Jared’s used to a slow response; Jensen has a tendency to get engrossed in case files. By the fourth knock, though, he’s not really expecting Jensen to answer, so he’s startled when the door jerks open.

“I’m working, Jared,” Jensen says, flatly. “Stop pounding on my fucking door.”

“I just wanted to –” Jared starts, but Jensen slams the door in his face.

Jeff’s not at his desk, but Jared finds him in one of the exam rooms, comparing a mandible to diagram on a laptop screen.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Jared says, “how pissed is he?”

“Nine,” Jeff says, “but be aware that Jensen typically reserves ten for occasions where he has to deal with perpetrators of genocide.”

Jared sits down across the exam table, rubbing a hand over his face. “Pissed I didn’t lock the door, pissed I didn’t tell him I was messing around with Zach, or something else entirely?”

Jeff pauses, gently pushing the skull away, and looks at Jared for a long minute. Jared shifts, uncomfortable, and Jeff finally laughs. “Jesus,” he says. “You really have no idea.”

“I –” Jared says, and Jeff shuts the laptop.

“Jared, when your best friend and partner tells you he’s gay, and you say it’s no big deal, it’s typically not a bad idea to mention that you don’t have a problem with it because you’re also interested in men.”

“I thought –” Jared says. “I didn’t think… it didn’t seem pertinent, I haven’t dated anyone since we started working together. I haven’t even slept with anyone in months.” Jared’s startled to realize that it’s been so long, but it’s not surprising; Jared’s never been all that into dating, and the endless murder investigations haven’t left a lot of time for casual sex.

“Neither has Jensen,” Jeff says. “You’re still lying by omission.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, rubbing his eyes again. “Yeah, I should have. I’ll go apologize.”

Jeff pauses. “Don’t be surprised if he takes a while to come around,” he says, finally. Jared’s left with the impression that he wants to say something else, but he turns the under table lights back on, and Jared goes back to Jensen’s office.

“Jensen,” Jared says, quietly, leaning up against the doorframe. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

The door doesn’t open, and Jared gives it five minutes before he tries again. “Can we just talk about this? I want to apologize.”

“If you’re waiting for me to open the door,” Jensen says, “you’re going to be standing there for a very long time.”

Two hours later, Jared decides that Jensen probably needs a chance to cool down. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. Jensen doesn’t respond.

The next four days are miserable. Jensen gets into his office in the morning before Jared comes to work, and the door stays locked all day. Jared’s never put a lot of thought into the amount of time he spends with Jensen, but it only takes a few hours to realize that it’s a significant portion of his day. Jared’s used to dropping by the ME’s office on breaks, to phone calls every twenty minutes, and to being able to bounce ideas off his partner. It’s not until lunch on the second day that he realizes that he and Jensen typically eat two or three meals together, and eating dinner with Zach and Kristen doesn’t make up for the fact that Jensen’s still avoiding him. Worse still, the FBI still doesn’t have a new suspect, and Jared feels like they’re running in place. Jared spends most of his time sitting outside Jensen’s office, poring over useless files, and when he goes home at night, he can’t bring himself to do much more than go to bed. It’s the worst part of the job.

And it’s why, when Jared’s phone rings at three-thirty in the morning, he’s not even pissed at Jensen for deciding that he wants to talk in the middle of the fucking night. He’s mostly just relieved.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m glad you called –”

“I know who it is,” Jensen says, sounding tight and anxious. “I’ve been going over the files for days, I looked at – it doesn’t matter, just meet me at your command center as soon as you can.”

“I can –” Jared says.

“I really can’t talk about this here,” Jensen says. “Across the street, you can make it in half an hour, right? I’ll wait for you.”

“Twenty-five if I speed,” Jared says, already rolling out of bed, and Jensen laughs, softly.

“Make it twenty,” he says, sounding strange, and hangs up the phone.

When Jared gets to headquarters, the only person in the building is the night janitor. Jared’s got a key to the ME’s office, but the only light in the entire lab is under the medical examiner’s door, and Lehne’s known for working odd hours; Jared really doesn’t want to disturb him if he doesn’t have to. Jensen’s cell goes straight to voicemail, and Jared waits for half an hour, then checks back across the street. By the time 5 a.m. rolls around, he’s unbelievably exhausted and quietly furious, and there’s nothing left to do but go home.

“You’re unbelievable,” Jared tells Jensen’s voicemail, on the drive back, and when he finally crawls back in bed, it’s close to six in the morning and he’s supposed to be up in half an hour. Jared texts Katie and resets his alarm – it’s not like there’s any fucking information to supervise – and goes back to bed.

When Jared wakes up at eight-thirty, it’s not to his alarm but to Kristen’s ring tone, some boy band pop song she downloaded just to irritate him.

“I’ll be in by ten,” he says. “Talk to Katie.”

“Jared,” Kristen says, and the tone makes Jared sit up, fully awake, because he’s never heard Kristen sound like that before. “Jensen – he didn’t come into work this morning. He’s not picking up his phone, and Katie and Lee – there’s no one at his house, and the alarm system says no one came in last night.”

Jared’s stomach drops out. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he says.

By the time Jared shows up, there are four agents going through Jensen’s office.

“Katie says it looks like there might have been a struggle,” Jeff says, quietly.

Jared goes to find Katie. “He called me last night,” Jared says. “He said – he knew who had done it. We were supposed to meet, but he didn’t show up, and I just assumed –” Jared swallows. “We’ve been fighting. I should have known something happened.”

Jared spends the next three hours feeling utterly helpless. They find Jensen’s car in the parking garage, obviously untouched, and the agents investigating Jensen’s house don’t find anything. The ME’s office has security cameras in the lobby and the lab, but the video’s been tampered with. Jared watches Jensen go into his office at 9 p.m., but there’s nothing after that, and the feed goes abruptly into static at just past 3:30. Someone finds his cell phone in the parking lot, but it’s shattered underneath someone’s car, completely destroyed. Jensen’s office is a mess, with papers on every surface, the chair and Jensen’s flimsy asian coffee table tipped over. There’s no blood, but someone finds Jensen’s laptop behind the desk itself, dented but still functional. Jared runs through twenty-eight bones before he figures out the password, but there’s nothing new on the desktop, just journal articles and folders of report photos.

“Jensen said he knew who it was,” Lee says. “If we can…”

“Yeah,” Jared says. “I’m on it.”

Jared has a pile of papers – some of which probably aren’t even related – and Jensen’s laptop, which isn’t much to go on, but if this is anyone’s fault, it’s his – for not having been honest with Jensen, for not getting to the lab fast enough, for walking away and going back to sleep. He sets himself up in one of the exam rooms, trying to ignore the agents walking back and forth across the lobby, and starts exploring Jensen’s browser history. Twenty minutes later, Kristen pushes her way in.

“Jeff’s still talking to the agents,” she says, red-eyed and obviously shaken, “but we want to help.”

Jared’s worked best alone for his entire life, but somehow, he realizes, here, he wants help. Every extra set of eyes means catching something he might miss, and if he’s honest, Jared doesn’t have room to be proud.

“Sort these,” Jared says. “Anything that’s not obviously relevant, just – put to the side.”

Twenty minutes later, Kristen’s frowning at the stack of papers in front of her. “Half of these are office records,” she says. “Purchase orders and autopsy schedules. There’s no reason for Jensen to have them, he’s not in charge of any of this.”

“Keep them out,” Jared says. Jensen’s email is full of secure files from Westwick; there are employee lists for the museum and the free clinic, files on the victims, and a couple of police reports about medical record thefts.

“He was cross-checking,” Jeff says, pulling up a chair behind Jared. “Looking for any overlap.”

Just after midnight, when Jared’s on his eighth cup of coffee and the screen’s starting to blur, Jeff shoves a paper across the table at him. Kristen’s letting the dogs out and picking up food, so Jared almost jumps; Jeff’s quiet enough that Jared almost forgot he was there.

“Something’s not right about this purchase order,” he says. “These are sedatives, and we work exclusively with dead bodies. The ME’s office wouldn’t need these.”

“Could they be for someone on staff?” Jared says, but Jeff’s still staring at it.

“Prophylactics, maybe, if you encountered something while working with a corpse,” Jeff says, “but not anesthetics. Lehne signed off on it, I could go ask.”

Something doesn’t feel right, and underneath the fog of caffeine and exhaustion, Jared’s instincts are kicking over into full gear. “Wait a minute,” Jared says, when Jeff pushes back from the table. “Where’s the list of employees for the dental clinic?”

Jeff pulls it up on Jensen’s laptop. “None of these names cross check with the Field Museum access list, aside from Beaver,” he says. “We’ve run that scan three times.”

“Is there –” Something’s nagging at Jared, and it takes him a minute to remember the telephone directory lying on Jensen’s desk. It’s in a box with the journal articles Kristen found, and he pulls it out, sliding it across the table to Jeff.

“Start reading off free clinics near West Dental,” he says, and Jeff thumbs through until he finds the right page.

“There are only two in that neighborhood,” he says. “West Medical Services and Dennison Family Clinic.”

West Medical Services doesn’t even have a web page, just an online yellow pages listing, but the Dennison Family Clinic has its own site, complete with a list of practicing and consulting physicians. Six names down, in tiny print, there’s an F. Lehne, consulting, courtesy of the city of Chicago.

“Jesus christ,” Jared says.

“He has museum access,” Jeff says. “They have to transfer any unidentified skeletal remains to storage at the Field, so he has security clearance.” Jeff passes over the access list. “High level security clearance. He can get into any part of the museum.”

“He’s a doctor, he’s –” Jared says, feeling sick. “He’s been all over this investigation.”

“He wasn’t here today,” Jeff says.

“I’ll get – I need backup,” Jared says, managing to get to his feet. “Call Kristen.”

The next day and a half are the longest of Jared’s life. Lehne’s office is empty, all but a few current case files cleared out, and there’s no one in his apartment. The evidence is there, though, and Jared spends ten minutes heaving into the bushes when he finds the medical records, the faces behind the skeletons spread out in the lab. Jared can’t handle the idea of Jensen becoming one of them.

The problem is, Lehne is just like a ghost; there’s no record of his car, no credit card usage or convenience store footage, and by the third day, Jared can’t stop running statistics in his head. He’s worked kidnappings, and the first forty-eight hours are critical; past that, the probability of finding someone alive starts to sink exponentially. Jared’s checking the credit card tracer for the twentieth time, back from interviewing Lehne’s entire apartment building, when Lee ducks into the command center.

“Lehne’s brother has a storage unit near Oak Park,” she says. “The owner has security footage of Lehne’s car entering the complex three days ago, and he’s been back a couple times since. Let’s go.”

Intellectually, Jared knows that the signs are good – nobody keeps going back to a dead body, and Jensen’s worth more to Lehne alive than dead. The drive over is still terrifying, and for a long minute outside of the storage unit, Jared can’t bring himself to open the door.

“Jared,” Lee says, and it only takes a second for Jared to realize that the possibility of getting Jensen out alive outweighs anything he might see.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Westwick tries the lock with a pair of bolt cutters, but nothing happens. Jared finds crow bar in one of the FBI suburbans and just pries the goddamned lock loose, pulling the door a few feet off the ground. Jared takes Lee’s flashlight and rolls underneath it, too focused to really pay attention to slicing his hand open on the edges of the padlock.

For a minute, he thinks there’s nothing, just furniture stacked all across the front of the unit, dusty underneath his flashlight beam, but then he hears something. It’s dark, and maybe too close to fire, but Jared keeps a hand on his gun just in case.

“Hello?” he says, and behind a couple of antique chairs, he sees something move. It takes a minute to place what he’s seeing as someone’s feet, underneath a wrought iron bed.

“Jared?” Jensen manages, finally, and Jared stands up fast and shoves aside the chairs, falling to his knees.

“Are you hurt?” Jared says, because he can’t see and Jensen’s not moving. He hears a soft, hysterical laugh.

“Just tied under here,” Jensen says, his voice hoarse and broken. “Don’t push the bed, I’ll go with it.”

Jared gets down on his stomach, quickly guiding the flashlight off Jensen’s face when Jensen winces, and pulls his knife out, sawing through the plastic restraints holding Jensen’s left wrist to the bed.

“Jared?” someone yells from outside, and Jared rubs at Jensen’s hand. It’s too pale, but Jensen winces again when Jared touches it, so he moves on to Jensen’s ankle.

“Call 911,” he yells, “and get the damn door open.”

“I’m fine,” Jensen says, and Jared doesn’t even dignify it with a response. The top of the bed is covered in dust, but the other side is free except for a chest, which Jared pushes aside so he can get to Jensen’s other wrist.

“Can I move the bed?” Jared says, tightly, when all the plastic restraints are cut off.

“Just go slowly,” Jensen says, and he rolls out as Jared stands up and pushes the bed aside.

“Hi,” Jensen says, covered in dust and god knows what else and too pale in the dim light of Jared’s flashlight, and Jared kneels and pulls him in close.

“I got you,” he says, quietly. “I –”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, grabbing on to Jared’s jacket, “yeah, I – god, I know.”

Jared’s pulled enough people out of really dangerous situations over the course of his career to know what kind of reaction to expect, but Jensen shuts up after that. His grip on Jared stays firm until the ambulance pulls up and the paramedics take him, but he stops talking. He’s quiet, too quiet, and Jared comes back from getting five stitches put in his palm in the second ambulance and sits on the ground next to the rear tire, trying not to think of all the things that could be wrong.

“Jared?” Jensen says, finally, just out of sight, and Jared ducks past the paramedics milling around outside of the ambulance and climbs in the back.

Jensen has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and an IV in one arm, still damp from the makeshift shower some of the paramedics rigged up, and he’s shaking, hard enough that Jared knows it doesn’t have anything to do with cold. He looks confused and exhausted and more than a little afraid, and Jared’s never needed anything more than he needs to touch Jensen again, right now, more than he needs to make sure he’s okay.

“Right here,” he says, and sits down beside him on the seat, spreading a palm out against the small of Jensen’s back, and Jensen turns and leans into him.

“Oh, god,” he says, and Jared lets him push in close, his face up against Jared’s shoulder, hands in Jared’s FBI jacket again, and just keeps him there until his breathing evens out, starting to match Jared’s, slowing until Jared realizes he’s starting to fall asleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “I think they’ll let you go home tonight, if you want to.”

“Don’t have my car,” Jensen murmurs, sleepily, and Jared tries not to laugh.

“I think we’ve got it covered,” he says.

Jensen’s asleep when Kristen climbs in through the front of the ambulance.

“They said he’s clear to go as soon as the IV fluids are done, as long as he gets his shoulders checked tomorrow, so Jeff’s ready to take him,” she says, and Jared only realizes how tight his grip has gone on Jensen when he feels him start to wake up.

“No,” Jared says. He can dismiss the voice in the back of his head that’s telling him that Jeff and Kristen can’t possibly keep Jensen safe, but he can’t push away everything else, and Jared knows himself well enough to be pretty damn sure that he won’t let Jensen out of his sight, at least not tonight.

Jared’s used to Kristen reading him, but she doesn’t even look at him, just at Jensen. “He wouldn’t let them give him an IV until Jeff made sure someone was looking at your hand,” she says, like she’s trying not to laugh. “We’re just going to give you a ride to your apartment and come back in the morning.”

“Oh,” Jared says, abruptly feeling like an idiot.

“Try to actually let him get some sleep tonight,” Kristen says, actually laughing now, and Jared finally gives in to relief and lets himself relax, even if he’s not entirely positive what the hell Kristen’s laughing about.

Jensen doesn’t even wake up when the paramedic slides the IV out, and Jared has to fill out ten separate sheets of paper while Jeff gets him in the car. He notices Jensen starting to wake up half way through sheet seven.

“Sorry,” he says to the paramedics, “I’ll bring it back,” and fills out the last three sheets on the inside window of the car with the door open, leaning close enough that he can press his hip against Jensen’s side. He’s almost positive it’s all illegible anyway – Jared’s never been all that great at writing with the wrong hand.

“You’re stubborn,” Jensen murmurs, watching him, and Jared rolls his eyes.

“I’m sticking it to the medical system for all this paperwork,” he says, and Jensen laughs. Jared feels himself starting to relax.

It’s a little weird when they’re suddenly alone in his apartment and Jared remembers that Jensen hasn’t really been speaking to him for a week, but Jensen just watches him cautiously for a minute, then holds out a hand from where he’s lying on the couch.

“Come on,” Jensen says, and Jared settles in behind him as Jensen turns the TV on, and keeps his face against the back of Jensen’s shoulder until he can think again. He’s grateful for the background noise, making everything less stupidly intense, and Jensen rolls over after a couple minutes with a tentative smile.

“I’m –” he says. “Uh. The last time I ate was three days ago.”

“Jesus, sorry, I’ll make you some dinner,” Jared says, laughing, and almost knocks Jensen over in his haste to get into the kitchen. He heats up some soup from the freezer and when he comes back into the living room, Jensen’s on the floor with the dogs, buried underneath them.

“Hey,” Jensen says, looking suddenly uncomfortable, “I haven’t been home –”

“It’s cleared,” Jared says. “We’ve got agents posted there. I didn’t check it myself, but,” he passes over the bowl, sliding down beside Jensen. “I haven’t been home either. I didn’t really think about –”

“Uh, Jay,” Jensen says, nudging his shoulder against Jared’s with a grin. “I was tied underneath a bed for three days, can you hold off until I’m done with the soup?”

“Asshole,” Jared says, affectionately, and watches the rest of Jeopardy with Jensen leaning against his side. It should feel weird, too normal, but Jared knows that it sometimes takes people a while to come to terms with trauma, and that normality is the best he has to offer right now.

“I wasn’t that scared,” Jensen says, finally. “I know I should have been, but – I didn’t think he was going to kill me, and I knew –” Jensen’s watching Sadie sleep, looking anywhere but at Jared. “I knew you’d find me.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, voice rougher than he wants it to be. “I’d have turned over Chicago.”

“It was different,” Jensen says, finally. “We deal with death every single day, dead people every single day, but this – it was different, I was – I would have fought for it.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes closed, because that’s the difference; Jensen dying wouldn’t have been another case, another victim. “I – that night, I’m sorry, I thought –” Jared swallows. “We could have been looking sooner if I’d trusted you.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference. I kept thinking –” Jensen laughs, softly. “You didn’t even know I wasn’t mad at you. I thought maybe Jeff would tell you, if anything happened.”

Jared’s always been good at knowing what to say, how to comfort people, but here, he doesn’t have the faintest idea, and the thought of Jensen shutting him out again is almost too much to handle. “I don’t even know –” he says. “I’m sorry for not telling you.”

“No, I was –” Jensen trails off for a second, and when Jared looks up, he realizes he’s flushed, shifting like he’s not sure. “I should tell you something, but it’s not – you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Okay,” Jared says, cautious, and Jensen buries his hands underneath Sadie’s collar and doesn’t look at him.

“I didn’t know,” Jensen says, “that you were interested in men at all, and it was – easier when I thought you were straight, I thought I’d just –”

Jensen breathes out, slowly, and Jared lets him finish. “I wasn’t mad at you, I just couldn’t watch you with somebody else.”

“Somebody else,” Jared says. Jensen’s cheeks go an even deeper shade of red.

“Jealousy is a biological imperative, it’s hardwired,” he says, “and I – I like you, so it’s logical that –”

Something clicks, in the back of Jared’s head, and he’s abruptly aware of all the signs he hasn’t been paying attention to, how Jensen’s been, the past few months, and Jared knows he should say something, but he suddenly knows what the unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling under his skin every time Jensen gets too close is, why his stomach drops out every time Jensen smiles at him a certain way, and why he’s sleeping better than he has since college and dealing with an overwhelming compulsion to learn every bone in the human body. Jared’s never fallen in love without noticing before, but laid out in front of him, it’s obvious.

“I can go,” Jensen says, finally, and Jared knows exactly what he wants, but he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to tip this thing over, or even whether he’s ready to do it, so he leans his forehead against Jensen’s shoulder and wraps a hand around his wrist. He feels too tight in his own skin, unsure, but he knows a hell of a lot better than to let Jensen think he’s upset about the idea.

“No,” he says, and climbs to his feet, keeping his hand against Jensen’s wrist for a second. “Come on.”

Jared’s half way through making the coffee when Jensen comes into the kitchen. It’s instant, not the greatest, but Jared needs something to do with his hands.

“Hey,” Jensen says, quiet, leaning up against the kitchen table. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jared murmurs, and lets himself step forward into Jensen’s space, spreading his palms out across the table on either side of Jensen’s hips. It’s easy, way less tense than it should be, and when Jared meets Jensen’s eyes, he realizes he’s really over thinking the entire conversation.

“I like you back,” he admits. “I’m just not used to it yet.”

Jensen’s face warms, until he’s close to smiling. “And I’m so familiar with falling for FBI agents,” he says, sliding a hand up to the back of Jared’s neck, and Jared lets his head fall forward and his eyes close, just breathing.

Jensen doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, in close, but Jared feels it when he starts to pull away.

“I should –” Jensen says, letting his hand fall, reaching up to nudge Jared back. Jared doesn’t let him finish the sentence, just closes his hands in Jensen’s shirt, pulls him in, and kisses him.

Jared’s not expecting it to be heart stopping – it’s just a kiss – but there’s a moment in the first press of Jensen’s mouth underneath his where something falls into place. He’s seen Jensen kiss, thought about the abstract once or twice, and in the past ten minutes, his mind’s gone a hell of a lot further, but he’s not entirely prepared for the heat that flares in his stomach and settles in everywhere else. It’s good, heated and a little deeper than Jared means for it to go, but the awareness of just how close Jensen’s standing hits him hard, and he’s suddenly too distracted to really hold the kiss.

He’s never thought about sex with Jensen, but Jared’s mind has enough information to put together a pretty clear picture of what it would be like, and he can’t stop the thought process. Jensen’s hands are steady on his hips, warm, and Jared feels his whole face heat when he follows that train of thought to its logical conclusion. His heart’s racing, his hands too tight on Jensen’s shoulders, and he’s half-hard from just a kiss. Jared’s tense, abruptly embarrassed, and he’s still trying to figure everything out when Jensen takes his hand and pulls him toward the living room. They’re stretched out on the sofa before Jared can think about it, Jensen lying on top of him, and he almost stops breathing until Jensen eases onto his side, putting some distance between them, and spreads his palm out against Jared’s shoulder.

“Hey, relax,” Jensen says, and the soft kiss he presses up against the curve of Jared’s jaw startles him.

“Sorry,” Jared manages, and his hands unsteady against Jensen’s side.

“Your pupils are completely dilated,” Jensen says, laughing softly, and wraps a hand around Jared’s ribcage. “And your heart rate has got to be over a hundred. I was trying not to add any more adrenaline to your system, but you -” Jensen grins, looking dazed and kind of pleased, and it goes a long way toward calming Jared down to realize that Jensen’s happy because of kissing him. “You’re just impatient.”

“I meant it, that I liked you,” Jared says, watching Jensen’s face, and it’s easy to find exactly what he needs in the curve of Jensen’s smile.

Jensen doesn’t say anything for a minute, just strokes his palm down Jared’s side, back and forth until Jared actually starts to relax. “You want to try that again?” he murmurs, finally, and it’s somehow okay to lean up on his elbows and meet Jensen for another kiss.

Jensen slides his hand up to cup Jared’s face, spreading his fingers out against his jaw, and licks into Jared’s mouth, soft pressure and heat. The kiss never really ends, just lasts until Jared can’t breathe and then slides over into Jensen exhaling against his lips, starting all over again. Jared pulls Jensen down, closer, with a hand against the back of his neck, and grins when Jensen finally breaks the kiss to laugh.

“This really wasn’t what I was expecting tonight,” Jensen says, face against Jared’s shoulder, like he’s trying to muffle laughter, and Jared realizes that Jensen’s spent the past few days just as scared as he was.

“Yeah,” Jared says, grinning, and pushes Jensen until Jensen’s stretched out on top of him, hands tangled in Jared’s shirt. “I know you only came over here for the pizza.”

“Which I notice you haven’t provided,” Jensen points out, nudging his nose against Jared’s jaw, and Jared laughs again and relaxes, all at once.

“Play nice and I’ll get you another bowl of soup,” he says.

Jensen doesn’t say anything back, face up against Jared’s neck, and it takes Jared a minute to realize that Jensen’s muffling a series of yawns against his collar.

“Soup sounds good,” Jensen says, finally shifting for another kiss, and Jared breaks it off and laughs when Jensen yawns against his mouth.

“Hey, as much as I like making out on the couch,” Jared murmurs, reaching to wrap a hand around the back of Jensen’s neck. “You’ve got to be exhausted. Bed?”

Jensen grins. “So all those rumors about you putting out before the first date –”

“You wish,” Jared says, laughing, and pushes Jensen off to go lock up.

Jensen’s in the shower when Jared gets back from letting the dogs out and turning out the lights, and the fact that he’s gotten something like six hours of sleep in four days hits him all of five seconds after he sees the bed. Jared doesn’t even bother to find something to sleep in, just throws his clothes somewhere in the vicinity of the dresser and remembers to crack the door for the dogs. He’s almost asleep when Jensen climbs into bed and settles in against his chest, and Jared barely manages to get an arm around him before he’s totally and completely under.

Jared wakes up early to Sadie whining at thunder. Jensen’s still passed out in the other half of the bed, sprawled out over the blankets, and Jared covers him up again and finds a leash for the dogs. It’s raining too hard to really walk them, so Jared lets them out and shuts the bedroom door before Harley can get any bright ideas about soaking the bed.

He’s half way through his first cup of coffee, staring absently out the kitchen window at the rain, when he feels Jensen’s hands on his shoulders.

“Hey,” Jared says, leaning back against Jensen’s chest, hands still wrapped around his coffee mug, and lets his eyes close when Jensen kisses the curve of his neck.

“Come back to bed,” Jensen suggests, voice lower than Jared’s used to, close enough that he can feel it against his skin.

“Yeah, okay,” Jared agrees, hoarsely. The entire idea of it is stuck somewhere in his chest, making it hard to breathe, because Jared’s been in love before, or at least he thought he had, but he’s never felt about anyone the way he feels about Jensen. He’s never wanted anyone like this, desire like a solid hit to the solar plexus, a feeling that could knock him out if he let it get that far.

Jensen doesn’t wait for him, but he’s stretched out across the bed when Jared nudges the bedroom door open. He’s wearing a pair of Jared’s pajama pants, too long and barely covering his hips, and Jared gets stuck for a minute at the door. He can’t bring himself to look away long enough to cross the room.

“It’s okay,” Jensen murmurs, low, and Jared gets there, because that’s really not the issue.

He goes down hard onto the bed, no pretense, moving so Jensen’s spread out underneath him and they’re tangled up together. Jared runs his hands up Jensen’s chest, trying to get used to all that skin, and Jensen tangles a hand in his hair and pulls him down for a kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, Jensen’s hip digging into his stomach, his grip too tight, but it’s good, and it only takes a minute before Jared laughs and relaxes into it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, warm, and Jensen leans up, sliding his free hand underneath Jared’s t-shirt to stroke across his lower back.

“Finally,” Jensen says, and Jared leans back just long enough for Jensen to pull his t-shirt over his head, following it up with his hands. Jared’s not expecting it when Jensen pushes up and over, pressing him back down into the bed with a grin, but Jensen’s weight is solid, grounding, and when Jensen spreads a hand out against his jaw and tilts his face up, Jared goes with it.

It only takes Jared a couple of minutes to realize that Jensen’s a little bit of a tease. They’re trading slow, deep kisses, ones that leave Jared following Jensen’s mouth back with his own every time Jensen breaks for air, his shoulders up off the bed, and every time Jensen slides his hands over Jared’s skin, spread open and warm, Jared thinks maybe it’s going somewhere, but it doesn’t happen. It’s been a long fucking time since he just made out in bed, and Jared’s so caught up in it that he barely notices when Jensen relaxes down onto him.

Jensen strokes a hand up and down Jared’s side, easy, fingers nudging over his stomach, and Jared’s arching up into the pressure before he can think about it, breathing hard between kisses. Following Jensen’s touch is instinct, but the sudden rush of warmth when Jared pushes his hips up is incredible, almost startling. Jared wraps a leg around Jensen’s hip and repeats the motion, rubbing up against Jensen’s stomach, and Jensen leans down and kisses him, stretching out, slow friction exactly where Jared wants it.

“Feel good?” Jensen murmurs, and when Jared looks up, flushed, he looks self-satisfied, warm and too amused for his own good.

“Jackass,” Jared manages, and when Jensen grins, he goes from half-hard to all the way just like that, rocking his hips up against Jensen’s stomach involuntarily. He’s suddenly embarrassed, all too aware of exactly how many layers of clothing are between them. Jared’s thinking about pulling back when Jensen makes a soft noise and leans in.

“Hey,” he says, “stop thinking so hard,” and kisses him. Jensen spreads a hand out against the small of his back and presses in close, keeping Jared’s hips pinned between his hand and his stomach. Jared can’t help the noise he makes against Jensen’s mouth, because jesus, it’s not exactly a fair trick.

There’s pressure exactly where he wants it, and Jensen moves just enough that Jared’s cock is pressed up between the curve of his hip and his stomach. Jensen’s stomach muscles go tight when Jared’s hips stutter up, and when Jared exhales, unsteady, Jensen lifts a hand from Jared’s hip to his face, forcing Jared’s jaw up until Jared can’t look anywhere else. Jared’s not the kind of guy who likes to turn the lights off, but Jensen watching him like this is almost too much, exposed and more intimate than he knows how to handle.

“Jared,” Jensen says, finally, and Jared breaks eye contact just long enough to realize he’s almost smiling, the corner of his mouth pulling up in the exact same way that it does whenever Jared misses something that Jensen considers stupidly obvious.

“Hi,” Jared says, mostly because he can’t think of anything else, and when Jensen laughs, he’s surprised to find his body relaxing involuntarily.

“Hi,” Jensen says, and Jared watches him smile and realizes that there’s probably nothing to be afraid of.

It’s better, even, to watch the way Jensen’s cheeks flush when Jared rubs up against him, and it takes all of twenty seconds for Jared to find a rhythm that feels unbelievably good. It’s slow, easier than he’s used to, mostly Jensen shifting down into the way Jared’s rolling his hips, but it feels incredible, slow heat and building pleasure. He goes warm all over when Jensen kisses him again, open-mouthed and off center, and when Jensen licks along his lower lip and holds Jared steady with the hand he’s got spread out against his lower back, he comes almost without thinking about it, in a wave that doesn’t really end. Jensen runs his thumb across Jared’s cheekbone, kissing him again, and it’s good enough to feel like an aftershock, hot in the pit of Jared’s stomach.

“Normally I try to get out of my clothes,” Jared murmurs, when he can think again, trying not to laugh, and Jensen grins, cheeks still flushed.

“Technically, I shouldn’t get naked with you until you buy me dinner –” he starts, and Jared shoves him, hard enough that Jensen falls over, laughing.

“Stop using your brute strength against me,” he says, and Jared manages to hold off on tackling him until he can get undressed.

He falls down on Jensen hard, still laughing, and Jensen pushes back, starting to squirm.

“Unfair height advantage,” he says, breathless, and Jared can’t exactly miss the fact that he’s flushed all over.

“Quit whining,” Jared teases, rolling off to the side, and watches Jensen stretch out. Jared’s never looked much, before, at least not consciously, but like this, Jared’s suddenly struck with the knowledge that they’re having sex, the kind of thing that best friends don’t do, and that yesterday, Jared didn’t know if he’d see Jensen again. Jensen’s watching back, fidgeting just enough that Jared knows he’s feeling self-conscious, but it’s not an awkward pause. Jared isn’t reconsidering, isn’t having second thoughts, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, he doesn’t feel rushed or uncertain. This isn’t going to be the only time they do this, and the thought is reassuring.

“I’m starting to feel like I’m fifteen again,” Jared says, reaching to slide his palm across Jensen’s stomach, and Jensen jumps before he relaxes and leans into the touch.

“I can’t believe I’m having sex with someone who was getting laid in high school,” Jensen says, and Jared grins, still stroking small circles with his fingertips.

“Helps if you like girls,” he says. “Also, the speaking english thing is a plus.”

“I speak english,” Jensen protests.

“Yeah, secretly,” Jared teases, grinning, and when Jensen starts to laugh, Jared settles in against his side and slides a hand down into his pajamas. Jensen goes tense, startled, and Jared realizes he’s probably moving too fast and gives him time to get used to it, nudging kisses along the curve of Jensen’s jaw.

“Sorry, just – relax,” Jared murmurs, pressing his mouth against Jensen’s shoulder, and surprisingly, Jensen listens, leaning up against him.

Jared wraps his hand around Jensen’s cock, taking a minute to let Jensen relax into his touch, to map out the heated weight of it. Jared catches Jensen’s shaky exhale and the soft noise he makes when Jared readjusts his grip, cataloging them both, and settles his forehead against Jensen’s collarbone. Clavicle, Jared thinks, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, he’s willing to let this go really damn slow.

Jensen turns his head, just enough that he can press his nose against Jared’s jaw, and closes his hands around Jared’s shoulders. “It’s been a while,” he says, still sounding unsteady, and Jared kisses the hollow of his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, tightening his fingers and rubbing his thumb just beneath the head until Jensen inhales again. “But I might just be willing to let it slide.”

He feels Jensen smile before he turns his head to look, and when their eyes meet, Jared stops bothering to look at Jensen’s mouth. “Thanks, asshole,” Jensen says, sliding a hand up to run his fingers through Jared’s hair, and Jared lets his head fall again, breathing into the warm curve of Jensen’s neck.

“I don’t do this,” Jared admits, still barely stroking with his fingertips, and Jensen lifts his hips into the touch and smiles again.

“Me either,” he says, “but I want to.”

Jared’s kiss is half off, almost missing Jensen’s mouth, and Jensen’s soft laugh when he wraps a hand around the back of Jared’s neck and pulls him down is everything Jared needs to be sure.

“Stay up here,” he suggests, finally, taking his hand back so he can put his thumbs in Jensen’s waistband and get him significantly more naked. Jensen laughs again as Jared slides down, burying a hand in his hair.

“You better not think that counted toward second base,” he says, sounding warm and almost drowsy, and Jared bites a little at his hipbone in retaliation.

“Overrated,” he murmurs, stretching out, and licks up the underside of Jensen’s cock, hard against his stomach.

Jensen doesn’t say anything, but his hand goes tighter in Jared’s hair, and the noise he makes when Jared rubs his mouth up against the head suggests that it’s possible Jared’s managed to shut him up for good.

Jared explores, kissing down the shaft, shifting enough so he can cup Jensen’s balls in his free hand, but Jensen’s breathing slides over to really damn uneven fast, and Jared’s never been all that into teasing. Jensen jerks up when Jared swallows him down, hard enough that Jared has to get a forearm across his lower belly just to hold him in place.

“Jay,” Jensen says above him, desperately, “Jared.”

Jared wraps a hand around the base and slides up and down a couple of times, until everything’s slick and easy, just the way he wants it. Jared makes a low, warm noise in the back of his throat, just enough vibration that he knows Jensen can feel it, then lets his cheeks hollow out and starts to suck. Jared’s more than willing to keep at this for a while, but a couple seconds after he runs his tongue over the ridge, Jensen closes a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m,” he says, “jesus,” and Jared pulls back and jerks him the rest of the way through it, until Jensen stops breathing and comes between them, hand still tight against Jared’s skin.

“Nice aim,” Jared says, finally, grinning, and wipes his shoulder off on the sheets.

“So swallow next time,” Jensen replies, shoving at Jared.

“I’m just not that kind of prom date,” Jared says, and Jensen laughs as Jared slides back up for a kiss, settling in on top of Jensen.

Jared’s more than happy with the idea of never moving again, especially when Jensen pulls the comforter back up and slides an arm around his shoulders.

“Coffee?” Jensen murmurs, wrapping his palm around Jared’s shoulder, and Jared shakes his head, already drowsy.

“You should sleep,” Jared says.

He takes Jensen’s soft, sleepy noise as something like agreement, and five minutes later, he’s almost under when he hears the front door open and feels Jensen tense underneath him. Jared doesn’t even have to think about it; he’s got the gun off the bedside table in under five seconds. He’s considering his next move when he recognizes Kristen’s voice, and Jensen’s face becomes an entirely different kind of horrified.

“Please tell me you weren’t stupid enough to give Kristen your keys,” Jensen says, and Jared puts the gun back onto the bedside table and leans off the edge of the bed in an attempt to find his boxers.

“She was feeding the dogs,” he says, then freezes when the bedroom door swings open.

“Rise and shine,” Jeff says. “We brought at least fifteen breakfast sandwiches, so I hope you’re –”

“Hi,” Jared says.

“I’m really regretting not knocking right now,” Jeff says.

“I can’t imagine why,” Jensen says. “Please just get out before Kristen –”

“Is Jensen being a pain in the ass?” Kristen says, from somewhere in the hallway. “Come on, Jeff, you know he won’t get up unless –”

“Hi,” Jared says.

“So we’re going to go wait in the kitchen,” Jeff says. “Now.”

“But –” Kristen says.

“Now,” Jeff says, and pulls the door firmly shut behind him.

“Well,” Jared says. “I guess that eliminates that particular awkward conversation.”

Jensen buries his face in his hands, and Jared’s on the verge of becoming seriously concerned when he realizes Jensen’s trying to muffle laughter.

“Oh my god,” he says, and then gives up and laughs so hard Jared’s afraid he’s not getting enough oxygen.

“You okay?” Jared says, when he’s pretty sure Jensen is done, and leans in to press his forehead against Jensen’s temple.

“It’s just – normal,” Jensen says. “It’s really normal.”

“Yeah,” Jared says. “Yeah, I know.”

“Thank you,” Jensen says, finally, leaning until he can press their foreheads together. “Just – thank you. For –”

Jared kisses him before he can say anything else, drawing it out until he’s at least reasonably certain Jensen’s not going to keep trying.

“Let’s go eat,” Jared says, nudging his nose against Jensen’s one last time.

“Okay,” Jensen says, then smiles. “Wouldn’t want to keep the fifteen breakfast sandwiches waiting.”

After breakfast, when Jared calls to let Katie know he won’t be coming in, she doesn’t sound particularly surprised.

“We’ve had agents posted at the front entrance to your building all night,” she says. “Jensen’s house too.”

Jared’s on the balcony, watching Jensen in the living room with Kristen and Jeff. He’s laughing, but he looks exhausted, and Jared slides the door shut with his hip, leaning back against the railing.

“You think he’s coming back,” Jared says, matter of fact, and he hears a long pause.

“Zach thinks so,” Katie says.

“I think we should do this on our terms,” Jared says, finally. “And I’m giving Jensen my M&P 9. He knows how to use it.”

“We’ve got six agents posted,” Katie says.

“If it were Lee?” Jared says, quietly.

“Yeah,” she says, finally. “Give him the gun.”

A few hours later, Jensen flips off the ESPN and rolls over. Jared’s behind him on the couch, trying to ignore the way his hand is persistently throbbing.

“Round two?” he teases. “Who knew you were so into hockey.”

“Shut up,” Jensen says, but his smile fades. “You should be at work.”

“That’s gotta be the first time anyone’s ever said that to me,” Jared jokes, but he wraps his hand around Jensen’s hip, pulling him in.

“Seriously, Jared –” Jensen starts.

“I’m good right here,” Jared says, firmly.

Jensen meets his eyes for a minute, then buries a hand in his t-shirt. “I was hoping,” he admits, looking away.

“We’ll get him,” Jared says. “He’s going to slip up, get careless. They always do.”

“That’s not good enough,” Jensen says, quietly. “I’m – I can’t stay within six feet of you forever.”

“That’s why I’ve got a plan,” Jared says, and pulls Jensen back against him, turning the game back on.

That night, Jared lets Jensen close his hands in his coat and pull him in for a fourth or fifth kiss, standing on Jensen’s front porch. The FBI agents sitting on the front steps look amused, which Jared’s starting to consider tacit approval of their current breech of partnership protocol. Jared knows how to be discrete, knows how to keep a relationship under wraps, but here and now, not kissing Jensen goodnight seems like the worst thing he can think of.

“It’s going to be fine,” he murmurs, against Jensen’s mouth, with a smile that’s more sure than he feels. “I’m just going in for a couple hours. They’ve swept the house, you’ve got six agents.”

“Heigl’s definitely a better shot than you,” Jensen says.

“You’re in good hands,” Jared says, cupping Jensen’s face for a second, pressing their foreheads together. “Get some sleep. You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Jensen says, but he leans in for a final kiss and reaches behind him to pull open the door, pulling Jared’s FBI jacket tighter around himself. “You’ve got the spare key?”

“Right here,” Jared says. “Home before midnight.”

Jared takes the front steps nice and easy, lifting a hand to the agent at the back door, and climbs into the Altima, tossing his coat in the passenger seat. The kevlar is more than warm enough. Jared’s really not planning on getting shot again – one broken rib is more than enough – but Jensen insisted, and even Jared wasn’t stupid enough to disagree.

Westwick and Lee are waiting around the block to switch cars.

“A volvo?” Jared says. “Seriously?”

“You said nondescript,” Westwick says, defensively, and Lee laughs and hands over the keys.

“Don’t try braking too quickly,” she says. “This thing wasn’t designed for any high speed chases.”

“God, I hope not,” Jared says.

Five minutes later, he backs the car into a driveway next to a minivan, kills the lights, and settles in to wait.

Over the years Jared’s investigated crime in Chicago, he’s found that a surprising number of houses and apartment buildings don’t have basements. Whether it’s a function of a high water table, cold winters, or backwards design principles, Jared doesn’t really know, but Jensen’s, custom built in the late 1990s, is technically no exception. The house Jensen’s was built over, however, had an impressive root cellar. A trap door in the corner of Jensen’s office, hidden under a layer of carpet, is its only connection to the house. The only connection out is a set of storm doors buried underneath Jensen’s neighbor’s rosebushes – Jared has the scratches to confirm that particular avenue of investigation – and so it’s not hard to know where to look. Jared watches Katie take the ten o’clock sweep of the perimeter. It only takes another two minutes for a shadow to appear around the corner of the house next door, and the porch light is just enough to illuminate the faint shudder of the bushes.

Jared watches Lehne open the storm door, feeling his pulse pick up, and then watches it swing closed again. He counts to fifteen, slowly, then picks up his radio.

“He’s in,” he says. Twenty seconds later, he watches three agents open Jensen’s neighbor’s back door, guns trained on the doors. One bends to slide a crowbar through the handles – low tech but not ineffective – and Jared opens the car door, checks his gun, and heads for the house.

Setting this particular trap is all about timing; Jared hates the idea of Lehne in Jensen’s house, their house, but the storm cellar is dark and tight, and Jared’s not getting another agent shot out of squeamishness.

The front door isn’t latched, and when Jared nudges it open, Katie’s already in the hallway, her hands braced on her gun. She looks at him for a second then motions him forward; Lee’s further down, almost into the living room, with Westwick on her other side. Over the silence, Jared can hear Jensen in the kitchen, on the phone with Jeff. It’s only the knowledge that Jensen’s faking it, surrounded by four FBI agents, that lets Jared ignore the fact that it’s Lee and not him who’s between the office and the kitchen.

Jared hears a thump, the rip of carpeting, and he braces himself further against the staircase, waiting. Fifteen seconds later, the door swings open, and Lehne takes a step forward.

“I wouldn’t,” Jared says, quietly, and the startled surprise on Lehne’s face would be comical if they were anywhere else. He turns around fast, but the two agents in Jensen’s office bathroom are already between him and the trap door.

“Put your hands above your head and drop the gun,” Agent Cortese says, her assault rifle firmly trained on Lehne’s chest. “Now.”

Jared’s not expecting the first shot, which sinks into the plaster somewhere above his shoulder, or the second, which hits him square in the chest. He hears the answering gunfire and lasts just long enough to see Lehne stagger and go down before he feels something heavy underneath his ribcage and everything goes dark.

He wakes up to Jensen crouched over him.

“Ow,” Jared says, faintly.

“Just hold still,” Jensen says, frantically. “We called 911.”

“Jensen,” Jared manages, and tries to sit up. It’s not the best idea he’s ever had, considering Jensen and four FBI agents all start yelling simultaneously and his entire chest suddenly feels like someone else tried to put another bullet into it.

He can see Lehne, lying in a pool of blood, and Jensen’s white face, hovering.

“I think you should listen to him,” Katie suggests. She’s pale, too.

“Goddamn it,” Jared says. “Why do I always get shot?” and passes out again.

When Jared wakes up for the first time in the hospital, there are three doctors bent over him, and he can’t feel the vast majority of his chest. “Just count backwards from ten,” someone says, and by the time Jared gets to eight, his entire body feels heavy.

When he wakes up again, a few hours later, the first thing he sees is Jensen, holding a set of x-rays up on a light board.

“Jensen,” he hears, and watches Jeff put a hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “He’s stable. He’s going to be fine.”

“He’s not awake,” Jensen says, his face drawn. “He was supposed to be awake two hours ago.”

Jeff laughs, softly. “He was under anesthetic for a couple hours, he’s on a morphine drip, and in case you missed it, he’s barely slept in the past week. Come get some coffee.”

“Yeah,” Jared says, drowsily. “And bring me back a cup.”

“Hi,” Jensen says, crossing the room to lean over the rail of Jared’s hospital bed, reaching out to cup his face. Jared feels Jensen rub his thumb over his cheekbone and leans into it, watching relief wash over his face.

“Hi,” Jared says. “You can’t be mad, I was wearing my vest.”

“You were going to stay in the car,” Jensen murmurs, stroking his fingers through Jared’s hair. “I’m going to be unbelievably pissed at you in the morning.”

“That’s okay,” Jared says. “What happened?”

“You suffered blunt force trauma to –” Jensen pauses, then leans in to kiss Jared’s temple. “Your fractured rib broke all the way through from the force of the gunshot, and the edges caused some internal bleeding. You were in surgery for a couple hours, but they repaired the damage.”

“That was the worst stakeout ever,” Jared says. Jensen puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him in place when he tries to sit up. “What kind of serial killer just shoots someone without – trying to get away or – some elaborate speech or something. Now we don’t even have a motive. And I didn’t even get to shoot him. I was going to shoot him. For kidnapping you.”

“And I thought the vicodin was entertaining,” Jeff says.

“Shh,” Jensen murmurs, but he’s smiling. “Go back to sleep, Jared.”

Jared’s going to protest – he’s not tired, exactly, just drowsy – but he’s out before he can really argue. When he wakes up again, it’s the middle of the night; the hallway outside his window is dimmed, and most of the lights are off in Jared’s room. Someone’s warm against his side, and when Jared rolls over, he can see Jensen, reading with the book light Jared got him the month he had to take six red eye flights.

“I thought visiting hours ended at midnight,” Jared says, still drowsy but clear headed, and Jensen sits up.

“They found me a cot,” Jensen says. “I’m not supposed to be in bed with you, but I – couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s okay,” Jared murmurs, shifting to take the pressure off his chest, and nudges his shoulder against Jensen’s. “What time is it?”

“Four?” Jensen says, glancing at his watch in the dim glow of the book light. “Four fifteen.”

Jared reaches over and turns off the book light. “Come on,” he says, and Jensen puts the book aside and slides down. Jared wraps an arm around him and listens to the soft hum of the monitors in the dark.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Jensen says.

“I know,” Jared says. “But I had to go in. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”

Jensen laughs, softly, and Jared feels it when he tangles their hands together. “I’m really in love with you,” Jensen admits, quietly.

“Me too,” Jared says, pressing his face against the curve of Jensen’s neck, eyes closing.

“It’s a little terrifying,” Jensen murmurs, softly. His fingers tighten, and Jared pulls him closer.

“I know,” Jared says. “But I want – to move in to your house and have Jeff and Kristen over a couple of times a week and to have – you know, two point five dogs and a lawn I hate mowing and just – you.”

“Two point five dogs is a scientific impossibility,” Jensen says, but Jared can feel him smiling.

“Three dogs, then,” Jared says, and Jensen laughs.

“Three dogs,” he agrees, and Jared falls asleep smiling.

By the next afternoon, though, Jared’s seriously beginning to consider breaking out of the hospital, since Jensen won’t let him move. He’s been sent to radiology three times, but Jared’s doctor won’t tell him if his release is imminent, and there’s only so much bad television Jared can take. It’s almost a welcome distraction when Special Agent In Charge Britton shows up at his hospital room.

“Dr. Ackles,” she says. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”

“I’ll go get some coffee,” Jensen says.

“So,” Agent Britton says, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. Jared winces.

“How long?” Jared says.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“How long am I going to be suspended?” Jared says. He’s startled when she laughs.

“Lehne was a trial run,” she says. “We put you in charge to see how you’d handle the reins.”

Jared winces again, and she leans back, propping her heels up on the plastic hospital chair.

“Admittedly,” she says, “there were some issues. I’m going to have to cite you for becoming romantically involved with your partner, which I assume clouded your logic about using ten agents to investigate a storage locker with very little evidence, and let’s just state for the record that we’re all well aware you’re never going to be an agent who goes through the proper channels for allocating people. But Special Agent Heigl has been leading the investigation of Lehne’s house in your absence, and her findings have been – unsettling, to say the least.”

“Jensen was the one who figured it out,” Jared says, quietly, and Agent Britton smiles.

“Jensen figured it out under your leadership,” she says. “This isn’t common knowledge, Agent Padalecki, but I’ll be taking over D.C. at the end of the month. That leaves a vacancy here. Heading this office involves a great deal of coordinating people, but you won’t be entirely out of the field, before you attempt to lodge that particular argument again.”

“I –” Jared says.

“Let me put it this way,” she says, mildly. “You broke FBI protocol countless times, endangered innocent bystanders, and put one of our most valuable consultants at risk. I can suspend you, pending a formal investigation by the D.C. office that’s unlikely to go in your favor, or you can take the promotion.”

“I need to talk with Jensen,” Jared says.

“This possibility has already been proposed to your partner,” Agent Britton says. “He was… particularly unamused to learn of your failure to accept the D.C. promotion last spring. I believe you might not want to imply that you’re considering not taking this one.”

Jared’s really not looking forward to that conversation, but the truth is that he already knows he won’t be able to continue working as Jensen’s partner. This time, though, there’s not any danger of losing Jensen, so he holds out a hand.

“Thank you,” Jared says. “I accept.”

Agent Britton shakes it with a grin. “Confirmation in writing by the end of the week,” she says. “I’d recommend Special Agent Meester for promotion into your office, and Jared?”

“Yes?” Jared says.

“I suggest you locate a very thorough secretary,” she says. “I don’t want to be handling your paper trail from Washington.”

When Jensen comes back fifteen minutes later with two cups of coffee, Jared’s still staring at the door.

“I think I just got blackmailed into a promotion,” he says, faintly.

“For the record,” Jensen says, “if you ever turn down a job because you don’t like office work again, I’m going to be incredibly angry.”

Jared blinks at him for a second, trying to put everything together, then laughs. “It wasn’t because I don’t like desk work,” he says. “It was because it was in Washington.”

“What, you had a serious problem with working with politicians?” Jensen says.

“No,” Jared says. “I had a serious problem with leaving you.”

“Oh,” Jensen says. Jared swipes a cup of coffee from the bedside table.

“So apparently the FBI is still in need of a forensic anthropology consultant, since our last one broke protocol and started dating his partner,” Jared says, finally. “Got any suggestions?”

“I guess I could think of a few names,” Jensen says, grinning, and settles in at the end of the bed.

Three weeks later, Jared takes over Connie Britton’s office and six boxes of evidence from Fredric Lehne’s apartment. Jared’s well aware that he could delegate, that Katie or Leighton could bag and process the photographs and journals, but in some ways, it’s always been Jared’s case, and he wants to see it through to the end. Most of the evidence isn’t worth looking at, just credit card statements and Christmas cards, but there are carefully highlighted articles on things that make Jared shudder, and x-rays from the low cost health clinic where Lehne picked his victims. Worst of all are the photographs; hundreds of shots of the women whose bones are in storage at the Field, waiting for the official closure of the case. Jared knows their faces better than he’s ever wanted to, and he’s going to be glad when the last of the evidence is documented and the media frenzy fades so they can bury the women and put the evidence away.

Jensen and the new ME, Misha Collins, are matching the stray x-rays and copies of medical files to the bones. The last box is almost all of the files, paperwork and medical histories, just enough to demonstrate how Lehne picked his victims, so on a Tuesday afternoon in early April, Jensen’s there when Jared pulls out the last of the files.

“Samantha Taylor,” Jensen reads, flipping through the folder. He holds an x-ray up to the light pouring in through Jared’s window. “Healed tib-fib fracture. We don’t have this body.”

There are photographs underneath the files – a smiling girl in her twenties. She’s beautiful, blond, just like all the other photographs, and Jared’s stomach sinks.

“One we didn’t find?” Jensen says; they’ve already recovered two more bodies from the notes in Lehne’s journals, and the idea of another victim is almost too much. Jared drops the photos back in the box.

“I’ll check missing persons tomorrow,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “Let’s go home.”

On Friday afternoon, Jared parks his car near the ME’s office. “Come for a ride with me,” he suggests, when he finds Jensen in his office, and Jensen looks at him for a long moment before he grabs his keys.

The drive over is quiet, easy, and when Jared parks his car at the end of a long row of houses, Jensen doesn’t say anything, just shades his eyes against the late afternoon sun and follows Jared down the block. People are coming home from work, checking their mail and bringing in groceries, and half way down the street, a pretty blonde woman is playing catch with a little girl in the driveway. Jared pulls a photograph out of his wallet and passes it over, but he knows Jensen doesn’t need to see it. Laughing on the front steps, she looks better, somehow, clearer.

“Sometimes,” Jared says, “we win some.”

When Jensen slips a hand into his, Jared smiles.

2. GLOSSARY

Summary for the Chapter:

Glossary of terms.

These are by no means all the difficult terms in this story, but hopefully it will provide a jumping off point. If you have questions about anything, feel free to ask!

Osteology is the study of bones.

Forensic anthropology is the application and use of human osteology and physical anthropology in a medicolegal setting. Forensic anthropologists analyze human remains, creating a biological profile which includes sex, age, stature, ancestry, and unique skeletal features. Forensic anthropologists determine identity, work to identify cause of death and the circumstances surrounding death, and can analyze what has happened to a body after death.

Forensic psychology is a branch of psychology associated with the legal system; forensic psychologists assess criminals and evaluate witnesses. They may also provide criminal profiles to law enforcement.

Odontology is the study of teeth.

Forensic entomology is the application of insect biology to criminal matters. Insects are often used to determine the context of a burial and the post-mortem interval (time since death).

Pathology is the study of disease through human tissues, bodily fluids, and whole bodies.

ME Medical Examiner, a forensics official responsible for investigating deaths in a certain jurisdiction, determining cause of death, and issuing death certificates. It’s important to note that while many people use the terms coroner and medical examiner synonymously, the two are different; a coroner is an elected official with no required qualifications, while a medical examiner is an appointed official who must possess an M.D. Medical examiners are often pathologists.

ICTR International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, is an international court established by the UN to investigate and prosecute the Rwandan genocide.

JPAC CILHI Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command / Central Identification Lab, Hawaii, is a forensics lab run by the US military with the express purpose of recovering and identifying the remains of US POW and MIA soldiers from past conflicts. JPAC-CILHI is one of the major employers of civilian forensic anthropologists in the US.

FORDISC a program used to identify sex and ancestry. Anthropologists input specific skeletal measurements and FORDISC provides probabilities of the remains being of a certain sex or certain ancestry.

CODIS Combined DNA Index System; essentially a DNA database.

IAFIS Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System; a fingerprint identification and criminal history system maintained by the FBI.

PMI Post-Mortem Interval, or time since death.

Presumptive ID is an ID based on evidence found at the scene; e.g. a body in an automobile accident found with a driver’s license might be presumptively IDed as the individual listed, but presumptive IDs require confirmation via things like dental records, since individuals often trade effects.

mtDNA a type of DNA analysis used to identify remains; inherited solely from the mother, mtDNA is often used to exclude possible matches in missing persons cases.

PCR is a method of replicating small amounts of DNA for analysis.

Further Reading

If you’d like more information about human osteology or forensic anthropology, these books are a good jumping off point:

The Human Bone Manual by Tim White, a guide to human osteology

Hard Evidence by Dawn Steadman, forensic anthropology case studies

The Bone Woman by Clea Koff, a forensic anthropologist’s take on human rights investigations with ICTR and other UN tribunals

Death’s Acre by Bill Bass, a book about “the body farm” at UT Knoxville

Stiff by Mary Roach, which, while not strictly about forensic anthropology, provides an interesting perspective on death and dying

Working Stiff by Judy Melinek, an excellent book about medical examiners and forensic pathology (with some forensic anthro thrown in!)

Authors I patently do not recommend:

1. Kathy Reichs - SO MUCH BAD SCIENCE. Which is minorly baffling, since the woman is insanely qualified as a forensic anthropologist, and yet. SO MUCH BAD SCIENCE.

2. Patricia Cornwell - SO MUCH REALLY BAD SCIENCE.

Table of Contents

Title Page

1. Chapter 1

2. GLOSSARY