You may not remember, but this is On The Job; version 2. Much Love, C.
They're hiding. Hiding somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.
Shhh, don't make a sound.
"Allie, I'm scared." A tiny voice squeaks like a mouse; the silence is gone.
Hush up, hush quick. Before the Shadow Man hears you. No noise; no noise must come from you. Let the world engulf you; let it hide you in its darkness until the sun comes and everything's alright again.
Heavy footsteps crunching leaves – stomp, stomp, stomp. Coming closer, Death creeps nearer. The little mouse squeaks again but there is no noise now; not from behind her hand.
"You can try hiding, princess, but you're not walking out of this forest alive." The voice is Death. It is Danger and it's nearby – so close she can smell the gunpowder and tobacco and the blood.
The blood is thick and sweet and coppery.
The blood is her grandfather's.
SNAP!
"Found you."
BANG!
She screams out because it's real to her; it's not a dream, it's not just in her mind. She screams loud enough to drown out her blaring alarm. She tumbles to the ground – how did her covers get around her legs like that? Her chest is heaving and her head is spinning; she's still asleep, but her eyes are wide and terrified and searching for the Shadow Man. He's not here, he won't ever be anywhere near them ever again.
She swallows, and tastes the bile in her throat.
It's a dream.
"Al? Are you okay?"
It's the Little Mouse, all grown up; older and taller and prettier, and she's standing in the bedroom doorway, looking down at her older sister in concern. It's the early morn and it's a school day – the scream had frightened her awake. It happens sometimes. It's been happening more frequently.
Her older sister is on her feet, swaying like the bamboo in a breeze, but on her feet and awake. She is haunting in the dim moonlight; nothing but limbs and hair and exhaustion. "I'm sorry," she says. Her voice is rough and dry like sandpaper and glass. She runs her hand through her hair, and notes that it's getting too long and the curls are becoming a nuisance. Her eyes are terrifying in the glimmer – sharp grey like their mother's eyes. "It must've been the wine from last night and the horror film."
She's lying, and Little Mouse knows it. "Go get dressed – I'll drop you off on my way to work."
Little Mouse hesitates in the doorway, her sister is not alright and she hasn't been in a while. Something is wrong, but she knows better than to ask. So she nods her head and turns away to brush her teeth and get dressed for the day. A little Mouse is nothing compared to a cunning Fox.
When her sister is gone, the Fox turns to her own bathroom and stands in the light. The girl staring back at her is pale and gaunt; late shifts and trying cases are never kind, but she is alive. She survives because she is the Fox, and she is strong. There is a medicine cabinet behind the mirror, and she takes a pill bottle from it.
On the bottle is her name: Allegra H. Williams. The instructions are to take two when necessary after a meal. They're for anxiety.
She takes two without a meal, and drinks the water out of the tap.
Little Mouse waits in their living room for Allegra, who prefers the name Alene. The living room is modest, like the rest of the apartment, because they don't need much space between them. They've lived in worse. They've learnt to become anchovy fish; squeezed tight and neatly together in a can.
Today is Alene's first day at her new office – she wants to make an impression. So Little Mouse lets her use her good blazer jacket and her new watermelon shampoo, and makes Alene breakfast because she knows Alene won't remember to eat. She takes off her school blazer and lays it on the couch back, where it won't be touched by grease or coffee or juice.
On her school blazer is Little Mouse's name. Whether or not it is her real name is another matter altogether, but people know her as Charlotte H. Williams.
No one knows what the H stands for, or at least, they don't remember.
Regardless, that is her name.
"Have that to go; we don't have time for breakfast today," Allegra comes rushing out of her bedroom, dressed and ready for her day at her new office. She looks office-ready in her black slacks and pale blue shirt; her face betrays her though.
Charlotte – who much prefers to be addressed as Charlie – soothes her sister. "You have time for coffee, at least." There's a travel mug of coffee already sitting on the table, steaming beside a brown paper bag of bagels and cream cheese and chives, because Allegra has a preference to them. She's the younger one, but she likes to think of herself as an adult in miniature form.
Alene smiles at her sister fondly, and Charlie returns it as they both drape their coats around their narrow bodies to brave the New York winter. They drive to Charlie's school – a private institution somewhere on the Upper East Side where she knows her sister will be safe.
"Will you be picking me up today?" It's a little longer before homeroom, but Charlie likes to go to the library and read before class. She likes the silence there.
Alene checks her watch. She hasn't even met her new supervisor yet. "I can't say," she confesses, and Charlie seems to accept this. "I'll call into the school to let you know by lunch." She leans out of the window and Charlie leans in and they kiss on the cheek. "Stay on campus, okay? If I don't come around, I'll get Jason to pick you up."
Charlie rarely ever takes the subway now because Alene doesn't let her. 'It's too dangerous', she would say, and Charlie's becoming increasingly frustrated by Alene's obscurity. She sighs, as the teen that she is. "Don't worry – you'll do great today." She smiles once more and turns to her school, waving as she goes.
Alene watches her sister go with a wistful air. As she pulls away she wonders when Charlie grew up to be older than her.
New York City is indeed a city that never sleeps. It snoozes sometimes, very briefly, but rarely is it ever truly asleep. Detective First Grade Mac Taylor contemplates this from his office at One Police Plaza as he waits for the shift to begin. He's been there for most of the night; digging a hole into the pile of case files that sit at the edge of his desk. He hasn't made much progress – the pile on his desk is still a pile, but he keeps working.
His coffee is cold and tastes like mud, but he drinks it anyway, hoping that perhaps the bitter taste of gross on his tongue will bring new ideas to his mind. It doesn't. Instead it gives him a stomach ache.
"I'm taking a guess that you didn't go home last night."
The voice startles him, but he knows the feminine tone that teases him. When he turns, there is an indulgent smile on his face, as Stella Bonasera leans against his office doorway shaking her head at him. She's been his partner for more than a decade, and that's a long time for a partnership. It's longer than the marriage of some of the people they know, and their friendship stronger than any relationship they see. But she is his partner, and for now, it seems that the word matters everywhere except for where he wants it to.
She enters his office without him requesting her to; she never really needs his approval for much these days, but he's no pushover. On the job, that is. Today he notices that she's wearing a flattering shade of blue-green that compliments her skin, and her caramel brown curls are still somewhat damp from her morning shower. She brandishes a bag of what his nose identifies as breakfast from the corner diner, and his stomach moans its agony and relief. He realizes that he hadn't had dinner or breakfast.
"I got a little caught up in the paperwork," he admits sheepishly, and eyes the breakfast burrito in Stella's hand longingly until she gives it to him. He thanks her and she smiles the smile a person who knows him too well, and he takes the first greasy bite of his first meal in twelve hours.
Stella watches him eat but has nothing for herself; she's had breakfast on the way to work, a granola bar and scrambled eggs to go with her coffee. The man standing in front of her that is nearly choking on his food has been her partner for so long that she doesn't have to guess or wonder about his schedule. She had known the moment she woke in the morning that he hadn't left the office; she had known to get him breakfast and a decent cup of coffee because afterhours, coffee from their office break room is swill.
Mac bites down on something crunchy, and she shakes her head at him. "You need to learn to take care of yourself, Mac," she chides him, glaring mildly when the man shrugs around his chewing. "What happens the day I stop being your partner and there's no one around to remind you to eat or sleep? Hmm? At the rate you're going, I wouldn't be surprised if one day you forget how to breathe."
"Perish the thought!" he cries teasingly; the burrito is now gone, and he disposes of the wrap in his metal trashcan.
Stella raises an eyebrow. "Of you dying? I'll say," she deadpans in return. The thought of sitting at his grave and being handed the folded American flag shakes her in ways she's not prepared to admit. She watches, amused when he digs through the paper bag again, searching for more food, perhaps, or a napkin. He finds both in the form of a bagel and a white square piece of tissue.
"I was thinking more along the lines of you not being my partner," he bites into the bagel; cream cheese that doesn't mingle well with the aftertaste of his burrito but he's just so hungry. Out of the corner of his chewing mouth, he grins when Stella rolls her eyes at him. "I think I'd have to quit working altogether if that happens." He makes light of it, but truly the man is terrified of the thought of never having her at his side.
Stella is as much a part of him as his arm is. She is his heart and his brain. There's just no point without her.
"Be careful what you wish for, Taylor. If tomorrow you wake up and I'm in somewhere like New Orleans, I don't want to hear about you quitting CSI or jumping off the Empire State for me." She drawls it, but it's heavy between them – somehow they're afraid of it ever coming true.
He regards her seriously. "New Orleans can find another CSI to handle it – you're staying right here with me in New York if I have to fly over there and haul you back myself."
She smiles softly, pink on her high Grecian cheekbones. "Well then, I guess you're stuck with me, aren't you, Mac?" It's nice to know he cares. It's nice to know she's not the only one.
Mac chuckles a little grimly and he bundles his trash away. His desk is cluttered enough, and Stella must resist the urge to reorganize it for him. "Partners in justice until the very end, Stella; don't you forget it."
She doesn't think either of them will ever forget it.
Someone knocks at the glass wall of his office, hesitant and unsure, and they look at each other briefly. It's not someone they recognize – she's pretty and young and by the look on her face, nervous enough to vomit, but she has the eyes of someone who knows more than she perceives to. When she steps into the office, Stella realizes that the girl is the reason she is even in Mac's office.
She's the new girl.
"Detective Taylor?" the girl's eyes dart from Stella to Mac; they're bright and grey and oddly disconcerting as they settle on Mac. She knows from research and experience that Detective Mac Taylor is a man of the Marines, and so she reaches out awkwardly to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Allegra Williams – the transfer from Brooklyn North," she informs him, casting a nervous grin over at Stella as well.
Mac nods and ignores the 'sir' in her address. She will learn later on, his dislike of the title. This is the girl he's been waiting for in the morning – the reason he had called Stella in earlier before shift. "Please, sit," he gestures to the seats in front of his desk, and Stella takes her place beside him as he settles back into his swivel chair. "This is my partner, Stella Bonasera." Stella nods her greeting and a friendly smile before she stands beside him and hands him the file on Allegra Williams, and they watch the girl carefully.
"How long were you in BroNo?" Stella inquires. She likes the fact that this girl has run the same beat that she had; she knows without perusing Allegra's file that she is good at what she does, because anyone who survived Brooklyn North can survive Manhattan.
Allegra is surprised by the woman's mention of the slang term, relieved and hopeful at the thought of perhaps sharing the same origins with this woman. She is tall and beautiful, with a face and body that Alene wishes God had blessed her with too. "I was there the moment I got out of the Academy," she tells Stella. It's been five years give or take; a long time to be in one place for Alene. "BroNo can get to you after a while."
"I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did," Stella laughs. Brooklyn North was a miserable time for her; a time before Mac and her team. Before her family. "After a while, I wondered if I wasn't going to end up killing my boss and hiding his body somewhere."
The younger woman chances a smile, and Mac is pleasantly surprised to find that it lights up her face. "So it's true then? Howards has been there since the time of the Depression."
Stella throws her head back and laughs; it's an inside joke she hasn't heard in a long time. It reminds her of her age, and how far she's come, there is no bitterness behind it. She's moved on, and she's happy.
Mac is reading through her file. It's full of things he had found in Lindsay's file as well; recommendations and praises and a history of Allegra's experience on the field, but something is odd about the timeline. Unlike Lindsay, whom he was given full familial information on; Allegra's only listed family is a younger sister. There is no other mention, and Mac thinks it's possibly a delicate subject. He shuts the file and smiles warmly at Allegra before he glances at Stella.
Their eyes meet; they speak without words, and the woman nods imperceptibly. Approval.
He turns back to Allegra and offers the girl a quiet smile. "Welcome to the team."