Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and make no profit from this story.

A/N: Okay, not dead. Nearly, but not quite. I'm really, really, sorry I've been gone so long. But I've been very ill. As I've mentioned before, I have lupus and epilepsy, so....

Anyway, I've been writing lately. This is a companion piece for TFC. It's a look into JJ's history and how he met Dee. I'm working on the next chapter for TFC and I promise it will be finished.

THANK YOU, sooooo much for the support and loyalty with the story. This is written a little differently, so feedback would be mucho appreciated-o. It helps a lot, having not written in so long.

Thanks for reading,

Reika.

Or So The Saying Goes

When you were a child – a slender, wide-eyed, eager child – this was not the career path you envisioned. Now you are a man – a slender, wide-eyed, eager man – standing in a line and half-listening to an officer telling you what to expect for the remainder of your training.

~…Reach For The Stars, they say…~

You had wanted to be an astronaut (as all boys do), or a designer (as some boys do). That should have been their first clue, really. You recall well the lines of your mother's dresses, all silken designs and sweeping majesty; the seemingly never ending flow of fabric, spilling over her and pooling on the floor. Situated at her feet, it was so easy to reach out and touch the fabric, letting your little fingers run over the hem. Even as a child, your hands had never been chubby; but they were (and still are) graceful and thin. You can remember thinking of how beautiful she looked in her dresses; and the thought that another dress just like hers might exist somewhere, on someone else's mother, simply never occurred to you. Astrid means 'star', after all, and it suited her quite well. Her smile – presently a memory – came easily then, when she would sweep you up off the floor, laughing. She'd been told on more than one occasion how very much you looked like her. Every compliment to your fair complexion, silvered hair, and cobalt eyes would invite her smile, as though they had been meant for her directly. She seemed to enjoy having a doll, porcelain, like living china, to dress and pet and reflect her own brilliance. You wanted to be a part of that radiance, and liked the idea of making dresses that could make people beautiful. You've never thought of her as anything but breathtaking…even when she refused to look at you. They had looked so surprised, as though they had never suspected. Maybe they hadn't, you realize, but you can't imagine what else a mother and father might expect from such a pretty son with his sights on his mother's dresses and his head in the clouds.

~…All That Glitters Is Not Gold, they say…~

As it is, you aren't sure what exactly landed you here, at the New York City Police Academy. Somewhere after finishing a pre-law degree and being told you were not welcome in the only home you'd ever known (no matter how pretty you are), it had seemed a good idea. You almost wish that this had been a lifelong dream for you, as it obviously is for a number of your fellow cadets. The idea seems so much nobler that way – even if it is a noble profession in the first place.

~…It Is Better To Give Than To Receive, they say…~

As a young man, all childish notions of dresses and stars now too small to fit, you'd had only two options, really. You would follow your father's footsteps straight into law school, graduate at the top of your class, and continue his successful practice – or – you would leave all of that work to your younger brother and follow in your mother's tradition instead – living a life of old money and being known for simply being. You had chosen the first, simply too busy for a life of leisure. Your father's feet have always been much bigger than yours, but you did your best to fill his shoes, always wearing an extra pair of socks and lacing them tighter than you could stand.

~…The Clothes Make The Man, they say…~

You'd scraped and worked and sucked your way through pre-law, graduating at the top of your class. Nevermind that your head spent almost as much time buried between your professor's thighs as in the pages of a book. They were So. Proud. Of. You. And when you returned home, your mother squealed and spun and shined; and your father pat you on the back, saying he had never expected anything less. After four years of hard work and homesickness, their faces were so welcome, and their love was so warm, it was almost easy to ignore the wineglass that your mother wears like her jewelry, or your father's naked ring-finger.

~…Home Is Where The Heart Is, they say…~

You'd been so very far away that the shouting faded into an echo of whispers; and whatever faults they had, you'd missed them terribly. You had dark secrets of your own, after all…and what was one more in a house built on intrigue and things that weren't said? Your mother knew you as well as anyone could, and you were still your father's namesake. The dichotomy was killing you, and you just knew that they loved you unconditionally. It was your mother's hands that had molded you, after all. You would always be her Pretty. Little. Boy.

~…Always Be Yourself, they say…~

You hadn't thought it would come as a surprise, really; you were fifteen the last time you brought a girl home…and you didn't think it was that hard to miss, in any case. There would be dramatics, of that you were certain, but you kept those thin, graceful hands wrapped unwaveringly around your faith in them. Their shock and revulsion completely and utterly blindsided you. There were moments, while your father spit words at you like venom, that your mother's hand twitched, and she could not meet your eyes. Any time she opened her lips to speak, the boom and bass of your father would effectively still her before even a syllable could make it out of her flawlessly lined and lipsticked mouth. You could not grasp how your greatest protector could abandon you to the wolves. You wonder which one of you has the most trouble sleeping at night.

~…You Always Hurt The Ones You Love, they say…~

And so here you are – a slender, wide-eyed, eager man, standing in a line among the smoldering rubble of the only life you've ever known, and half-listening to an officer telling you what to expect for the remainder of your training.

Like any training program, the police academy has moments of great fun (when you could wrestle and run and shoot and forget and just be), and moments of extreme frustration. Still, you will see this to its end. Falling directly from your doorstep and into the seventh circle of hell, you've fought tooth and nail (and skin and mouth and mind) to be here – you will see it through. Sadness continually wars with anger. Your sorrow sends you into the black hole in your chest, wailing and never, ever wanting to return. But your rage…your rage sends you into the sun, screaming and never, ever willing to say die. Your rainforest of tears has become a desert, and you are too tired to keep watching for them to come and take you back; it is time to decide which will be your fuel.

~…The Best Defense Is A Good Offense, they say…~

There are certainly enough aesthetic distractions, you remind yourself as your eyes scan the muscled, able scenery surrounding you. You are not the smallest man here, but you are far from the largest. This does not bother you, as you are suited for your form; and it has, thus far, served you well. You're aware of the (un)likelihood of crossing paths with a compatible person of your tastes, but this does not stop your wheels from spinning. You are smart ("…too smart for his own good, god damnit Astrid, you've spoiled him…"), and you know how to keep yourself out of trouble. But if it can be done, you will do it.

~…Where There's A Will, There's A Way, they say…~

The process begins immediately, almost like second nature, of cataloguing who to avoid and who to keep your eye on. The instructor who is currently speaking is quite nice, but too risky. There's a handsome, broad-shouldered one a few feet to your left – but he's got a hard, unfriendly look in his eyes that warns you to stay away. But the blond beside him – who is equally handsome, if not exactly your type – has been watching you with a look that is decidedly not unfriendly. You'll have to look into that one. However…there is another. Somewhere off to your right, and damnably out of your line of vision, is that tall and sculpted one; the exotic one – not too big, and not too small – with tanned skin and bottomless green eyes that speak volumes of untold stories. You think that he might be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, and vow to make a point of knowing what you need to get what you want.

~…Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder, they say…~

Sitting still and watching has never been an easy or favorable pastime for you. You are a doer, and all of this inaction is becoming increasingly frustrating and difficult. Your hands twitch from disuse and seem to stay numb, you have to sit on them so often. Your imagination has begun to run rampant. Still, you command yourself to stay quiet and observe, for now. You know well the consequences of acting on impulse.

~…Look Before You Leap, they say…~

There are things you think you know – like the look in Émile Marcus' eyes, as his blond head follows your every movement. You must admit that he is appealing, with his royal blue eyes – darker than yours – and his positively delicious French accent. It is faint, but noticeable. You think his parents must have immigrated. And now he's becoming a New York Police Officer – living the American Dream – and he looks every bit the part. He is not, however, the prize that you have set your sights on. Dee Laytner…with his firm jaw and weathered features…is the first thought on your mind when you wake in the mornings. You want him so bad you can taste it, and this fear of rejection that is paralyzing you is completely new. But…you aren't quite sure what to make of him. You'd thought you were home free a few days ago, catching his eyes sweeping over you for longer than was absolutely necessary. It was not a look that passes between men sizing each other up. You were content to let him look, and stood like a statue, existing, in that moment, only for his viewing pleasure. Mere hours later, your thoughts returned to confusion when he just as blatantly turned that coveted gaze towards more than one pair of bountiful breasts. You aren't sure whether you are baffled by his brazen and bold leering, or envious. Looking down at your own flat chest, you feel outdone by the competition, something you've never taken gracefully. You can't compete with soft curves and smooth legs, and wouldn't want to. Despite your sexual preferences, you quite enjoy being a man. At a loss, your last vestiges of hope lie with the possibility that Dee might like both women and men.

His attention to cleavage is not your only obstacle. Dee Laytner possesses a focus and resolve that has made getting his attention during training nearly impossible. It has become clear to you that he is here for a reason, and that there is more driving him than family tradition, or obligation. You refuse to give up, and find that the challenge only makes you want him more. You want, desperately, to know what lies behind that determined gaze; what he sees when he's looking through everything in front of him. You want to know what wrinkles his brow so, and to smooth the worry away with your fingers and mouth and words. But…sometimes the frustration is simply too much to bear. You've never gone this long without companionship, no matter how short-lived, since your first encounter at fourteen. And, amusing though it was at first, your persistent erection has become a bit of a bane. The blue eyes locked onto yours are speaking an invitation that you must admit you are inclined to accept. There is really no harm to it; and the distraction might help you, after all. It would give you an outlet for all of this tension and enable you to think more clearly without the constant roar of your libido, drowning out everything else. Yes…you will accept…and you have a feeling that Mr. Marcus has a thing or two to teach you.

~…All Work And No Play Makes JJ A Dull Boy, they say…~

Although you are certain that you have not misread the looks in your direction, you find yourself hesitant, constantly reminded of where you are. There is enough testosterone here to make your eyes water, and you can just imagine the consequences if you are wrong. As a general rule, your 'gaydar' is on target, but nothing is infallible. In addition, your nearly broken jaw during your sophomore year of college taught you that just because you know he's gay, doesn't mean that he knows it – yet. A year later, that football player apologized to you, sobbing into your neck and sweeping his hands underneath your shirt, the cold metal of the lockers pressed hard against your spine. He left ten finger-shaped bruises spelling "I'm sorry" across your hips, while you clawed "I told you so" into the warm flesh of his back – drawing blood and scraping apologies and skin up underneath your fingernails. He had been fierce and fast and fun – but that hadn't changed the newly permanent 'click' of your jaw when you opened wide (as you so love to do) – had it?

~ …They Always Shoot The Messenger, they say…~

When you were six years old, you wanted a dress of your own. It never passed through your mind that Boys. Do. Not. Wear. Dresses. back then. You voiced your wish, somewhere between the asparagus and the red-skinned new potatoes, and the crystal-clear stars in the middle of your mother's face became cloudy, like a storm that gives no warning. Something that looked like rage (and felt like piercing, cold wind) passed from your father toward her and you quite suddenly felt the urge to take shelter underneath the table. Surely his ire would not burn through solid oak. But before you could set down your fork or tie your napkin in a flag of surrender, the squall passed, and he gifted you with a laugh. "Dresses…Ha! Ha-ha! You need a hobby, my boy." Your mother's eyes again cleared so that you could see all of your days in them, but her knuckles remained stiff and white around her knife and this did not elude you.

~…Actions Speak Louder Than Words, they say…~

That year, you grinned and clapped when you opened your brand-new indoor ball and bat – complete with a room re-done to suit them – and later crawled into your mother's closet to splutter and cry and sleep amongst her seams and ribbons. She found you there, as you knew she would, and you tried to look surprised when she gave you a long box labeled 'Macy's'. She smiled the smile that was solely hers to give and only yours to receive, before placing a finger atop her lips. "It's our little secret", she said. You actually put it on just once; it fit you fine with your delicate body. But you realized then that you hadn't ever wanted one to wear, but simply to have. It meant beauty and grace and perfection. You wanted those things, though you had no name for them, then. You still have that dress.

~…When The Cat's Away, The Mice Will Play, they say…~

When you were seven years old you wanted a sister. Bored with all your lifeless dolls (and having never once touched that horrid ball or bat), you wanted a pretty little girl of your own. This time, when you asked for what you wanted, your parents smiled first at each other and then at you, saying simply "We'll see." If you hadn't been such a spoiled child, the look between them (or to you) might have been gift enough…it would be enough now. You hadn't really meant to cry so hard you'd pass out when David was born, but he wasn't what you wanted. Your father doted on him, with his spitting image ebony hair and chocolate eyes, but you simply could not stand for it. David was bulky and a boy…and he just looked stupid in bows. He would not listen to you; he was no fun at all. Your mother must have thought so too, you imagined, because Rachel was born just two days before your ninth birthday. She was perfect, as you knew she would be; and by the time you were ten years old, she had become your favorite toy. Ribbons looked magnificent in her moon-silver hair and brought out the piercing blue of her eyes. As it turns out, you understood your mother better at nine years old than you ever would again.

~…Better Late Than Never, they say…~

And so, after a lifetime of spoiling, you are accustomed to getting what you want when you put your mind to it (you hadn't really wanted their approval, no…not at all…) – and wanting what you want and having what you have is making you insane. Still, you remain optimistic and try to keep your head out of the clouds and in the game, despite your frequent and intense desire to pout.

Opportunity knocks in the form of another too-long (not-long-enough) glance; and by the time that green snatches itself away, aware of the blue staring back, your mind is already spinning with ideas.

~…Strike While The Iron Is Hot, they say…~

After a particularly difficult exercise (for most of the class), you've decided to make a move. You've been watching Dee – who is most deliberately not watching you – help out those around him who are having trouble with their firearms. The first thing to strike you is sheer, ugly, blinding jealousy. His hands are too close to them; he is smiling and laughing. It matters little that your fellow trainees no doubt want nothing from Dee beyond his friendship and camaraderie. However, after a few moments of increased blood-pressure, you can't help but notice a tingle as your scowl softens. Dee seems so at ease assisting his neighbors, so natural. He'd done only moderately well himself, and is in no way flaunting or arrogant in his motivation. Altruism looks good on him; and you find yourself wondering – not for the first time – how this man has managed to single-handedly churn all your insides so violently that you smile without prompt and question your own magnanimity.

As one foot moves slowly in front of the other, you find yourself stuck – to the floor, to your fears, and to the unspeakable comfort of faith over the agony of rejection. You curse yourself internally and realize that if you do not do something soon, you are going to be both embarrassed by your statue-like state and disgracefully frustrated that an opportunity has passed you by. It is with these thoughts running like a mantra in your head that you force your legs, weak from the beam of a smile, to move.

Dee seems genuinely happy to help those around him and you can't imagine he'll turn you down if he thinks you need the encouragement.

You don't, of course.

You've taken to the guns considerably well; you can work your weapon over like it's leaving its wife for you and taking you on a tour of Europe. You suppose it must be all the repressed tension. Even though you'd been shooting most of your life, it was always more to please your father, and you rarely took much enjoyment from it. You can only hope he has not noticed your proficiency – or better yet – that he does not care. He was looking at you, after all. It is a huge and risky step you're taking, proceeding with all of this doubt eating away at the lining of your stomach, but you are surprising yourself a lot lately and can't sincerely protest the changes. This, like everything else surrounding Dee Laytner, bewilders and fascinates you.

~…Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained, they say…~

To your displeasure, Dee treats you as he treats everyone else. It frustrates you to your core, the ire warring with the disapointment that makes you want to die. Marcus comes up behind you, placing a hand on your shoulder and whispering dirty promises in your ear. There's nothing for it. You nod in agreement to meeting him later.

~...A Bird In The Hand Is Worth 2 In The Bush, they say...~

But no matter what, you are certain of one thing – you will never forget Dee Laytner, with his manner that, in spite of yourself, makes you want to be a better person.

Fin.

C'mon, hit the button. You know you wanna!