Nick Knight did not want a partner.

He'd never wanted one, had never worked with one, but after
the homeless murders, Captain Stonetree had insisted on permanently
reassigning Don Schanke to the night shift and suddenly, his
objections notwithstanding, Nick Knight had a partner.

One who was currently attempting to talk his ear off as the
Caddy made its way to the coroner's building.

"...can get better donuts at Bigelow's, but Haroldsens' are
bigger and, I dunno, they got more fat in 'em or something I guess,
they just *taste* better, and do you mind rolling up the window?
It's freezing in here. Hello. Knight?"

"Hm? Oh, sure." Annoyed, Nick complied, but the moment he
did, the aromas of Schanke's glazed donut and steaming coffee
assailed his nostrils and he had to mentally command his rebelling
stomach to ignore it and be thankful his new partner hadn't ordered
souvlaki for 'breakfast' instead.

"...just can't figure Stonetree sometimes, y'know?" Schanke
mumbled between donut bites. Nick's stomach rumbled in protest.
"Twelve years on the day shift. Twelve years! And now... What'd
I do to deserve this?"

"Exactly what I've been wondering," Nick muttered, but his
partner was yawning -- loudly -- and hadn't heard him.

"Well, long as we're stuck with each other a while, might as
well make the best of it, huh? You know something? You never told
me, or maybe I never asked. Where're you from?"

The lie came easily now. "Chicago."

"Oh yeah? I got an aunt, two or three cousins in Chicago.
Great place. You got family?"

Nick's blue eyes darkened for a moment "No. No family."
Thankful to at last pull the Caddy up in front of the coroner's
building, he parked and escaped the car, wishing he could find some
pretext to leave Schanke behind. But his new partner trailed him
into the building, munching and slurping all the way.

"I've got very good instincts," he bragged, wiping sugary
fingers on his suit as they headed down the corridor to Natalie's
lab. "And I've been around the block a few times. So like I said
before, stick around and you might learn a few things. I've got a
few years experience up on you--"

Nick restrained the urge to laugh at that, settled for a
longsuffering smile aimed at Natalie as they came through her door.

Her eyes smiled back over a green surgical mask, and Schanke cut
his sentence off with a gulp, the devoured donut threatening an
imminent return when he caught sight of the gory mess on her
operating table. For entirely different reasons, Nick hesitated as
well. The strong scent of blood mingled with formaldehyde
permeated the lab.

"I uh, just remembered," Schanke stammered. "Gotta check with
Wilson in forensics on the Calloway case. Be right back." And
with near-vampiric speed, he vanished back out the door, leaving it
swinging in his wake.

Natalie's eyes kept their smile as she put aside her scalpel,
turning to the sink to scrub down, strip off the mask and gloves
and scrub down again. Nick gave the operating table a wide berth
on his way to her side.

"Daegel report's on my desk over there," she said, laughter
still tingeing her voice. When he didn't move at once to retrieve
it, she glanced toward the door and grinned, drying her hands on a
small blue towel. "Having a little trouble with the new partner,
are we?"

"Nat... I can't do this!" The desperation of having been
cooped up with Schanke for the past few hours came out full force.
"He's driving me crazy!"

Her eyes widened in mock innocence. "What, *Schanke?*
Nahhh..."

"I'm serious," he snapped, a little more vehemently than he'd
intended. "If Stonetree doesn't change his mind on this, I may
have to resign. It's either that or use slightly more...
persuasive methods to convince him."

Instantly, disapproval shadowed Natalie's eyes. "Don't you
*dare,"* she admonished. "You want to be human, you'd better learn
to live by *our* rules for a change."

"But Schanke--"

"Is your partner. Captain's orders, like it or not. So now
I guess you just have to learn to deal with it."
"That's the problem..." He stalked to the desk, perched
miserably on its edge, picked up the report. "I *can't* deal with
it. I've always worked alone, always. How can I get anything done
if I'm saddled with him all the time?"

She hung up the towel, leaned back against the sink and
crossed her arms. "Well, that's the way partnerships work. You
watch his back, and he watches yours. You look out for each
other."

"Nat, I don't *need* looking after."

She wasn't convinced. "Yeah? Well, maybe you need someone to
look out *for* then." At his grimace, she added, "I mean that.
Come on, Nick. You want mortal? Well, Schanke's about as mortal
as they come! And you'd better start getting used to it. It's
what *our* world is all about."

Frowning, he hopped off the desk, tucking the report under one
arm. He supposed he should have known better than to expect any
sympathy from this quarter. "All right," he promised half-
heartedly. "I'll try. But no guarantees." He kissed her once,
chastely, on the forehead, and headed for the door.

"Life -- mortal life, anyway -- doesn't come with guarantees,
Nick," she said.

"Yeah." He waved the folder in parting, and went in search of
his mortal, unguaranteed partner.

Back in the car, Schanke slurped at a can of Coke and resumed
his non-stop, meaningless chatter. "Man-oh-man, can you believe a
buck for a Coke? In-cred-i-ble! I remember when it was twenty
cents, can you remember when it was twenty cents? No, probably
not, you're not that old. Well, trust me, there was a time..."

Nick glowered at him while the litany continued, though
Schanke never noticed. There was just no getting around it.
Schanke would either have to go, or Nick would have to kill him.
He frowned again. Even in jest, the thought didn't really amuse:
it was, after all, a genuine danger. He, or something he might do,
could all too easily get Schanke killed. It was a risk he didn't
want to take; the reason he'd always resisted partner assignments
in the past.

"...don't believe this." Inexplicably, Schanke was squirming
in the passenger seat, searching his suit, slapping at the pockets.

The Coke tipped and dribbled brown liquid down his tie. "I never
do that!"

"What?"

"Guess I must've left my shield at home. Damn. Hey, we could
just swing by and pick it up. It's not too far out of the way."
He rattled off an address and Nick, tight-lipped, complacently
turned the Caddy down the next street going that direction.

"You really got no family?" Schanke asked again. "No parents,
uncles, cousins, ex-wives... Nobody?"

"No." Nick sighed, and Schanke mistook his frustration for
sorrow.

"Geez, I'm sorry. That's really too bad. I mean, don't get
me wrong, it's not that relatives can't be a royal pain in the butt
sometimes, but... well, it must get awful *lonely* in that barn of
an apartment you live in. No wife, no kids..."

Nick looked away, increasingly uncomfortable with this line of
inquisition. "I do okay," he said curtly, but Schanke never
noticed the attempted dismissal. He launched instead into a
lecture on the joys of parenthood, and Nick did his best to tune it
out until they arrived at the Schanke residence, an aging-but-
comfortable-looking two story home with a railed porch and gabled
windows. Nick stared at it, trying to reconcile the simple charm
of the house with Schanke's brash, abrasive personality and
failing. His partner was already out of the car, blowing on his
hands and dancing from foot to foot.

"Think I'll pick up a coat and gloves while I'm at it -- it's
really getting *cold* out here. Aren't you cold? And don't say
it's just my advanced age, 'cause I might have to shoot you."
Schanke held open the passenger door, ducking to stick his head
back inside. "You coming?"

"I don't think--"

"Oh, come on, Knight, for once in your life pretend you're a
human being and..." He faltered, if only for a moment, at Nick's
startled look. "...and come in out of the cold, would ya? You can
at least meet the wife and kid."

Trapped, Nick did his best to smile. "Yeah. Sure. Okay."
Like a man on his way to the gallows, he crawled out of the Caddy
and followed Schanke up the walk.

{++}
Man, was this Knight guy a piece of work or what? Lived on
some weird liquid diet, allergic to sunlight, didn't talk much, and
when he did, grumpy as a bear on steroids. Don Schanke slipped a
key into the front door and wondered if it was going to take an act
of Parliament to get his new partner to lighten up a little.

"Myra? Honey, you down here?" They stepped into the darkened
entry hall and he closed the door behind Knight, who was glancing
nervously around as though something might jump out and bite him at
any moment.
"Don?" The love of his life appeared at the top of the
stairs, her crown of dark hair backlit by an open bedroom door.
Schanke grinned up at her, thinking how great she looked. So maybe
he'd gained a few pounds and lost a little hair over the last
fifteen years. Myra was still as gorgeous as the day he'd married
her.

"Honey, come on down a minute. Somebody here you've gotta
meet." He flipped on the hall light as she came down the stairs,
noticing that Knight squinted in the sudden glare. "Myra Schanke,
Nick Knight, homicide detective extraodinaire and Donnie-Boy's new
partner on the graveyard shift." He grabbed both their hands and
pressed them together, delighted when Myra turned on her hundred-
watt smile and hardily shook Knight's hand.

"I've heard so much about you," she said.

With a tight smile, Knight shook back and then shyly reclaimed
his hand. "Likewise."

"Just stopped by to pick up my coat and gloves and uh...
something I forgot," Schanke told her. "Jenny already in bed?"

"Not yet. She's in the den."

"Oh, great. You can introduce Knight while I go on my little
reconnaissance mission. Be right back."

He saw a distinct note of pleading in Knight's eyes when Myra
recaptured his partner's hand and led him off through the parlor.

When Schanke returned with his acquisitions and made his own
way to the den, it was to find Knight seated next to Myra, but on
the very edge of the couch, looking ready to bolt at any moment.
The TV was on with the sound muted, airing a *Star Trek* rerun.
Knight leaped to his feet the moment Schanke walked in, but
anything he'd planned to say was pre-empted by a small brunette
hurricane that came hurtling at Schanke from the floor.

"Daddy!"

The coat falling forgotten to the carpet, he caught her in
both arms and whirled her in a complete circle, planting a big kiss
on her forehead. "Hiya, kid. Hey, you meet my partner here?"

"Uh-huh. His name's funny!"

"Oh yeah?" Schanke cast Knight a questioning glance, but got
only a shrug in answer.

"Yeah," Jenny giggled. "Nick Knight, just like Nick-at-
Night!"

While his partner continued to look thoroughly bewildered,
Schanke tweaked his daughter on the chin. "That's what I get for
buying a satellite dish. And anyway, when did *you* ever stay up
that late?"

"Didn't. They have commercials." In true kid-fashion, Jenny
abruptly changed subjects. "Can we go to the zoo on Saturday?"

Schanke executed a formal bow. "Your Highness' wish is my
command," he intoned, then hugged her again. A minute later, his
offspring was happily sprawled back on the floor in front of the TV
set, where Captain Kirk engaged in a muted battle of wits with an
equally soundless Klingon.

"What... What are all those *fuzzy* things?" Knight wondered
out loud, indicating the TV screen.

With a snort, Schanke bent to retrieve his fallen coat,
checking to be sure his badge and gloves were still in the pocket.
"Good grief, Knight. Where have you *been* for the last 30 years,
in a cave someplace?" He turned for the door. "Well, time to
venture back out onto the cold mean streets of Toronto. Later,
Jenny!"

His daughter looked over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers
in farewell. The TV sound came back up then, filling the den with
the clamorous sounds of a futuristic barroom brawl. Schanke made
a hasty exit, Knight behind him, and Myra brought up the rear,
going with them to the front door and out onto the porch. Knight
had a peculiar look on his face, moreso when Schanke turned to kiss
the wife good-bye and said, "See you later, honey. Better get back
inside now before you get frostbite."

He shrugged into the coat, turned around to find his partner
staring oddly at the door Myra had just closed. Only instead of
wearing that far-off spacey expression he got sometimes, Knight
looked for all the world like one of those homeless waifs in a
Dickens Christmas play, gazing hungrily through the window at the
family sitting down to turkey dinner.

"What's with you?"

Knight glanced at him sharply, blinking. "Nothing. Let's
go." He spun and headed swiftly for the car.

For a minute there... Well, *just* for a minute, Schanke could
have sworn his partner had had tears in his eyes.
=++=
The police radio had begun calling for 81 Kilo before Nick
reached the Caddy. He pulled open the door, slipped inside, picked
up the microphone. "This is 81 Kilo responding, over."

"Possible homicide reported, 3085 Sherman Drive. Do you copy?
Over."

"We're on it." He replaced the handset without bothering to
say 'over and out.'" Dispatch would complain about that later. He
waited for Schanke to close the passenger door, then sped away from
the curb.

When they arrived, three squad cars, the coroner's van and
several TV news trucks were already clogging the street outside the
rather run-down tract house on Sherman. They threaded their way
through the crowd of gawking neighbors and news reporters, flashed
badges at the uniforms guarding the door, stepped inside...

__Blood.__

Nick barely avoided wheeling back around and bolting. The
blood odor was overwhelming; stronger than any he'd encountered
since... No. He wouldn't think about that. He concentrated
instead on sticking next to Schanke until they'd made it all the
way into the living room, to the circle of uniforms and lab coats
surrounding the thing on the floor. The thing that had been alive
and human -- once. Male, by the look of it. Not much else you
_could_ tell, though. One shot to the chest, one to the groin, and
a third... It no longer had a face.

Dimly, he became aware of Schanke crossing himself and
murmuring, "Jesus-Mary-Jehosaphat." Nick closed his eyes against
the blood scent, fought back an obscenity of hunger that had no
place here, looked up again when he heard Nat's voice approaching
them.

_"Not_ pretty," she said with feeling. "Twelve-gauge shotgun,
point blank range." Behind her, the forensics photographer leaned
in to begin taking flash photos of the corpse. "Victim's name is
Walt Boyer, 46, married, two sons, and it's his house."

Schanke gave her a grim little smile. "Not anymore. We know
who did it?"

Nat's expression wavered, the professional veneer dissolving.
"Yeah. And that's gonna get a whole lot uglier." She nodded
across the room, where three uniforms stood over a teenaged boy who
sat, staring vacantly ahead, on the sofa.

"The _kid??_" Schanke coughed. "You're kidding, right? Tell
me you're kidding."
"I wish I were." Nat's distressed eyes met Nick's. "He's
thirteen years old, for God's sake. How do we--?"

Nick grasped her arms, the touch as much a steadying influence
for himself as for her. "Any other family here?"

Nat shook her head. "The 13-year-old is Paul. The other son
is Andrew, 15. He -- and the murder weapon -- are still among the
missing. The wife is in New York. Apparently, they were
separated. Turner's trying to track down a phone number on her
now."

"We got an APB on the other kid?" Schanke asked.

"Ogilvey called it in."

Nick gave her hand a quick squeeze, a gesture not lost on his
ever-inquisitive partner. "Thanks, Nat."

Someone called her away then, and Nick became aware of a long,
low whistle coming from Schanke. "Geez, I do _not_ believe this.
What on Earth incites a kid to kill his own _father?_"

Uncomfortably, Nick surveyed the room. There were definite
signs of a struggle: overturned furniture, a broken lamp. "There's
always a reason, Schanke," he said, and headed for the sofa.

Following procedure, he held out his badge where the occupant
of the couch could see it, nodding to the uniformed officers at the
same time. They stepped aside, though not very far. The boy on
the couch hadn't moved.

"You're Paul?" Nick asked in a carefully moderated voice.
Still nothing. Aware of Schanke lurking just behind him, Nick
tucked his badge away and squatted down to eye-level, peering into
a pale, sullen face. "You want to tell us what happened here
tonight?"

"No."

Hazel eyes finally turned on him: eyes filled with anger and
defiance and so much pain that Nick very nearly recoiled from them.

"Maybe you can tell us who pulled the trigger, then." That
was Schanke.

Paul glanced up at him just once, then lowered his head, over-
long blond hair falling into his eyes. "I did," he said, no
emotion whatsoever in the words.

Not sure yet whether to take that as truth, Nick reached out
and in what he'd intended as a comforting gesture, placed a hand
over Paul's. The boy jumped as though Nick had struck him,
snatching his hand back and edging away. Puzzled, Nick withdrew
his own hand, then straightened to exchange a questioning glance
with Schanke before he asked, "Where's your brother, Paul? Where's
the gun?"

Two hours later at the precinct, he still had no answers to
those questions. Head bowed, Paul Boyer sat like a statue at the
interrogation table, as detached as though he were indeed made of
stone. Nick, seated beside him, had long since wearied of asking
the same questions without getting answers. And across the table,
Schanke, late of the day shift, was literally nodding off.

Nick had had enough. With a side glance at his dozing
partner, he grasped Paul's chin with one hand, and when the boy
again tried to pull away, held firm. "It's all right," he
reassured. "I want you to look at me..." The boy's heartbeat
pounded in his ears, rapid with fright. Green eyes locked with
his, and again, Nick found that he wanted to turn away. The look
in those eyes was one he knew all too painfully well.

"Where's the gun, Paul?"

The voice that answered him was lifeless, devoid of feeling.
"Andy," he said. "Andy took it."

"Where?"

The eyes blinked, began to refocus. Nick re-exerted the bond,
letting go of the boy's chin as he did so. "You trust me," he
half-whispered, and saw Paul's lips move to echo the words. "You
want to talk to me."

When he released the mental hold, the boy shook his head and
stared back at him, the eyes less defiant, more open now. "Talk to
me, Paul. Tell me what happened."

As if on cue, Schanke looked up, suddenly attentive.

Paul started talking, though his voice broke on the first
word. "We..." He drew in a timid breath, started over. "We
couldn't let him do it again, that's all."

"Do what ag--" Schanke started to ask, but Nick quelled him
with a pleading look and a raised hand.

"Andy knew where he hid the shotgun. We just had to wait till
he came home drunk again, till he started in... He used to take
most of it out on Mom. But when she left, he started on us. It
was just the beatings at first. But then... then he..."

Nick captured the boy's hand, not letting go despite the
flinch it evoked. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about that.
Just help us find Andy. You know where he was going, don't you?"

Without warning, rage darkened the too-young face. Paul tore
free of Nick's grasp and leaped from the chair, overturning it. "I
don't have to talk to you!" He pounded a fist on the tiled wall,
striking it again and again. "I don't!"

Nick came up behind him, standing as close as he dared. "We
can help," he started to say, but Paul turned on him, fury and
hatred far beyond his years burning in those eyes.

"Nobody helps!" He slapped away Nick's hand. "Not cops.
They just take a report, and then they give you back... to him."

Unbidden, flashes of Lacroix began to assail Nick; memories of
enraged blows, glowing red eyes, sharp fangs tearing flesh...
Still worse had been the shame at his weakness, the helpless fear,
and the despair of knowing -- to Lacroix's cruel delight -- that
his enslavement was going to last an eternity.

"Cops don't care," Paul was sneering at him. "Nobody cares."

"You're wrong. _I_ care."

From over his shoulder, he heard Schanke say soothingly, "Take
it easy, kid."

Nick caught and held the boy's eyes again, though he extended
no other influence. He wanted to say that he knew all too horribly
well what it was like to be controlled by a mentor, a master, a
_father_; controlled by someone who claimed to love you, yet took
a sadistic pleasure in every unspeakable cruelty. He wanted to say
that he also knew what it was to be driven beyond what you could
bear, until you had to fight back, even if it meant...

He could see Lacroix writhing against the stake's killing
blow, that look of utter, disbelieving _betrayal_ in the master
vampire's glowing eyes as the flames rushed up to consume him. In
another eight centuries, Nick would never forget that scream...

"We _can_ help," he heard Schanke's voice say gently. "Just
tell us where your brother is. Where was he going to ditch the
shotgun?"

Paul's eyes still held Nick's, all the anger and hatred still
broiling in them. "You don't know what it's like, to have the
bastard come home every night, stinking drunk, screaming at you.
Next thing, he's knocked you across the room. Then he keeps
hitting you, and hitting you--"

"Paul..."

"You don't know--"

"And maybe I do!" Nick was almost shouting, grasping the
boy's shoulders and shaking him harder than he should have.
Peripherally, he saw Schanke's mouth drop open in dismay. But he
held tightly onto the boy's arms, trying to draw some of the hurt
from those eyes. "I _do_ know."

Paul shook his head, disbelieving. "Not you..."

"Yes, me. I survived, Paul, _and so can you._" He saw tears
beginning to supplant the anger now. It meant he was getting
through. "Schanke's right. We _can_ help. But you have to help
us, too." He was having trouble keeping his own voice from
breaking. "Tell us what happened, Paul. Tell us where Andy is."

Fighting to hold back the floodgates, the boy began trembling
under Nick's hands. "The lakefront." It came out as a choked
whisper. "He was going to the lakefront."

When the wracking sobs began, Nick pulled the boy into an
embrace, hugging him tightly against one shoulder. "It's all
right." He put one hand to the small blond head. "It's over now."

_He'll never hurt you again,_ he added mentally. _We've both
made certain of that, you and I. And neither one of us is sorry._
{++}
God, but this was unbelievable. Schanke watched Knight
holding the sobbing teenager, and retreated in silence to the table
as the whole, horrible story began pouring out. He'd never have
figured Knight for a cop who'd be good with kids, let alone a kid
like this one. And what he'd said...

When it had all come out, they'd kept on standing like that,
Knight just letting the kid cry. Schanke had slipped out,
unnoticed, to call in the lakefront info. and to notify Juvenile
Division that they'd need to send an officer -- and a couple of
counselors -- pronto.

Lord, he hated cases like this. In twelve years on the force,
he couldn't remember one this bad. But the even uglier truth was,
neither could Don Schanke find any pity for the late unlamented
Walt Boyer. As far as he was concerned, anyone who could do that
to his own kids...

Schanke thought automatically of Jenny, of exactly what he'd
want to do to anyone who hurt her. And the depth of that potential
violence unnerved him.

Shuddering, he snatched a report form off his desk and, with
a barely-controlled vengeance, twisted it into the typewriter.

Juvenile Division sent over an officer and two counselors,
precisely per his request. He showed them to interrogation and
went back to his paperwork, letting Knight handle the changeover.
But an hour after Juvenile had departed with their charge, his
partner still hadn't reappeared.

Schanke checked the coffee niche first: it was where he always
went after a particularly tough interview. But no, come to think
of it, he'd never seen Knight drink the stuff. He tried
interrogation next, and found his missing partner still standing
against the same wall, hands splayed, forehead to the tiles. He'd
seen Knight brood before, but this...

Schanke let the door click shut behind him, then stood there
for several minutes feeling utterly useless.

"Knight?" The formal name sounded suddenly cold. "Nick? You
okay?"

One of the hands flexed, clenched into a fist, lowered. "I'm
fine."

Knight might be a good cop, but he was one hell of a lousy
liar.

"You don't look fine."
Silence.

"Look, I know we don't know each other all that well, and if
you want to tell me to get lost, go ahead. I just wanted to say
that... well that if you want to talk, I'll be there for you, any
time. You may not believe it, but I'm a very good listener."

Knight lifted his head, looked at him with eyes that he could
have sworn had been gold for just a moment. Gold and full of a few
centuries' worth of pain. God, he'd seen guys mortally wounded who
didn't look that hurt.

"I mean it's not that I'm an expert or anything. My old man,
he took a belt to us sometimes if we got really out of line,
y'know? But never anything like..." No wonder he'd never wanted
to talk about his family. Schanke cleared his throat. "I just
want you to know I'm here if you need me. You want me to butt out,
just say the word."

Knight closed his eyes again. "Do me a favor?" he asked, the
voice still tight and strained.

"Sure. Anything."

"Book off for me?" Knight moved, probably for the first time
in hours, and pulled his discarded coat off one of the chairs.
"I've gotta go."

"No problem." Schanke barely got the words out before his
partner had vanished out the door. It wasn't the response he'd
hoped for, but then again, this _was_ Nick Knight he was talking
about.

Shaking his head, Schanke took a deep breath, left the room
and turned toward the timecard corner to fulfill the promised
favor.

{++}

The sun had been up for perhaps an hour when an insistent
buzzing roused Nick from a fitful doze in his chair. He made his
way across the darkened living room to the monitor over the door,
found a yawning Schanke staring up into the camera.

"Hello? Is the knight in shining armor awake?"

Nick smiled in spite of himself. "He is now. What's up,
Schanke?"

"Just some papers Cap'n Stonetree asked me to drop off. Okay,
not asked. Ordered. Sorry to bug you, but he sort of insisted."

Nick hit the security door release. "Come on up." He
remembered to turn on a few lights, and also disposed of a few
empty bottles before Schanke came through the elevator door. He
carried a manila folder and something else in a brown paper bag.
He set the latter down on the coffee table, pulling out a bottle of
not-inexpensive red wine which he handed to Nick.

"I'm... uh... usually more of a beer kinda guy myself, but
somehow I didn't figure you for the type, so..."

Nick was at a loss. "Is there some occasion...?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of." His partner sank into a chair,
absently fanning the folder. "Guess you could say we're
celebrating either hello or good-bye."

No more enlightened than before, Nick retrieved two glasses
from his cupboard, returned to place them on the table, and took a
seat on the couch.

"Cap'n said to tell you you did a great job with the Boyer
kid," Schanke told him. "I guess Juvenile Division was really
impressed. Oh, and Saunders 'n' Hale over in the 25th picked up
the brother an hour ago. He ditched the gun in the lake, but he
showed 'em where, and forensics is on it this morning. So are the
news crews, big time. It's gonna come down justifiable homicide,
though, any way you turn it."

Schanke seemed to run out of words. Sighing, he leaned
forward and proffered the folder. "Well, here."

Expecting a report on the Boyer case, Nick took and opened the
folder, frowning when he began reading the contents. "Schank..."
The second syllable of the name didn't quite make it out. "This is
a reassignment request."

"Uh-huh. I know you put it in a few days ago, but Stonetree
refused to sign it then, 'cause he wanted us to try at least one
shift on a regular run together, to see how it went. He, uh, said
to tell you, if you still want out, that he's signed it now. All
you have to do is initial the fine print, cross the t's and dot the
i's, and we're history."

Nick stared at him. "You _knew_?"

"Yeah. And hey, it's okay. I understand. Really." Schanke
scooted forward on the chair, reached to uncork and pour the wine.
"I'll drink to whatever decision you make. I mean that."

Nick snapped the folder shut. "I'm sorry, Schank..." For
some reason, that second syllable just didn't want to come out.
"It wasn't anything personal."

"Like I said, no problemo." Schanke lifted the glasses,
handed one across. "So what'll it be? A toast to partners, or ex-
partners?"
Nick knew it was a set-up, sending Schanke with the papers.
It had Stonetree's indelicate touch stamped all over it. But then,
truth be told, Nick had already made his decision, so the
subterfuge was completely unnecessary. Over the course of many
lives, he'd called a number of mortals 'friend.' But none of them
had ever offered the brooding, temperamental Nick Knight the
unconditional friendship that Don Schanke had extended to him this
evening. It didn't even matter that he couldn't share the burden
Schanke had offered to carry. The offer had been enough.

"Tell him I changed my mind." Nick handed the folder back.

Schanke looked genuinely surprised for a moment. Then he
grinned and touched his glass to Nick's. "I guess it's to
partners, then."

"To partners," Nick echoed, and sipped at the wine, hiding a
smile when Schanke downed his in two swallows and gasped in
appreciation.

"Wow. That is _good stuff._" He stood, tucking the folder
under one arm. "Well amigo, sorry to gulp and run, but if I don't
get some sleep soon I'm gonna turn into a grizzly bear."

Nick rose, following to the elevator door as his partner began
chattering again. "Myra'll probably have bacon and eggs on the
table when I get there. Old habits die hard, I guess. Sun comes
up, eggs sunny-side-up. That's my Myra." He pulled open the door,
but stopped, hesitating briefly before he turned. "Oh and Kni--
Nick... I meant what I said back at the precinct. You ever want
to talk, I'll be there."

Nick's smile was restrained but sincere. "Okay. And Schank?
Thanks."

There was an awkward moment before Schanke extended a hand.
"Yeah. Well, g'night -- _partner_. See you tomorrow, same time,
same station."

Nick took the offered hand, warm flesh meeting cold, and shook
it. Then the door slid shut across Schanke's broad grin, and the
elevator bore him away.

Nick took another sip of the wine and found himself mirroring
the smile.

Maybe this partner business wouldn't be so bad after all.
 

+ End +