A/N: Yes, I live. Just had a load of exams, but now I am FREE! LIKE A BIRD. A sort of frightened bird, to quote Blades.

Anyhow, because I am a masochist who enjoys setting ridiculous targets for myself, I have this genius new story. It will be good.

It will also be full of references and bad jokes and ship teasing, because that is literally my default setting. Enjoy! (and please, don't rib me about Echo and Cyberdani and all the other ones. I'm getting to them. I promise. Seriously.)

1: Pilot

KAON STREET, FAIRHAVEN CITY, MAINE

19:31, 15/08/2006

On the corner of the street was a police car.

It was a particularly nice police car: a Dodge Challenger with shining black and white paint, a glossy black polished bullbar, and spotless, almost sparkling perspex light bars. Someone had dubbed it "Chase" according to the flowing white script which ran under the passenger window.

Inside the police car were two men. Both of these men were policemen; and, as such, wore matching blue uniforms.

The one on the left, in the driver's seat, was the taller of the two. His perfectly combed hair was brown, and it had two red streaks dyed into it where it stuck up at the front. His uniform was well-ironed and he wore it as if he were on a poster – long sleeves, boots shined, epaulette sliders absolutely equidistant. His equipment (baton, handcuffs, etc) was arranged along his belt in clear sight. His face – and looking at it, you could tell he was European – was clean-shaven. His blue eyes scanned the street, and his fingers drummed on the steering wheel in a systematic one-two rhythm. Printed along a small rectangular patch on his chest were the words DS ROWLEY.

The one on the right, however, was both shorter and rather differently dressed. His hair was black, and stuck up haphazardly about his head. His yellowy eyes flashed behind reddish-rimmed glasses which sat slightly crookedly on his face. His uniform was horribly creased and the epaulette slider on his right shoulder was upside-down. There were a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses clipped in his collar. His handcuffs were in his breast pocket and his baton might have been in the back somewhere. He had his feet up on the dashboard and his boots were worn, the polish cracked and faded. Along this man's name-patch was written DC KANE.

Kane groaned with repressed boredom. "Paul?" he asked in the general direction of his two-years-his-senior partner.

Rowley, whose first name was indeed Paul – and yes, he had heard all the jokes about his initials being P. Rowley – sighed. "Barry." he answered the most trying 28-year-old in existence.

"I'm just going to say now, I'm bored to shit." Barry Kane said in his Boston accent.

"I'd enjoy the quiet if I were you." Paul replied. "It's not usually this peaceful."

Barry snorted. "Usually we'd've gotten a brick thrown at us by a teenage freedom-fighter because we're callous murderers of racial minorities."

Paul cracked a quarter-smile. "Yeah, I didn't quite get that. You're at least a little bit Asian."

"I'm half-Chinese. More than a little bit Asian."

"Which of your mothers is Chinese again?"

"The Chinese one."

"Thanks. That's really descriptive."

"I live to serve."

The twosome's banter was interrupted by the police radio.

"Car 21, Car 21, this is Dispatch, over." the woman manning Dispatch said.

Barry snatched up the radio. "Roger, Dispatch. Car 21, keepin' it real, over."

Dispatch sighed audibly. "Oh God, it's you." She paused, and the sound of a computer mouse clicking came over the radio. "Car 21, we've got a report of a pair of high-speed vehicles running down Iacon Road. Say status, over?"

"Still single, Sam. Haven't met the right girl, I guess. Over." Barry replied.

Dispatch – Sam – exhaled. "I swear to God, Barry..." she muttered, then spoke up. "Car 21, you're to investigate the possible 11-25 and report back, got it? Over."

Paul quickly de-radioed Barry and spoke himself. "Roger, Dispatch. We're on it. Car 21 out." He sat the radio back into its holster on the dashboard and started the engine on the Dodge. They'd barely pulled away from the kerb and driven up to the t-junction at the end of Kaon Street when two sports cars – one red, one yellow – shot past them and down the adjacent road.

Paul sighed and flicked the sirens on, accelerating and turning down Iacon Road. Barry picked up the radio again. "Hey, Dispatch. Got your 11-25 right here. Two vehicles, over."

"Okay, Kane. Description?" Dispatch replied.

"First vehicle's a Chevy. One of those new Corvettes, a whatsitcalled, a Stingray. It's red, with these silver bits. Plate is Sierra-One-Delta-Three-Five-Whiskey-India-Papa-Echo." Barry rattled off. "Got that, over?"

"Roger. Second vehicle? Over."

Barry squinted and leaned down in his chair. The two cars turned a sharp left and Paul span the wheel and pulled the handbrake to slide around the corner without losing too much speed. Barry thumped against the side of his seat. "Damn. These guys are serious drivers. I think Paul's actually trying." he told the radio.

Dispatch laughed quietly, so that Barry wouldn't hear her. "Okay. Description on the second vehicle, Kane?"

"Gottit, Sam. Uh, it's a Lamborghini...looks like a Diablo, I guess. Yellow. Bright yellow. God, that's hideous. Plate's Sierra-Uncle-November-Five-Tango-Romeo-Three-Four-Kilo-Romeo." Barry replied, squinting to catch the numberplates. "We know these guys? 'Cause it feels like we know these guys, over."

Dispatch hummed. "Hang on, running the plates now. One second. Over."

"Take your time, Sam, take your time. Not like we're in a high-speed car chase down Iacon Road towards the hospital or anything. Over."

"Yeah, yeah. I've got your plates, and we do know these guys. Sam and Sean Dalton; street names are 'Sideswipe' and 'Sunstreaker'. Over."

Barry turned to Paul, who was rather concentrating on dodging traffic while maintaining pursuit. "Hey, isn't that doctor girl you're so hung up on called Dalton?"

"If we crash because of you, I will literally kill you, Barry." Paul hissed, manoeuvring the car around a Toyota Prius containing what looked like an entire orphanage. "Dispatch, are we clear for a Code Three, over?" he asked the radio.

Dispatch was silent for a second as she checked with the Duty Sergeant. "Roger that, Duty is authorising a PIT, Rowley. But give them a chance to pull over first, over."

Paul shifted up and the Dodge roared forward until it was just behind the Corvette. Barry switched the radio to the PA system and cleared his throat before pressing the button.

"Speeding vehicles ahead of us, you have one chance to pull over before we seriously dent your pretty cars. This is that one chance. Pull over to the side of the road."

The yellow car flashed its tail-lights and pulled a jay-turn, spinning in the opposite direction.

Paul looked slightly annoyed. "Dispatch, we're not going to get the yellow one. Can we get an APB out on him, over?"

"Roger, Paul. You just get the other one, over."

Barry pressed the button on the PA again.

"I'll go easy on you, red car – if you pull over now, then we won't PIT your ass."

The red car slowed down slightly, and someone's hand appeared from the driver's side window. The hand promptly flipped the pursuing police car the bird, and then retracted back inside the Corvette, the car accelerating again.

Paul sighed. "They never just pull over, do they?"

Barry turned off the PA. "PIT 'em." he said by way of reply, pulling a cassette tape out of the glovebox and slotting it into the car's radio. "Music!" he cried, slapping PLAY on the radio.

Boston's More Than A Feeling exploded inside the car and Paul allowed himself a half-smile, easing the accelerator down and moving to just behind the red Corvette's left rear wheelarch.

"Preparing to PIT, over." he said into the radio.

"I got that when Barry started playing Boston; thanks anyway, Paul." Dispatch replied. "Car 22 is on the way to deal with the other one. Go get him, over."

Paul turned the wheel sharply to the right and the bullbar hit the rear of the Corvette, causing a rapid loss of control on the part of the driver, who to his credit slammed on the brakes and turned into the skid, but not before the red Corvette had skidded to a halt against a metal railing.

The police car drew up along side and Barry got out. He leant on the driver's door of the Corvette and mimed winding the window down. The driver sullenly complied.

Barry flashed his customary 'you-are-so-finished-you-don't-even-know-it' grin. "Tell me, mate...have you ever had a ride in a police car before?"

SKYWARP'S BAR, FAIRHAVEN CITY, MAINE
23:54, 15/08/2006

Skywarp's Bar was, as the name suggested, a bar. It was a nondescript black-painted building with a large, purple neon fighter jet sign over the door with the name of the bar written inside it.

This was one of its most attractive features for most of its patrons. That and the purple neon mixed surprisingly well with the blacklights.

Some of its patrons included Detective Sergeant Paul Rowley and Detective Constable Barry Kane, who were currently sat at the bar. Barry was talking with the owner of Skywarp's Bar; the name of which was Sky Watson, an ex-USAF fighter jockey who decided that the best thing to do after leaving the Air Force was to open a bar in Maine, despite coming from Nevada.

Paul was doing "his thing", as it was called – i.e. he was drinking all by himself and making everyone either jealous that he was talking to the Irish girl tending bar (if they were female) or jealous that their dates were jealous that he was talking to the Irish girl tending bar (if they were male) or debating amongst themselves whether he was gay or not (if they were the table of gay guys in the corner who Sky let drink for free because "he needed a table of gay guys anyway").

The bell (well, it was really just one of those sleigh-bell bracelets which Sky may or may not have stolen from a local elementary school) on the door tinkled and a woman walked in, temporarily drowning out Madonna's Holiday (what, Sky was just the owner, he didn't pick the music) with the sound of traffic.

Paul quickly span his head and gave the woman a cursory glance before turning around sharply and looking intently into his drink. Someone kicked the jukebox and it suddenly broke into Paul Carrack's When You Walk In The Room.

She was pretty tall – near enough six foot exactly – and right now it could be said that she didn't exactly look her best. She was wearing a nurse's uniform under a big white coat and a long red scarf. She was either really, really bad at putting eyeshadow on, or she was completely exhausted, with big rings around her green eyes which were bloodshot from overuse. Her hair was messy, brown with red and white streaks shot through it. It also looked like she had a lot of reminder-type notes written up her arm in red biro. Either that or she was a very good friend of Dolores Umbridge.

She made a beeline for the bar and upon reaching it and nearly collapsing on it, the Irish girl at the bar excused herself from the conversation with Paul and went over.

"Hullawrer, Eilidh. Usual?" she asked, wiping off the bar in front of the woman.

Eilidh dragged a hand down her face and blinked. "Double shot of bourbon, Katie, please. Just got out of a triple shift at the hospital and then my idiot brothers had to get themselves arrested, and I had to go bail them out. Again."

Katie rolled her eyes. "What was it this time?"

"Speeding, then dangerous driving and resisting arrest. The girl at the station – I think her name-tag said DC Riley – said they'd have gotten off with a ticket if they'd've just pulled over, but no, they had to be Sam and Sean and start a car chase." Eilidh replied.

Katie frowned and cocked her head, putting a glass on the bar and half-filling it with coffee. "God, are they ok? I heard the police car put someone in the wall."

"Sean's fine – he didn't want to 'hurt his car', the moron – and Sam's only got a couple bruises. Apparently the guy in the police car was 'going easy' on him."

Katie raised an eyebrow, pouring quite a lot of bourbon into the glass, then putting the bottle back under the bar and pulling what was apparently an aerosol can of whipped cream from a drawer. "What do you suppose that means?" she asked the air pointedly, spraying some of the whipped cream into the glass and sliding it to Eilidh.

Paul coughed slightly. "Ah, it means I just dented his car instead off writing it off."

Eilidh looked mortified. "Oh god, I'm sorry! Here I am talking about all this and I guess you're here to get away from the shop talk. Sorry."

Paul shook his head. "It's fine. I'm a bit more embarrassed that I put your brother in the wall."

In the background, Barry passed Sky a five-dollar note.

"Oh, no, it's completely fine, I mean, you're just doing your job." Eilidh rushed, waving a hand dismissively. "I mean, you wouldn't hold it against me if I sewed up a bullet hole or something."

Barry passed Sky another five-dollar note.

Paul half-smiled. "No, I suppose I wouldn't. Hi, uh, I'm Paul. DS Rowley. You're Eilidh, right? I mean, I've seen you around the station sometimes. Because, no offence, but..."

"...Sam and Sean are in and out of there like a cuckoo clock." Eilidh finished. "Nice to meet you, uh, in person. I mean, instead of from my brothers who apparently really don't like you."

Katie smirked and left the two, moving over to where Sky was receiving yet more money from Barry. She leant on the bar and whispered to the two of them. "My God, but they are adorable."

"It's less adorable when you have to watch Paul hide behind his desk and stalk her whenever she comes in to bail Sideswipe and Sunstreaker out." Barry huffed.

"He does that?" Sky asked. "No, right, we're talking about Our Paul Rowley, right?"

Barry nodded solemnly. "It's honestly sad to watch." he said, conveniently forgetting every single one of his own attempts to seduce Sam Riley from Dispatch.

Katie squinted. "Is he flirting? I can't tell."

Barry nodded. "This is Paul at 100% flirt mode. Unfortunately, it's identical to him normally, except he undoes the top button on his shirt."

"Damn." Sky whistled. "That is sad." He threw a quarter at the jukebox, making it skip and suddenly switch to playing Heather Down The Moor by Ruth Notman, because for some reason that was on the jukebox. (He blamed Katie.)

"Long day?" Paul asked, gesturing to the very empty glass in Eilidh's hand. "If you're drinking something like that, it can't have been an easy day."

Eilidh laughed humourlessly. "You have no idea."

Paul levelled his eyes. "Try me. I'm stuck in a car with Barry for half the day and the other half I'm watching him embarrass himself trying to hit on the girl from Dispatch."

Eilidh giggled a little bit. "Okay. So, I got up at six, and first off I had a double shift and, because the anaesthetist took the day off to go wherever with her boyfriend, I was stuck in the anaesthesia room for two whole hours while they were operating. Stupid Minerva and her not being forever alone like me."

Across the room, Barry could practically hear "she's single" write itself in Paul's brain.

Eilidh went on. "Anyway, after that there was this whole mess with a toddler whose mother thought he might have swallowed something so we had to get him x-rayed, then it turned out he hadn't swallowed anything at all so that was a complete waste of time. About two hours, to be exact. Then I was in the maternity ward for four hours, which was noisy and horrific. Didn't even get to enjoy break because Ian Vernon, you know, the fireman, came in with a bunch of second-degree burns which I had to treat because we went to college together and he's not supposed to be away from the station. Then it was three hours in the geriatric ward, which is just depressing, and then three hours in paediatric ward, which wasn't bad, and then another three in A&E, and I was finally free. Until I got a call from Sam asking me to come over and bail him and Sunny out, and by the time I got finished with the two copies of release forms it was half-eleven and I needed a drink."

"Sorry about that." Paul apologised.

"It's okay, I'm just tired and pissy. Not your fault." Eilidh sighed. "So how was your day?"

Paul laughed. "Nowhere near as bad as yours, I'm afraid. Went into the station at eight, paperwork until lunch at noon, then I dragged Barry down from flirting with Dispatch to the car, drove the beat until about half-seven, then I got into a car chase with your brothers and put one of them into the wall. Took Sam back to the station, locked him in his special cell, filled out the forms, and then had to endure Barry attempting to seduce Dispatch again."

Eilidh snorted. "Sam has a special cell?"

Paul shrugged. "I sort of make a habit of giving him the same one every time he comes in."

Eilidh laughed aloud. "God, I did wonder why he hates you so much."

"It could be the consistent damage I do to his car."

Eilidh checked her watch, which was still hanging upside-down in her top pocket. "That could be it. Well, nice talking with you, DS Rowley." she smiled, then grimaced. "I've got to actually sleep sometime soon or I'll never be able to get up tomorrow. I'll see you later. Hopefully."

Paul sat and watched her leave before Barry came over and slapped him about the head. "You're an idiot." Barry told his partner.

"In what way am I an idiot, Barry?" Paul returned, still looking at the door.

Barry stepped back, aghast, and gestured multiple times towards Paul, and then the door, and back again, before realising that his partner completely didn't get it and throwing his hands up in defeat. "Forget it. We'll pick this up tomorrow morning. Let us walk back to the Police Cave."

The so-called Police Cave was Barry and Paul's shared apartment. They shared it mainly because Paul was pretty much incapable of actually doing anything besides work without help; and Barry couldn't afford anywhere else on a police officer's salary.

"Cave" was a fairly accurate description. The Police Cave consisted of one single bed, one very old sofa, one armchair made out of Stan Bush records, a very, very small TV, and Paul's laptop from when he was in college. However, it was home.

So Barry and Paul went home.