A/N : All the proper disclaimers as to ownership, since I own... none of these characters, and what a sad thing. Thank you for reading :D Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.

Bayswater Diner doesn't look like the sort of establishment that would offer the best cup of coffee in town. It can liberally be called both clean and sanitary. Booths are long and have benches with cracked veins along the cushions. Half-empty salt and pepper shakers, napkin dispensers and assorted packets of sugar dot the end of each table. The walls are bare and green except for the occasional framed photograph. The counter that runs along the length of the room has a thin layer of moisture from when the waitress ran a wet cloth over it. She is currently leaning against the cash register with a paperback romance novel. The clock above her marks the time with a short hour hand, a longer minute hand, and a twitchy second hand. The time really doesn't matter, but from the darkness that stops short of the diner's windows, one could assume that it's well into the night. The low whine of a blues song echoes.

The waitress sighs as she turns a page. There's little for her to do. She only has one customer, and he holds down a booth with a bottle of scotch three quarters full, a little glass and a plate of dry biscuits. He sits with his back to the waitress and one of his hands curled around the glass as he looks down at it numbingly. By his face and the light sprinkles of gray in his dark brown hair, one could judge him (and accurately so) to be in his mid-forties. But the lines on his face are from more than just age. His eyes, normally a startling splash of clear blue, are apathetic and dull. The rest of the man's appearance is similarly disheveled, from his trousers to his tussled shirt and jacket. A polished wooden cane leans against the bench; his, presumably, but he doesn't look old enough to be using it.

Every once in a while, the man glances at the door. It's five booths away from him. He shrugs mentally and looks back down at his glass. But he continues to furtively check the door. When the door does open, he keeps his gaze down. He is suddenly filled with purpose as he waits. A younger man closes the door behind him. The waitress spares him a glance before returning to her book. She's clearly unconcerned, and even if he wasn't a frequent customer, he should have enough common sense to know he could sit anywhere.

This second man gives the waitress an awkward sort of smile. He's quite tall; taller than the first man, at any rate, besides being physically stronger, stockier, and at least fifteen years younger. He looks around briefly and brushes the hair from his green-brown eyes.

"Old case," the first man says loudly. He doesn't bother directly addressing the second man, but the latter is unsurprised and makes his way to the booth. His face betrays his amusement and familiarity with the scenario. He was never a great mind. More like a convenient sounding board.

"You know how it is," the older man continues. "Apparently I'm supposed to use my singularly brilliant mind to solve every single case while the bureaucrats sit around congratulating themselves on a job well done. Justice has prevailed, they say. What a dark and hopeless world we would be in without them."

"There's justice for you," the younger man says when the former takes a breath. He remains standing and takes in the setting. "The place hasn't changed a bit. Why you insist on meeting here is beyond my comprehension."

"Your comprehension has always been lacking. You young kids don't appreciate anything these days," the first remarks. He looks up at the younger bloke for the first time. There's a hint of color in his eyes, but his facial expression holds a scowl that makes it difficult for the untrained observer to ascertain if he's being sarcastic or grumpy. "This place has been around since before you learned how to beat that thick head of yours into a wall. It should be venerated. All you lot want to do is throw out the old and bring in the new. You'll be wanting whipped cream and chocolate shavings on your coffee next."

The younger man smiles and slides into the vacant seat. His appearance isn't too unlike the other man's. He wears weathered jeans and a white shirt underneath a dull brown button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled down a few inches. But he looks and is friendlier and warmer. He regards the older man with the same smile, but within seconds his smile falters and becomes serious. "This is the third time this month," he reminds the older man gently.

The first man looks down at his glass. "Old case," he repeats easily. "Male subject. Lives alone, but has a long-term girlfriend. Late twenties, early thirties."

The second man shakes his head but doesn't take his eyes off of the other man. "Moody," he says with a hint of humor. "We've been over this."

Moody doesn't look up, but he shrugs and seems to take the point. "All right. Next case. Little girl, missing four months-"

The other man rolls his eyes in amusement. Moody's a hard train to force off the track. "Moody," he repeats. He brushes the brown hair from his eyes again and folds his hands on the table. "I can't believe you turned me into a little girl."

"I was trying to make you less intimidating while keeping your maturity intact," says Moody with a knowing look. "I thought it was quite fitting, personally."

"I'm disturbed you see me that way."

"Dearborn, there are worse things I could do to you. I don't know why you're complaining. If I'd really been trying, you'd be a hooker and we'd be at my place in an entirely different position. Do you want me to describe it?"

"No, thank you," Dearborn remarks flatly after the horrified grimace leaves his face. He sighs and regains a serious expression. "You could have done a lot of things. But instead we're here, in this diner, and I look the way I do, the way I always have, I'm sure. And it's because of you, because you brought me here." He pauses for a moment. "Why did you bring me here, Moody?"

"Good. You really should be thanking me," says Moody, completely ignoring Dearborn's sincere expression and question. "After all, I kept your hair at that ridiculous length. You look like an overdeveloped teenager."

Dearborn snorts lightly and looks outside as an involuntary grin spread across his face. He doesn't want to smile, but he can't help it. He likes the jokes, even if he tends to be the victim. He takes the target with a hearty smile and a healthy sense of humor and self-esteem, because he figures his friends like him the way he is. Moody respects him enough to bring him here, just as he was.

He looks down at the table and then at the waitress. She's too deeply invested in the sugarcoated plot to notice, so he looks at Moody. "Do I need to interrupt her to get a cup of coffee?"

Instead of replying, Moody looks over his shoulder and shrugs. A white coffee cup, filled to the brim with bitter black steamy liquid, appears on the table before Dearborn. The younger man glances down in surprise before grinning and taking a gulp. "Not bad," he remarks.

Moody stares at the cup for a few long moments. He decides instead to stick with his scotch and pours himself a glass. "Does it taste the same as the stuff where you're at?" he asks in a voice that he assumes conveys disinterest. He concentrates on pouring his beverage. "Hell, do they even have coffee where you're at?"

Dearborn sets his cup down. The smile disappears from his face. He hasn't been consistent when it comes to keeping the conversation on track. "You know I can't tell you one way or the other. We're getting off-topic. Why are we here, Moody?"

The change in Moody is only mildly physical, but the tone in his voice has become sharper and colder. "We're here because you won't tell me where you are, Dearborn. You're only making it harder by not answering a simple question." Dearborn shakes his head. "It's almost as though you want it to be a big mystery. I know you wanted my job, Dearborn, but there are other ways to gain popularity. How about this: you tell me where you are, and I won't tell anyone. It'll be our secret." And he winks.

"Do you mean spiritually or physically?" Dearborn counters without humor. "Either way, I can't say."

Moody sighs dramatically. "You know, I'll admit you're one of my better employees, if only because you blindly give me straight answers. Until now. I'm not appreciating this precedent."

Dearborn shrugs. There's nothing he can say without repeating himself. His patience is endless. It bothers him, though, that Moody speaks of him in the present tense.

"Hubby's making the sandwiches now, you know," Moody continues as he inspects his glass.

"Hubbard?" Dearborn inquires with a twitch of a smile.

"He gets indescribable joy out of being called Hubby, and you know how I like to make sure everyone's having an enjoyable experience. Hubby, on the other hand, likes to create Hell on Earth in the form of the worst sandwiches ever made. It's not a difficult concept. You used to do it, after all. Do you know what he does?"

"He forgets the crisps."

"He forgets the crisps. Or he remembers them and smashes them in and just ruins the entire experience. My lunch hour should be a time of peace and calm for my fragile psyche and a perfect, even holy sandwich. That's all I ask, Dearborn. I am a simple man and all I ask for is a simple sandwich. His monstrosities personally offend me. I'd fire the sinner, if only I could."

"That's a pity. Your life is truly filled with hardship." Dearborn chuckles lightly. "Just give him a chance, Moody. It'll get better."

"It will not get better. He's trying to kill me, Dearborn."

"So what doesn't kill you will only make you stronger. It'll get better."

Somehow the tone has shifted from one of light-hearted banter about sandwiches to something much deeper and more profound. Both men feel the change and react accordingly. Moody takes a sip of his drink to avoid saying anything. He's been through a lot. That much is clear and is also known by both men. He's tired and feels old, far older than he really is.

Dearborn watches Moody with a solemn expression. A concerned frown appears and he leans forward a bit. "It will get better, Moody," he says.

Moody turns his head and lets his eyes wander over the darkness beyond the window. "Wherever you are, it must be somewhere nice," he says a bit wearily. "Someplace that encourages your obstinate sense of optimism."

"It doesn't matter where I am, Moody."

"How the hell do you figure that, Dearborn?" Now Moody is looking directly at Dearborn. "How do you figure everything will be all right? You're not like those other idiots who use their dying breath to talk about the good of the world, but now I'm beginning to wonder." Now that he's on a roll, he hits the pith of the argument he was dancing around. "Explain to me how things could possibly turn out all right when you're not there, Dearborn," Moody demands. "After what must have happened to you? How can you still believe in all that rubbish?"

Dearborn allows a few moments of silence to take over. He worries occasionally, when Moody gets this passionate about something. He knows it can't be easy for Moody to say what's really on his mind. Normally it's not something Moody has difficulty with. This is hardly a normal subject. "Don't you think that might mean something?" he asks quietly. "Given whatever it is that I went through, and the fact that my opinion hasn't changed?"

"Of course not," Moody remarks as he continues to look straight at Dearborn. "It's why you're probably dead."

Dearborn doesn't flinch or say a word. If anything, he looks sympathetic, but he is otherwise unaffected.

"But let's assume you're not dead," Moody continues. "For the sake of argument. The two most likely alternatives are that you've either turned against us and fled, become a coward and a traitor. Or you're incapacitated." He looks out the window. "You are far too stubborn and loyal to do the first. Even then, you wouldn't have gone alone. You would have done the foolish thing of trying to bring everyone and their mother-in-law with you. So it's not that."

"And I've been gone far too long for you to realistically consider incapacitation," Dearborn adds. "That's fairly textbook. The longer someone is missing, the less likely they'll be found alive. It doesn't make practical sense for someone to go through all the trouble to keep me alive this long."

Moody is forced to admit the point. After all, Dearborn had used knowledge that Moody himself had given him years beforehand. He pours himself another serving of scotch and drinks it smoothly. "It hardly makes practical sense that you'd go down, unless my training was insufficient."

Dearborn shakes his head emphatically. "Don't say that. You know that's not true. You're the best in the whole department, and you don't give anyone special treatment. Plenty of skilled men and women have gone before me, and unfortunately they will probably continue to do so."

For the first time, Moody looks visibly shaken. His hand twitches a little, regardless of how hard Moody tries to concentrate on it, and he eventually moves both hands under the table. He shakes his head and looks outside. Dearborn's point is clearly one he is not willing to accept.

Dearborn has never tried to comfort Moody before. Moody never needed it, and even now the task is somewhat daunting to Dearborn. But he tries anyway. "Don't think about it, Moody. Not that way. You couldn't have done any better, or you would have. This was just too much for me, and that happens. But whatever happened to me doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Tomorrow will follow today." When Moody hasn't moved or said anything, Dearborn looks down at the table for a brief moment before watching Moody again. "I always knew what could happen to me. You reminded us all the time. I knew the risks, just like everyone else. Just like you."

Moody shakes his head. He understands, of course. Dearborn is one of quite a few to go before his proper time, too young to know what growing old is really like. It upsets the natural balance of life, for all that Moody has cared about it before now. Sacrifices must be made. "It's a bunch of crap," he says. "Young kids going down instead of their predecessors. You're leaving all the cranky old farts behind. We've had our time." Moody looks at Dearborn not just as a good friend and companion, but also as someone who had potential, to follow in his footsteps, maybe. He would never admit it.

Dearborn's frown deepens. This isn't the way he remembers Moody, and it's somewhat distressing. "Don't talk like that. This is just the way it goes, and you of all people know that. You're not sounding like yourself. This is senseless, and you're not senseless."

"What, I'm not allowed to go through the motions?" Moody asks with less severity.

"You don't go through motions," Dearborn points out. It seems inconsistent. There are times when Moody doesn't even seem all that human.

"Well if I don't go through motions, how the hell am I supposed to miraculously change and see good in the world?" Moody demands. "Why don't you tell me, Dearborn, how I'm supposed to see the good in the world if you're not in it."

Dearborn looks at Moody with compassion in his eyes. This isn't something he's used to hearing from Moody either. "There are good people in the world, Moody."

"Oh rubbish."

"There are," Dearborn insists. "You think I'm one, or the only one. There are others. Even you."

"So you've grown even more delusional."

Dearborn shakes his head. "It's not like I'm unique, Moody. There are plenty of good people in the world, if you'd not dismiss them so quickly."

Moody sighs. This isn't something he's comfortable talking about. "Saw your mother yesterday," Moody remarks as he looks out the window. Topic successfully averted. "Tough woman, given all she's had to go through, with you and your father." He looks at Dearborn pointedly. "Though the cases aren't very similar, are they? Your family had closure for your father. Now they're looking for it again. It wouldn't take much."

Dearborn looks down at his hands. He looks sad; almost guilty. That's when he's at his weakest, and it's something Moody knows very well. And just when Moody thinks Dearborn will tell him what he wants to know, he merely shakes his head but keeps his gaze down.

"You could end their suffering," Moody continues in the same tone. "Just tell me where your body is." Again Dearborn shakes his head, and Moody glares at him across the table. "You're a selfish bastard!" he shouts. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

Dearborn never lifts his head. He stares at the table in what appears to be disappointment. There is little he should feel disappointed about, he reasons. He did the best he could, after all. He would answer Moody if he could. But he can't, and deep inside, he feels as though he's let his family down, let his friends down, and let Moody down. He shakes his head again, because he can't summon the words quite yet.

Moody's level of frustration reaches a boiling point. He swiftly grabs his cane with one hand, lifts it up and smacks it into the side of Dearborn's head. Dearborn doesn't make a sound, but he takes a moment to right himself as Moody places the cane in its original position. The waitress turns a page in her book. Dearborn should be upset, angry. He should lash out. Moody waits for it.

"I can see them, you know," Dearborn says quietly, his gaze still on the table. His eyes are clouded over, and each word is heavy and filled with sorrow. "I watch them all the time. My mother, my sisters, my brothers. Emmeline and all the others too. It's good that they've found strength in one another. Really good. It's the best I could ask for. It seems like every one of them has gone through something like this before. My family, it's too soon for something like this to happen again. Not that there's ever a good time, right? I watch them suffer. I watch them cry and I listen as my sister asks if I could just come back and then everything would be fine. I wish I could. I wish there was something I could do. Anything. But all I can do is watch, and hope." Finally, Dearborn lifts his head to look at Moody, whose face seems to have grown longer and paler. "I see the way it's affecting you too. You could try to deny it, but you know it's true and that there's no use. You haven't been sleeping. You've not been okay. This has been holding you back for too long, Moody. You have work to do, people to help and inspire." Moody scoffs good-naturedly, and Dearborn cracks a small smile. "The worst thing you could do, for me and for yourself, is to take the blame for what happened to me."

They're looking each other in the eye now. Moody is fighting the urge to look away, as though he expects Dearborn to disappear the moment Moody takes his eyes off of him. And what makes him sure this won't happen, despite the fact that Dearborn's not left yet? He knows what Dearborn is saying is true. But to admit it would mean that there's something wrong, that he has to 'get over it.' He doesn't know if it's because he can't or won't even try, and therein lies the problem that Dearborn is addressing.

Moody doesn't want to think about it. He fiddles with his glass a bit and squints as he glances outside. "The night before you disappeared, we were here," he says calmly. "This booth. Had crappy food. Went back to my place and talked while listening to records. There was nothing special about it. Now I can't help but think there was."

Dearborn nods. "It's one of the happiest things I remember. It was great despite its normalcy. Or maybe because of it."

"Yeah," Moody remarks gruffly, and he spins his glass around. "You've seen, then, how bad things are getting. It's never been this bad before, Dearborn. Not that we could have foreseen it getting this abysmal this quickly. We'd be better prepared if they didn't shoot down every single bloody idea I have. I might as well quit to avoid all the hell I'll catch at being an ineffective supervisor or some crap like that. They'll still put it on my name, but at least I won't have to waste time going to those meetings to hear about it."

"You're not going to quit. Not after everything else you've gone through. You won't quit and you know it. You're the best there is and they know that too. They'd never have a chance of pulling through this without you. It's what you're good at."

One would expect such statements to come from a child as he stares up at his father. He's so convinced that everything his father does is right, that the man can do no evil and nothing can harm him. That's the way Dearborn looks at Moody now, as a hero and role model. Younger employees have pulled that to attempt to enter Moody's good graces. He knows Dearborn enough to know that Dearborn couldn't tell Moody a buttery lie if his life depended upon it. The younger man is just far too genuine, foolishly so, but in a way that Moody has always secretly admired.

"You've always been a kissass, Dearborn," Moody remarks as he smirks at the other man. Dearborn grins and chuckles. "At least you're an honest kissass."

Dearborn laughs again, louder this time. "If you stay on, I promise not to rub it in your face."

Both men now share the same mischievous smile, and they lean back in their seats. Dearborn finishes his coffee, but Moody leaves his glass empty, even when his bottle is still over half full. They stare out the window, but occasionally Moody closes his eyes as Dearborn taps his fingers gently against the plastic cushion behind him. They enjoy the music in their own ways, but these ways are remarkably similar. Words would cheapen everything. The blues music is all that is necessary. It's fitting. Whatever still needs communicating finds fulfillment in the rhythm and chords, the chirpy highs and silky lows. It's perfect.

Time has passed, enough so that it's beginning to get light outside. The light, in turn, filters through the window and casts a warm arc on the table. It engulfs the glass and sends a sparkling white shape where the glass's shadow would be.

"I have to leave." Dearborn breaks the silence with a hint of regret. He's looking at Moody now, but his expression is one of quiet contentment.

"It's just like you to be cheap and get out before paying the check," Moody remarks.

"It's your fault for creating the check," Dearborn quips back. His smile broadens and he stands up. "Take care of yourself, Alastor."

It's the first and only time Dearborn has addressed Moody using his proper first name. Somehow, though, neither of them seems to notice. It feels natural. Moody notices it, of course, and he takes in Dearborn's appearance as the latter is walking away. He looks all right. Better than all right. But is that because it's the way Dearborn always has been, or the way he is now, or is it because that's the way Moody wants to remember him? It's impossible to say, but it hardly matters and is a relief either way. It's enough that it gives Alastor Moody the illusion that Dearborn is all right. He seems at peace, which is usually cause for Moody to rain on his parade. Instead, Moody chuckles at the idea of glorifying Dearborn. After all, he could have made the younger man appear with feathery wings and a glowing halo. That had to be the only way to make Dearborn look dorkier than he normally did. And all Moody could think of was 'thank God I don't believe in God.'

Still, he couldn't help it. Just before Dearborn could make it to the door, Moody addresses him. "Caradoc."

Caradoc Dearborn turns and looks at Moody with an inquisitive expression.

"If there really is a heaven," Moody says, "and there are ten thousand virgins waiting for me, now would be a good time to tell me."

Dearborn snorts and shakes his head in cheerful disbelief. "Some things are better left as surprises." And with that, he waves once and walks out the door, and the door closes behind him.

Alastor Moody stays in his seat. He watches the door for a few more moments, though he knows Dearborn won't be coming through again. Not now, anyway. And that's all right. He looks down at the table and notices the twinkle of his glass. The music continues to echo throughout the small diner as Moody picks up his glass and gazes outside through it like a child would with a kaleidoscope.