A/N: Hi guys, I've had this in my head for a while and it came together tonight. I'd thought of Spring Break at Spring Break time but nooooo...worrrrrrk.

Anyway, thanks for checking in, keep sending M words; nouns, adjectives, words from other languages, I'll take them all.

FYI John Gray is an author, not one of John's aliases ;)

As always, enjoy x

Chapter 63: Mars

"Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus." – John Gray

Wednesday 1st March 2017, 11:16am, 8th Precinct

In Shaw's words, "March came in like a bitch on wheels. A bitch named Zoe." Despite Evelyn's confidence that her daughter would outlast Noguerra and probably take his seat, her dear Jocelyn forced a smile, handshake and small talk with Sergeant Pulido because she didn't have a choice. Fusco already gave her the 411; he and Noguerra were tight at the 26th Precinct and he was a bona fide desk jockey; using paperwork to avoid getting in on the action. "But his name's on all the reports, right?"

Instead of answering her rhetorical question he offered her a hardened donut; one of the last from John's maddening prank. "That joker's a real clown." Fusco said loud enough for the bugged hockey player on his desk to pick up.

She shook her head, not entertaining the idea she slept next to the man who was above that kind of petty. "I prefer the term, jackass."

Fusco laughed. "Even used Cap's credit card, probably some college kid with too much time on his hands."

She bit her bottom lip to hide her smile. "More like a nerd with glasses who never gets any." And like clockwork, her smartphone rang. "Carter."

"I resent that, Detective." Finch commented. "And they're called spectacles."

"How can I help you today, sir?"

"There's a…public relations matter to deal with." He hinted, feeling a pang of guilt for the felonious vial in Noguerra's car. Even he had limits.

"Any more details?" She asked, none the wise.

"It seems a local journalist received an anonymous tip about some illegal substances in one of the vehicles at the Precinct."

"Let me guess, they didn't say which."

Finch was enjoying it more than he should have, he was guilty enough to hint but not enough to tell. "Well, it's definitely one of about…forty."

"Can you give me a description?" She asked, not at all interested in a treasure hunt.

"Now, that would be telling." Finch smiled and inhaled the steam from his tea to soothe his sinuses.

"Well, if that's all you know, I don't think I can help."

"Dete-"

She hung up and put the phone back in her blazer pocket. "What was that about?" Fusco asked, knowing donutgate had Batman & Robin written all over it.

"Just a crank call. Hey, is it me or does he wear makeup?"

Fusco raised his eyebrows. "Where?"

"Around his nose. Pancake style, like he's got something to hide."

"You think too much."

"I mean it." She insisted. "Like he was punched in the f-"

Fusco went white at the realisation that the donuts were part of a 1-2 combo. He didn't want to be John when she got her hands on him. "So, about the dead insurance guy…"

A month later, Spring break, Friday 10th March 2017, 5.22pm, So Much Coffee, Hartsfield–Jackson Atlanta International Airport

Even though Taylor ordered an Almond Mocha and the band of the same name's music was playing in her right ear, Zahra wasn't happy. For the first time in weeks, he was sure it wasn't his doing; TSA was to blame. Dressed in a 2Pac "Have you seen him?" t-shirt, ripped jeans, different coloured shoes and a large backpack, Taylor Nicholas Carter breezed through security as his girlfriend lagged further and further behind for 33 minutes of repeated and extra questions, a "random" pat-down and an additional security screening where she took off her hijab in a private room with two female TSA Agents. He didn't know what to say because outside of their college-student bubble, life off campus was quite sobering. It seemed they didn't just live on different planets like Venus and Mars, but in different Americas too. "So…" His voice drifted because he didn't know what to say. "What's in Minneapolis?"

She'd answered that question in security already. "Family. Friends."

He hated to see her so subdued. Or humiliated. Probably the latter. "Zahra,"

"I should head to the gate."

"I'll go with." He offered.

She shook her head. "You're doing it again."

At this point he was so used to being confused, he couldn't play it off any longer. "Doing what?"

"Being that guy…Taylor to the rescue. So what does that make me?"

Taylor wasn't ready for that gut punch, nor was he ready for the surge of anger that rose in him; not knowing where it came from. "Wow."

11.46pm, Sylvia Plath Houses, Washington Heights, Manhattan

Joss tapped her foot with restlessness, it was prime drug-selling time in the projects but it wasn't their job to make any arrests. Pulido's strict instructions were to wait for Vince D'Amerta and his girlfriend to make a drop to the 3rd floor and secure the north entrance of the building while someone else – a professional ass-kisser – made the arrest for the murder of an Insurance company owner through poisoning. "Why do they always go for the coffee?" Joss asked, pouring her cold one out the window.

Fusco shrugged his shoulders. "Who doesn't love a cup o' Joe? Except Vonnie."

Joss nudged him. "Where is she? You never bring her around?"

"Where?" He asked. "Don't mind the chalk outline, it's just another day at the office, and the one with the 'tude; that's Shaw. The beefy one is Captain America, and the-"

"I get it. Point made." Joss could've minded her own business but Evelyn was her mother after all. "What does Lee think?"

"He likes her dog. My brother thinks she's a gem; 'cause she's nice and normal and…" He lowered his voice because he knew she'd chew him out. "Boring."

"Might wanna lower your standards 'cause no woman will ever be as high-octane as Carmen Sandiego herself. What up with you and her anyway?"

He knew she wouldn't let him off the hook without an answer. "Best. Wingman. Alive."

"Something tells me you're gonna need her help soon. Poor Vonnie doesn't stand a chance." He didn't argue and she dropped the bone.

Saturday 11th March 2017, 2.24am, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

"John, when are you gonna marry my mom?" Taylor asked, before shoving a hand-full of popcorn in his mouth. It was one of those rare nights when he was home for the weekend and he and John had the pleasure of waiting up for Joss' return with an old Richard Pryor movie on TV.

John called his bluff. "You want me to?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Why not?

"Hmmm. Why not?"

They were fools then and weren't much better now. With Tekken on pause, their feet propped up on the coffee table (because Joss wasn't home yet), a bucket of chicken parts and two apple ciders (because it didn't count as beer) John pulled a chicken strip in half and brought up something he didn't have the balls to with his wife. "So, about the deer; was it really that bad?"

Taylor tried to keep his eyes in their sockets; his stunt lit a fire under the could've-never-been wedding and he still needed confirmation? "Are you kidding?"

John only had one explanation "I'm…me."

They locked eyes; John would never be sorry or really get it, but Taylor wasn't going to sell him out and risk both their lives in the process. "I know. You kinda sorta can't help it."

John nodded with approval. At least someone gets it. "Pot-kettle-black. You've got that look. Again."

"What look?"

"The 6 months of moping look." John informed him, because he needed to know. "So who is it? Zahra or Bella?"

Taylor sighed deeply. "She asked if we're still friends, and she's home for Spring Break."

John got his answer. "And so are you."

Taylor could see trouble on its way but he wasn't doing anything to stop it. "Zahra said I'm trying to rescue her or something."

"Are you?"

"I don't think so…I don't know. It's like she's mad at me or something. Like, I try…"

"You run, I chase. I chase, you run."

Taylor was shocked he hit the nail on the head. "How'd you know?"

Jessica. John shrugged his shoulders. "I've been around. Been around long enough to know it doesn't work. Sometimes you wanna give it but you don't have it to give. Same with taking."

"So what'd you do?" He asked, thinking John was one of those still waters run deep people his grandma warned him about.

"I ran. Deployment."

"Wow." In that moment, Taylor was reminded of how much he didn't know about the man he trusted implicitly to take care of his mother.

"But you're not like me. You're not so bad with the giving or the taking. So find a girl who can do both…chicken's getting cold." John hung up his Huskies hat of wisdom for the night.

7.33am, Paul's house, Elmhurst, Queens

Saturday mornings weren't usually like this. Paul was used to Gina buzzing around, making breakfast and getting ready for a dance practice or competition. He wasn't used to seeing her so still, sitting at the kitchen table with no food; just two glasses of water and the cordless phone.

"What's up?" He asked, looking through a cupboard for Taylor's favourite Cinnamon Crunch cereal.

She took a deep breath and wiped the sleep from her left eye. "Sit down."

"Gi-"

"You'll wanna be sitting when you hear this."

He heeded her warning and massaged his chin with his thumb and index finger. "So?"

"Leanne called. She said she tried to reach you all day yesterday."

He nodded. "That's 'cause I blocked her for sending Jeremy here in the first place."

She drew in another long breath. "There was a fire Thursday night, at the house."

"Leanne's house?" He asked, because he wasn't a stranger to her asking for money.

"No. Yours'. Well…Jeremy's."

Paul was still, which scared her even more than his exploding; because the last time he exploded he almost shot his father. He nodded slowly and wiped his mouth as though he was having a conversation with himself. She took it to mean he'd already jumped to a conclusion and he didn't have to jump too far. Gina tried to remain calm but with every breath her heart raced and beat against her chest because of Deon, back at Hillman. "What's the damage?" He asked, with a menacing calm as though he was plotting a murder.

Gina knew the answer. He knew she knew the answer. But she couldn't bring herself to say Nicole's house was no more; no more scones, no more pound cake, no more comforting smell of butter, no more prison for mother and son. "Baby, I'm so sorry." He didn't respond to her embrace, to her arms wrapped around his chest and her face against his. He just sat it his chair, numb, except for one whispered word. "Motherfucker."