Written as a collaboration with MyLadyDay, who is doing art, for the wonderful Sharethelovemonth hosted by MyLadyDay and Aerle. It's a little for from my original prompt, but it is still based (loosely) on the movie Laura and I did my best to get people to cry as requested. Thank you to ImperialMint for betaing and being my partner in evil brainstorming. All of you should be glad she uses her powers for good, believe me.

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, murder, death of main characters, death of a cat (thank imperialmint for that, everyone), graphic descriptions of violence, and smoking.

Yeah, sorry?

The basket he was holding gave another plaintive mewl, and Thatch growled under his breath. "Shut up already, you little pest. We're almost home."

Thatch smiled at the thought. The annoyance would all be worth it when Izo caught sight of the pest. He could picture how his face would soften, hands reaching out to cradle the tiny kitten, lips forming utter nonsense, and Thatch suddenly didn't know why he'd held out all these years. He'd been saying no to a kitten since Izo had rented the other room of his apartment almost three years ago, back when they squabbled nearly constantly (sexual tension, Izo liked to say fondly now, probably just to illicit a blush from Thatch, damn him).

For all outward appearances they were merely roommates, but they were so much more to each other, and guilt crashed over him as he hushed the kitten once more, starting on the three flights of stairs that would take him to their home. He'd not been around nearly enough lately. This case he'd been on ... well, Izo had a right to be mad, given how late he'd been home for months now. The hard work had finally all paid off though, and they'd captured Crocodile thanks to Thatch's investigation, and they had enough on him that his smarmy lawyers would do him no good this time.

The police chief had told him that he'd be promoted to detective for his work these few months, and it was all going to be worth the work. He just hoped Izo agreed.

"You're going to help out, little pest," he told the squalling basket. "You're my bribe. So you'd better be really damn cute, you hear?" The basket spat at him in response. "Yeah, yeah, I know, you don't like the basket, you don't like me, and you really don't like the stairs. But we're almost there, and you're going to be the most spoiled feline New York has ever seen, I'll bet you."

Thatch grinned as he pulled out his keys, setting the basket carefully down where it continued to howl mournfully. It wasn't going to be much of a surprise at this rate, but he could just see Izo light up. He turned the key in the lock and flung open the door.

To silence.

It was dark inside, the lamps not lit anywhere, except a single one in the parlor. Thatch turned into the little room, puzzled. Had Izo fallen asleep already? It was barely 8 o'clock. He'd looked a little pale when Thatch had left that morning, could he be sick? The parlor was empty, so Thatch set the kitten, still cranky and in his basket, down to scour their small apartment. He rushed to their bedroom to find the bed perfectly made and no sign of Izo anywhere. Frowning he checked the kitchen and sitting room, and the bedroom that was nominally Thatch's, but there was no sign of Izo in any of them.

Not a cast aside book or scarf, nothing. His throat grew tight, but there was no reason to thinkIzo was gone. He must have just stepped out for something, or gone out for dinner with friends. He didn't have to wait for Thatch to come home every night after all. Just because he usually did was no reason to assume something bad had happened. He went back to the parlor, and sure enough, a note was in the center of the coffee table, right in the center of the light. Thatch chuckled to himself. Well, so he might overreact a bit when it came to Izo. Thatch took pity on the kitten that he'd gotten from the shelter and loosed him from his basket as he sat down to read the note.

A small black head poked out curiously, and Thatch did have to admit that he was pretty damn cute. Not that Izo would ever hear that from him. Still, he watched as the little pest hopped out and sat down to wash a paw, not deigning to be curious about his new home. Thatch rolled his eyes and opened his note, planning on ragging Izo later about actually addressing it and sealing it with wax. So pretentious. He and the pest would get along like two peas in a pod.

Like it heard his thoughts the kitten meowed imperiously, and Thatch huffed, but set down the note, taking out the cans of food and a dish that had been in another compartment. He'd splurged on actual canned food, instead of getting some cheap meat like he'd planned. He told himself firmly it had everything to do with how much Izo would fuss and nothing at all to do with sad little eyes, just barely turning green and ribs you could count across the room.

He dumped the contents of a can unceremoniously into the dish, and kitten gave him a haughty look as he set it on the ground. "What, little pest? Jump down and get it. I'm not feeding you on the table, even if it is just the coffee table. We're going to have rules. Not that Izo will listen." The kitten stared at him unblinkingly. Thatch huffed.

"Ugh, fine. You win. Not like Izo's not going to ruin you soon anyway. Not worth the fight." He picked up the dish and set it back on the table, smiling when the little pest finally began eating. He caught himself and scowled. "Now may I read my note?" He unfolded it slowly, amused to see it was ridiculously long.

"He couldn't even go out to dinner without missing me, huh you little pest? Your new Papa is a softy."

Dear Thatch,

I've tried for hours to figure out how to phrase this properly, but there really is no good way so here goes. It pains me to say this, but I won't be coming home. I'm very sorry to do this to you in a note, I know it's terrible, but there was no way I could face you and say what needed to be said. For my weakness, I humbly apologize.

Thatch was frozen, blood rushing in his ears, and all he wanted was to fling the letter across the room. It was all lies it had to be, but he was incapable of stopping.

You've meant the world to me these last couple of years, but we can't go on like this. Your job is too important to you to have me in your life, and I've stopped even going to auditions. You're not meeting me halfway anymore, and I can't keep doing this to myself, no matter how much I love you.

Please don't try and find me.

With the deepest regrets,

Izo

No matter how many times he read it, the words didn't change, and finally, finally, he crumpled up the horrible paper and flung it across the room, tearing out of it to dash to their room and fling open the wardrobe.

Sure enough, it was almost bare, his suits and shirts taking up a sad little corner. He sank to the floor his legs giving out on him, as tears began pouring down his face. He sobbed into his knees, whispering the same sentence over and over.

"But I was going to fix it."

He stayed there all night, a heap on the floor, a tiny black furball pressed to his side and purring for all it was worth as he mourned what he'd let slip through his fingers.

Three years later

The bar was quiet that night, hushed murmurs echoing in the open space, a pleasant hum, and Thatch sighed, leaning back in his stool as he toyed with his drink. He couldn't drink much tonight since he was on call, but no one would begrudge him one whiskey. H'ed rather be having it at home with Pest, but Ace was damned hard to say no to when he set his mind on something and set his mind he had.

It was ridiculous really: Thatch wasn't lonely, and he most certainly didn't spend all of time moping. So he didn't go out much. He couldn't when on call unless it was the policemans' bar anyway, so they could find him. He spent one or two evenings a week with Ace and Marco, so he didn't really see what the big deal was. But Ace was a good friend. If he wanted Thatch to meet this fellow, it was the least he could do.

Thatch suspected this was a little more than Ace wanting him to make more friends, but even the thought clenched his heart. He knew it was foolish, he knew he should move on, but some part of him always thought that one day, there would be a knock on the door- on their door- and Izo would be standing there, hesitating and sorrowful. What Thatch would do if that happened, he wasn't quite sure.

(Every time he went to answer the door, heart pounding even though it was probably only the old lady two doors down again, he changed his mind about his strategy, though the most common were dragging him in and pressing him up against the wall and claiming him as his and slamming the door in his face. Not that Izo'd give up after that, of course. He'd beg, and oh, how he'd beg.)

Ace didn't know the whole story, at least Thatch was pretty sure Marco hadn't told him, but he knew enough to try to set Thatch up with men under the guise of meeting new friends. Thatch personally wondered what it was about being in a happy relationship that made people feel the need to see everyone else paired off. It was annoying. At least Marco left him alone, though Thatch wasn't so blind as not to see the worry ever present in his gaze.

Thatch jumped at the scrape of the barstool next to his, and Ace laughed at him, nudging him with his shoulder.

"Jesus, Ace, you could have said something," Thatch said, and Ace just laughed again as he signaled the bartender.

"I did. Several times in fact. Something eating at you?" Again there it was, that shadow of worry that was in everyone's gaze when they looked at him, and Thatch huffed.

"Of course not. It was just a long day." Ace nodded, somehow making it a patronizing mockery of agreement. The bartender came over with a glass of whiskey for him, and Ace tossed it back, grinning wickedly. Thatch snorted, pulling out his cigarettes and offering one to Ace. They lit up, Ace taking a long draw.

"So where's your friend?"

"Ed's gonna meet us here. His rehearsal ended not that long ago. Poor bastard's probably tied up in traffic. He's gonna be on Broadway, you know." Thatch nearly inhaled his whole cigarette, taking a sip of whiskey to keep from coughing.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, real talented. Shame Marco couldn't be here tonight, but he's worn out from the case he just closed last night. You two work too hard." Ace glared at him and then sighed. "There's something about Ed. I don't know." Ace looked almost contemplative, and Thatch frowned, nudging him.

Ace shook himself and smiled, continuing. "I think you two would really hit it off. He's really lonely too, you can tell. It's just like you, not all here somehow."

"Ace..."

"Just give it a try." Ace glanced up at him sidelong with pleading eyes, and Thatch sighed in defeat. "Please?"

"Fine, but no promises." Marco really had found himself a winner, and a troublesome one at that, Thatch mused, paying little mind to Ace's excited chatter. They'd been together two years now, and it was so nice to see Marco so happy. Ace had fit into their little broken family seamlessly, and Thatch clapped a hand on his shoulder, smiling at him. Ace grinned back, continuing on yammering, though he knew Thatch wasn't paying him any mind.

The bartender appeared, and at the look on his face, Ace quietened, sighing his defeat already. "What is it?" Thatch asked.

"Call for you sir. There's been a murder. The details," he said, sliding a paper across the bar with a grimace on his face, and Thatch knew it wasn't going to be pretty if it could phase one of the veteran bartenders here.

It was hours later before Thatch made his way home, his mind still recoiling at the horror that had awaited him in the tiny apartment he'd been directed. His first thought upon intruding on the victim's home had been they'd not really been living there. There was an impermanence to it that suggested the owner, one Edward White, didn't care about his home one bit. Thatch had grimaced, remembering when his own place had looked rather like that before he'd found a roommate. Izo had mocked him incessantly for not ever bothering to hang a single picture.

He'd filed that away and gone into the bedroom, where the body was waiting, laid out on the bed in a horrible parody of awaiting a lover, his face simply gone, obliterated by a shotgun at close range if Thatch had his guess. He shuddered as he unlocked his door.

Izo would probably mock him for keeping it the exact same as it had been when he'd left were he to ever knock on the door. Lord knows Marco had tried to get him to change it often enough, but Thatch didn't care if it wasn't healthy or whatever. Home was where Izo was, and if Izo wasn't there, his stupid frufru pillows would have to do.

The only change was who he came home to. Pest sauntered out of the bedroom where he'd no doubt have been covering every shirt Thatch owned with fine black hairs, no matter that Thatch kept the closet firmly closed. He glared at Thatch, outrage in every line of his body at the late hour his supper had been postponed too.

"Sorry, buddy." Green eyes flicked over him in disdain, and he was soundly scolded as Pest led him to the kitchen. "I know, I know. You're so good to put up with me and my never coming home on time. A positive saint." Thatch opened his ridiculously fancy can of food and placed it in Pest's dish where it was summarily ignored, so Pest could hop up on the counter and then to Thatch's shoulder. Thatch chuckled as Pest rubbed his face along his jaw, something in him easing at the purr.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, little Pest." Thatch took his briefcase into the sitting room, Pest balanced precariously on his shoulder still, rumbling purring soothing Thatch as he went collapse in his favorite chair to review the papers he'd taken from the victim's dingy little room.

There had been little of interest in the ramshackle desk, but Thatch had struck gold in the nightstand, finding a diary, slightly scorched for some reason. He opened the most recent and set himself to looking for clues to who might have wanted Edward dead.

The entries were scattered- Edward was clearly not a daily journaler by any means- but Thatch found himself engrossed soon enough in the struggles of Edward as he fought his way to a lead role on Broadway. He'd gone to countless auditions where he was passed over, and towards June it had sounded almost like he'd given up.

Izo had wanted to be on Broadway. It had been his dream. Thatch closed his eyes for a moment and stroked Pest's ears to illicit a purr from him, claws digging into Thatch's suit pants where he slept soundly on his lap, no doubt coating him in black fur. He snuggled deeper into Thatch's lap, and Thatch opened his eyes, ready to read on.

June 31st, 1944

I can't help but think of him on days like this, when the world is falling apart around me, sitting in the apartment so close and yet so far. Is he happy? Is he with someone? I never know what I want for him. I want him to be happy, I do, but the thought of him with someone else is terrifying. I couldn't ask him to wait, knowing there would be no way I will be able to return to him. They knew about him. Leaving him was the only thing I could have done, and I know they will still be keeping an eye on him even after all these years. Forgetting is all I can do to keep him safe, but it hurts so much to think of him in our home. I feel like giving up, but I can't. He always told me I could do it, so I will. Since I can give him nothing else, I'll do it for him.

Thatch frowned and marked the page. This mysterious him and the they who Edward had thought were after him were definitely something to look into later.

He'd almost cheered out loud when Edward had gotten the part before remembering he'd not ever get to walk on the stage. Edward's writing was beautiful, and every scene Thatch read sucked him in, his emotions clear and socking Thatch in the face with the connection. There was an underlying sadness even so, bittersweet longing to tell him, whoever that was. Edward never mentioned him by name, and Thatch was getting frustrated.

With a growl, he flipped ahead to November, the current month and was rewarded almost at once with an entry from three days before.

November 1st, 1944

Ace got me to agree to meet his friend. I swear, I don't know how that boy does it. One minute I was vehemently refusing the next I had the address of the police bar and an appointment for three days hence. A police bar. I know it's not likely I'll run into him, but Ace is setting me up with a cop. I just... I'm going to go to bed and pretend this isn't happening.

Thatch's jaw dropped. It couldn't be. But a sinking sensation in his gut told him he wasn't imagining it. How many Ace's were setting up their friends named Ed at police bars on the same day were there for God's sake? Ace was going to be crushed. Thatch reached for the phone and stopped. No sense waking up Marco and him this late. Pest blinked up at him sleepily, and Thatch let out a shuddering breath, stroking his fur gently. Finding out who did this to Ace's lonely friend and bringing them to justice would be a pleasure. There was only one more entry from today. The normally elegant writing was shaky, and Thatch grit his teeth. Pest gave him a scathing look when his hand tightened too much and jumped down, heading to the kitchen.

November 4th, 1944

They found me, I know it. I've been followed the last two days. There's nothing to be gained from running. I'm so sick of it. Even if I manage another lucky escape, I'd have to leave the city, leave him for good. I know I'm never going to be able to go up that noisy little street and climb the stupid stairs again and knock on his door, not even if they hadn't found me. I'd not put him at risk like that. But without even the possibility, what's running worth? Besides, if they get their revenge on me, they'll forget about him. I should have let them kill me years ago after I got revenge for Pops. But no, they'd not have stopped until they'd killed everyone. I've cut ties with them all, they should be safe. At least, I'll have saved them.

I walked by this morning on my way to the theater. Just a different route, nothing they should have noticed. He was almost surely at work, but I wanted a moment of closeness before I die. There was a cat in our window. He got a cat. I'm so glad. He probably spoils it rotten, the softie.

Thatch's heart was in his throat. No, there was no way. He shook his head as the words assaulted him, tears forming in his eyes and falling down to met the dried ones already on the page.

I guess since I'm about to burn this it doesn't really matter if I let myself say his name.

"No, no, no, no."

Goodbye, Thatch. I'll always love you. I'm sorry, but I couldn't let what they did to Pops go. I'm not sure it was worth it. No, of course it wasn't. I could have been with you.

Be happy.

Thatch stared down at the book uncomprehendingly. This had to be a dream. One of those terrible ones where Pest had to curl up with him and purr for hours to chase it away. Any second now, the damn cat would start licking his eyebrows to get him to wake up.

But instead there were just words slicing into him relentlessly, tears falling, and Thatch threw the diary across the room, pulling up his legs to his chest and sobbing. Izo wouldn't have gone after the gang that killed Pops, that would have been a fool's errand. Sure he'd been furious, just like Thatch and Marco, but Pops had been the police chief. He'd known the dangers. His death had hit them all hard, even Izo, who'd only known him through Thatch. Pops had taken Izo under his wing like he had every lost soul that came across his path, and they two were close.

But Izo wasn't stupid. He'd not have thrown his life away for that. Pops wouldn't have wanted that. Surely he'd have known that. He'd not run away to change his name and live in the dingy lifeless hovel just to keep Thatch safe, not when Thatch could have protected him, not when Thatch would have caught that bastard eventually.

Ace had not set him up to have a drink with the man that had broken his heart and walked out on him all those years ago, left to keep him safe, to protect him, not when Thatch was the one who should have done the protecting.

Izo hadn't walked by this morning and seen Pest in the window and cried.

But the journal stared at him from across the room, screaming otherwise.

A horrible howl jerked him back to reality, and Thatch was stumbling to his feet and rushing to the kitchen. Pest never sounded like that, not in all the years they'd been together, and Thatch couldn't even think, all the adrenaline and emotion and fear clogging his mind as he ran into the kitchen.

Pest lay on the floor, head at an unnatural angle, a large man standing above him. When Thatch entered the room, he laughed. Thatch pulled his pistol from its holster, but it was easily knocked across the room from his shaky hands.

"He sounded so happy you'd acquired some vermin, I had to make sure that was taken care of first, you know. Your little Izo." He kicked Pest's body for emphasis, and Thatch made a noise between a protest and a sob. Thatch kneeled down to cradle Pest's warm little body to his chest, his tears streaming fully as he looked down into Pest's wide, vacant eyes.

"You're not even going to fight are you," Teach asked as he picked up Thatch's discarded weapon. "He did you know, for all his words about accepting it. Tried to give the diary time to burn with the others. If he'd held out a bit longer, maybe you'd have been safe." The words speared into Thatch's heart, but he was beyond reacting now, numb except for the warmth of Pest and the sensation of his silky fur pressing into his face.

"But he crossed me, and this is what happens." Thatch tried to tune out his terrible laughter, but it sank into his consciousness.

"It'd almost be worse to leave you alive, but you might get enough willpower one day to make a nuisance of yourself. Plus," Teach said, tilting Thatch's chin up to look into his eyes. "We can't have Izo's one goal of saving you from his mistakes succeed. His death will be in vain, he will be the sole cause of yours, and I promised him so. Wouldn't want to break a promise."

When the bullet finally came, it was almost a relief.