A/N: So this is a little piece I'm working on...slowly. So don't be surprised if it takes ages for the next chapter to come up. For the record, I don't really know where this is going and how it's going to end so...bear with me. There is NO romance, just saying. I don't really do romance. And yes, I am attempting to be deep and perceptive. Please review, and since this is my first ACTUAL fanfic, be honest. Please.

Love,

Sox

On your first day, you expect everything to be the same. You expect everything to be just like LAPD, full of overworked cops, humourless days, black coffee and mountains of paperwork. When you first walked in, you didn't realize you were in for the surprise of a lifetime. You were greeted by 5 tired looking people. They welcomed you, the probie, into their ranks warmly, giving you smiles and handshakes and even a hug. They moved around each other perfectly, seeming totally synchronized. Your first minutes on the job were just a blur of bright colours and loud noises, nobody slowing down enough to give you a chance to actually look at them. So, you follow them, watching as they moved from one scenario to the other, and you try to keep up with their theories.

From the moment you get there, you know perfectly well that this was going to be different, that LAPD was worlds away from this place. The people were overworked, you could see that, but they didn't show it. They worked 20 hour days without even blinking, like they had gotten used to it a long time ago. They were constantly teasing each other, cracking dark jokes and trying to hide from the morbidity of the situation.

You can't think of a time where they weren't on the move, either trying to find a witness or trying to get the bad guy. After a while, you realize they were in constant motion for a reason, you come to notice that they never look in anyone's eyes, and they never linger long enough to for their carefully constructed masks to slip away.

Sometimes you wonder how they do it, how they live in a world so full of well kept secrets and carefully worded half-truths. You wonder if they ever get tired of trying to figure out who they can trust, if they ever get tired of trying to figure out which version of themselves they actually were. Most of all, you just sit there and wonder whether or not you'll ever be able to be like them. You live in a different world. While theirs is full of lies, gunshots and fake identities, yours consists of black coffee, faded photographs and internal battles. You believe in excuses and they believe in reasons.

You slowly come to realize that you have been dragged into a world of bullets and shootouts. Of loving and losing and trying to forget and move on. You can tell that you are in a room full of weary people with tired eyes and heavy spirits. People who have seen too much, loved too much and lost too much. Maybe they were all a little sick of getting up every morning just to go home that night with the sound of gunshots still ringing in their ears. Maybe they were all a little tired of being the heroes.

Most people went home every night to a house full of people they love and memories they cherish. You don't, you don't think any of them do either. You go home that first night to an empty apartment full of half unpacked boxes and a cold mattress. That was the first night he came to find you.

He knocks on your door at around midnight, and you open it to find him standing there. His eyes flicker across your face, searching for some sort of reaction to his appearance. You just step aside. Something could be heard in the silence that filled the space in your apartment, maybe it was an agreement, maybe it was a promise. All you know is that he didn't need a warm welcome or comforting words. He just needed someone. So you point out the bathroom and you get him some sheets for the couch.

And by the morning, he was gone.