Warnings:

Potty mouth-ness.

Swivel

J.C. Tennyson rolled off his bed with a growl of discontent, absently reaching for his crumpled boxer shorts on the floor. The quick glance across the bed was followed by a sound of relief. Good, he felt particularly grateful that she had the good sense not to wait for breakfast in bed. J.C. was not a morning person. Miranda was, but they'd quickly come to some sort of compromise after her third failed attempt to engage him in early morning cuddle sessions. He felt his way into the bathroom where, after a stinging cold shower and shave, it stopped feeling like the universe took sadistic pleasure in torturing this one human.

J.C. padded barefoot across the room, careless of the wet foot prints he was leaving on the expensive wood finish. It didn't matter anymore. The odds of finding a reputable apartment in his side of the Bronx were about as good as winning the lottery—the odds of finding one with a walk in closet, even less. He pushed open the doors, giving the rows of shirts and pants a contemplative glance. What would it be? Already he could feel the overbearing mugginess of the indecisive April sky, too cloudy to portend pleasant things for the afternoon, not cool enough to allow for a sweater.

April was the sulky toddler among the months.

Finally, J.C. decided on a forest green V-neck and light brown jacket over faded jeans and brown suede loafers. Getting dressed took all of fifteen minutes and then he stood, frowning at his reflection on the mirror.

J.C. supposed he couldn't complain about his look—that would be looking a gift horse in the mouth. They'd landed him unbelievably hot chicks in the past. But they'd also put him in trouble more than once; like with his boss's over eager daughter, or the obsessive socialite housewife and her vengeful husband. Sometimes, more trouble than was healthy.

Some called him exotic, he didn't see it. But then people called anyone of mixed heritage exotic. He had Portuguese-America heritage to thank for his skin tone; the lightest shade of tan dusted with gold, the 'classic Roman nose' the stubborn curls his black hair made no matter how much he brushed them back. And of course, his eyes. They were hazel, no big deal as far as he was concerned but people had called them everything from tiger's eyes to, once when he was a child in Catholic school, demon eyes. He rolled them and mock glared, giving his hair one more brush before admitting defeat and exiting the room.

The itinerary for the day—not much, just two pressing things. J.C. grabbed one of his paper cups from the kitchen holder and filled it with coffee, giving the quiet apartment a once over as he made for the door. The first place on the list was a bus and subway ride, a few miles from home. He sipped on the scalding liquid, breezing past the security system and two amateur pickpockets before settling across from an elderly lady with her two grandchildren. J.C. took a deep breath and slightly shook his head. This was his last day—his last day riding the subway, the last day as a New Yorker…the last day as a member of the NYPD.

He was relieved, glad even, when the reassignment letter had finally come through because it would at least mean no more clashes with his Chief. He told himself it didn't matter where they took him; they could toss him in some Podunk sheriff's department in any back county for all he cared. After six years of the same bullshit with the same narrow minded, power hungry sumbitch, he was done and wrung dry. But the fates intervened and they only tossed him across the country to San Francisco. Truthfully, like any patriotic New Yorker, he'd baulked and protested the location but that had only given his boss more impetus to nail him deeper into the wall. After weeks of hemming and hawing, J.C. accepted the inevitable and packed up shop.

The subway came to a stop in his station and he got off, just in time to catch his bus before it rolled out of the stop. Twenty minutes later, J.C. got off, preferring to walk to his destination. Walking always put him in the right state of mind for this—that and there was a flower shop conveniently located two blocks away. He stopped in and bought a bouquet of lilacs, the heady fragrance bringing a pang to his midsection. It was a short walk from there to Saint Raymond Cemetery. He'd done this unfailingly twice a month, every month, for the past four years. The place was quiet, as expected from a graveyard, but not spookily so. J.C. actually felt calmness from the hush in the air, the knowledge that nothing from these parts could hurt him. Before long, he was standing over the familiar black granite headstone. A small smile tugged his lips and he lowered to his haunches.

"Boa manha, querida…como vai*? Stupid question, I know. You're all good. I brought your favorite flowers," he murmured, gently settling the bouquet over the grave. "Yeah betcha thinkin' what has he gone and done now? Nothin', avo, honest. Just that I turned in by badge yesterday…got nothin' left holding me back here."

J.C. took a deep breath and shook his head. "Well, except for you, and I'll always carry you in my heart. I dunno what it's gonna be like over there in San Francisco…crap, what the hell am I doing, right? I tried to get them to change my assignment but that asshole Brenner…" He stopped, almost hearing his grandmother's strident voice in his head.

Bobo* Casi, ya gotta make the best of wherever you go.

"Yeah I know grams, but if I'm in San Francisco, then how am I gonna make these visits? I'ma miss you."

Of course he'd been missing her every day for the past four years— her strength and love, the many advices she gave whether he asked or not. He'd been missing her ever since the kidney failure claimed her forever. Avo was the only family J.C had left. Lurdes and her infant daughter Dores had crossed the oceans to make a new life in America and they had. Dores grew up and when she brought home a white boy, her mother didn't make a fuss like other parents would have. She didn't bow over to grief when Mitch Tennyson appeared on her doorstep, bearing a newborn infant and never returned. She took care of the child, the only remnant of her line and the last link she had to her daughter until he grew up. And then one day he came home, announcing his decision to be a cop. J.C. knew his decision broke her heart but she only gave him support, cracking jokes now and then that she was fated to outlive everyone she loved. They thought she would.

"Yeah well, I'll be leaving tomorrow; already signed the lease for my apartment over there and everything. Just got a few things to finish…a few people to say goodbye to." He smirked, envisioning the glare of disapproval on her face.

"Casi, where did you pick up these bad habits? Pick one girl from your faceless horde and settle down!"

"Can't do that, avo, I'm too young for all that settling down business."

True, he was only twenty seven after all. J.C. pressed a hand to his lips and then patted the headstone. "Look after me from up there, 'kay?" He stepped away from the grave with a sad smile, banishing the tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes.

None of that now!

"None of that…I know. Adeus, avo."

Alright, one down, one to go. Next stop, breaking up with Miranda.

Life is like a Mobius strip; no matter where you go, there's no getting away from origin.

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And this is where I shall ramble.

*Portuguese:Good morning, dear. How are you?

*Avo means grandmother

*Bobo: idiot or silly person, just like tonto in Spanish or baka in Japanese

*Adeus: Goodbye