Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jon shows up to work on the first day of his post-graduate internship fully pressed, starched and buttoned down. Beside him, Tom looks just as uncomfortable as Jon feels, constantly twitching a hand up toward his hair, which has been gelled and shellacked to within an inch of its life.

Jon’s met their supervisor Patrick twice before; once when he was still in college finishing up his degree, at a career counseling fair for the psychology department, and once when he formally interviewed for this internship. It doesn’t entirely erase the pit of nervousness in his stomach, but it helps.

“Come in, come in,” Patrick says from behind a desk, in the office Jon guesses must be his. “Have a seat. Everyone’s out on calls right now, we have some time. It’s a busy morning,” he adds, glancing out onto the main office floor where there are four empty desks set up in pairs. “Usually we don’t have them all out at the same time.”

Jon sits in the second chair so Tom can have the one by the door, and they both accept the bulging pocket file folders Patrick hands them with nervous haste. “This is all the general paperwork, the official handbook and some handouts. You should familiarize yourself with them when you have time. Protocol, especially, for both in the office and fieldwork.”

“Fieldwork?” Tom echoes, sounding surprised.

Patrick just waves a hand. “You never know, it’s good to be prepared.” Jon sits up a little straighter at that, thinking of the opportunities to go out and prove himself in the field. He tries to look like a chill dude who would totally be able to keep his head in a crisis, rescuing children from burning buildings and beating up thugs who steal purses from little old ladies.

Tom gives him a weird look like he knows what Jon’s thinking, and Jon is abruptly glad that Patrick can’t. He holds his hand out with bright attentiveness when Patrick checks the labels on two more files and passes them over the desk.

“I’m assigning you each one consultant in particular to work with, although you should feel free to get to know all of them. We have four telepaths working here full-time, not including myself, which is about average for a district this size.” Patrick pauses. “Any questions so far?”

Jon and Tom both shake their heads. Patrick mumbles a little to himself, tugging at his hat. He seems to recover quickly, launching back into the official welcome speech.

“I’ll still be their therapist of record, as supervisor of this department, and they’ll still have sessions with me on occasion. We have an open-door policy here, which I would encourage you to adopt.” Patrick looks stern suddenly, fierce, and Jon wonders whether this protective loyalty is what got him promoted to supervisor at such a young age. “You’ll meet with them three times a week, at scheduled hours, but if one of them comes into your office and closes the door, you should consider yourself in a private session. Understand?”

Again, Jon nods in unison with Tom, trying to look earnest. Patrick relaxes a fraction, fussing again with papers on his desk. “You should go get settled in before they get back,” he advises. “You’ve been assigned the best and brightest the city has to offer. If you can handle them, you can handle…” He stops, pursing his lips. “Well. You’ll see.”

The telepaths, who start trickling in over the course of the next hour, don’t seem like a bad bunch. Jon’s never felt the instinctive wariness a lot of people have around telepaths, reassured by the fact that there’s no way they can get into his thoughts. He’s negative space for them, a mind that doesn’t exist. They seem to treat him with casual curiosity, little wrinkles in their brows that tell Jon they’re trying and failing to beat biology and look into his head.

There are two sets of partners, which is explained somewhere in Jon’s handouts, something about providing balance and stability. Butcher is the first one in, and Jon likes him almost at once. He’s friendly and laidback, grinning throughout the requisite introductions and offering to take them out for a beer sometime. His partner’s name is Adam, which makes Butcher ‘Andrew’ in the files, once Jon has covertly checked the staff listing in his file folder.

Adam has all the enthusiasm of a new puppy, shaking their hands and asking them questions about college and their degrees and what they want to do after this internship, which is slightly overwhelming but welcome at the same time. He seems awfully young, which Jon makes a mental note to ask Patrick about. Somehow, when he’d conjured up a mental image of law enforcement, teenagers hadn’t appeared in the ranks.

The next person they meet isn’t one of the consultants, but an actual officer working for the police. He comes in half an hour after Adam in full uniform, looking distinctly surly. “Stumph,” he says without preamble. “Your freakshow kids are harassing my men again.”

Jon’s taken aback, but Patrick doesn’t even appear to question it. “Officer Carden,” he says with a sigh. “Come in. Which one is it this time?”

They head into Patrick’s office, leaving the door ajar but too far away for Jon to eavesdrop. Adam leans in toward Butcher and whispers loudly, “Five bucks says William.”

“Pete,” Butcher counters, holding out his hand. “That’s a whole soy latte. I’ll take it.” They do a complicated pinky-swear maneuver Jon can’t follow, and then both of them look toward the far door leading outside like pointers catching a scent.

“Tell Pete to stop lurking and just come in,” Patrick calls from inside his office.

The door swings open a second later, and a tiny guy with long bangs sweeping over his eyes strolls in, hands stuffed nonchalantly into the pockets of his hoodie. “That would ruin my entrance, Pattycakes,” he announces, coming to a halt a few feet away from them. “Hey, new guys. It wasn’t me,” he adds, ostensibly to Adam and Butcher.

Adam pumps a victory fist into the air, triumphant, which is when Patrick yells, “Pete, get your ass in here.”

Pete’s smile drops off a little, and he shrugs deeper into his hoodie. “Okay, it may have been me,” he admits.

Adam scribbles ‘IOU’ onto a telephone message pad and passes it to Butcher, who winks at them and says, “Welcome to the team.”

The fourth member of the team, Jon’s assigned patient, hasn’t gotten back from whatever call he’s out on by the afternoon, as it turns out. Jon debates staying to wait for him, because he assumes that’s the best way to form a good impression, but Butcher throws an arm over his shoulders and steers him toward the door behind Tom and Adam.

“Fuck only knows how long his hostage negotiation thing will take,” Butcher tells Jon good-spiritedly. “Besides, Pete will know before anyone else when he gets back.”

“It’s like a fucking annoying egg timer with a question mark hanging over it,” Pete agrees. “Buzz, buzz, where the fuck are you?”

“Is that a partner thing?” Tom asks, sounding interested.

“No, that’s a William thing,” Butcher answers for him. “And when he finds out we’ve gone for tapas without him, it’s going to be more like buzz, buzz, exclamation point, exclamation point.”

Pete grimaces, but doesn’t seem genuinely upset about it. “He’s going to be pissed as hell,” he agrees, “but it’s your first day, we’ve got to treat you right.” He grins up at the sky. “Show you the best Chicago has to offer, one bar at a time.”

They get a Manchego plate and about a dozen different main dishes, and by the time they leave, Jon feels both like he can never eat again and like he wants to come back in two hours for another round.

“I think I just gained ten pounds,” Tom mutters as they walk back to the office, at a considerably slower pace than they’d set earlier.

“It’s the good pounds, though,” Jon replies, rubbing his belly in appreciation.

When they get back, Jon goes to his office – he still can’t believe he has his own office – to review the file on the consultant Patrick’s assigned him. William Beckett, twenty years old, with more commendations and listed assignments than Jon would have guessed for someone so young. He can’t make heads or tails of most of it yet, working painstakingly through the department shorthand and slang, but he’ll take it home with him to study tonight.

There’s a note from Patrick, too, that says William can sometimes be a handful. Don’t let him get to you. Jon isn’t quite sure how to take that, but he thinks he appreciates the warning.

Just after two, Jon hears the door and goes to investigate, peering out onto the floor and seeing Tom do the same from his office next door. There’s someone new on the floor, walking over to the desks with a half-smile already on his lips. None of the others look up, but Jon doesn’t make the mistake of thinking they’re unaware.

“You assholes,” the guy Jon assumes is William accuses. “You went to Sangria without me. I could feel the guilt all the way down the block.”

“Next time negotiate a little faster, we’ll take you with,” Pete replies, spinning his chair around and catching himself on the edge of his desk with the toe of one colorful sneaker. “Lunch waits for no man.”

“You owe me a caipirinha,” William returns, stabbing one long, thin finger in his direction for emphasis. Everything about him is long and thin, honestly. Jon feels slightly self-conscious even standing a few feet away, and lifts himself up onto his toes before he clears his throat.

William’s head whips around, startled. Jon doesn’t know what exactly happens in that brief moment, but all three other telepaths start to stand, and Patrick appears in his doorway like he’s heard a gunshot. A second later William relaxes, and whatever tension had been in the air dissipates instantly.

“Negs,” he says. “You must be the new interns. That’s great, I could use some coffee.”

Jon’s momentarily left at a loss. Patrick speaks up before he can come up with a response, turning to head back into his office. “Be nice,” he says over his shoulder. “And don’t forget Jon’s taking your session today.”

Jon takes the cue and jumps back in. “Jon Walker,” he says, holding out a hand. “Hello.”

“William Beckett,” William replies, shaking it and giving him an inscrutable look. His gaze flicks over to Tom, then back again, and he flashes a quick smile. “Let’s do this, shall we?”

Jon barely stops himself from saying now? “Sure,” he manages to substitute instead, pushing his office door open wider. “If that’s what you want.”

“Why not?” William asks philosophically. He brushes a little too close to Jon on his way through the door, relentlessly cheerful. “Therapy awaits.”

Jon throws a quick, helpless look at Tom, and follows him in.

The introductory warning, ‘William can sometimes be a handful,’ does not even begin to describe Jon's first session.

“They haven’t told you about me, have they?” William asks, taking a graceful seat in front of Jon’s desk.

Jon has to work his way around to the other side, sidestepping both the chair and William’s lanky legs. He thinks this isn’t the most professional anyone has ever looked during their first session with a new patient, and wonders briefly if there’s any way to rearrange the room so that he’s less likely to be caught awkward and off-guard. He suspects somehow that William would be able to find another way to catch him out just as easily.

“A little bit,” Jon admits. “I have your file.”

“Did you check the test scores yet?” William asks, seemingly casual. He doesn’t wait for an answer before going on, looking Jon right in the eye. “I have over twice the ability of nearly every other telepath in the country, more than anyone else in my generation in the world.”

He doesn’t say it like he’s bragging, exactly, more like forewarning. Like Jon should know what he’s getting himself into here. The only problem is that Jon isn’t sure yet what that entails.

“Do you know what that means?” William asks, and Jon thinks for a crazy moment that William’s read his mind after all, that he’s strong enough to do what everyone else has told him isn’t possible. “It means,” William continues, “that I have enough power to break through even Patrick’s shields to find out what secrets he’s hiding. I can stand on the pier and tell you the names of every single person out on Lake Michigan with ten seconds. I can shock a person’s mind into unconsciousness with a single thought.”

Ah, Jon thinks faintly, still staring. That explains everyone’s reaction earlier out on the floor, then. He wonders if William was about to fry him from surprise alone.

“I can tell you the color of everyone's underwear in this entire building,” William says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “And the last time they had sex, and who it was with, and who they were really thinking of when they came. I don't know now, but I could. Like that.” He snaps his fingers and Jon jumps.

Jon is trying to figure out if there's a smooth way to segue from this into asking how things are going in William's personal life when William stretches out and stands up. “See you next week,” he says cheerfully.

Jon stares at the clock on his desk, the only one in the whole office, the one facing him, and gapes. “How did you...?”

William grins, sharp and wicked. “Kathy on the fifth floor just glanced at her watch,” he answers. “Oh, and. She's not wearing any, last night, his name was Roger, and she was thinking of you.” William winks. “Or maybe that's just me.”

He sashays out, and Jon keeps staring.

Tom slips into his office thirty minutes later, looking hunted. “I think William Beckett is trying to get into my pants,” he says worriedly.

Jon considers, and finally says, “I think William Beckett is trying to get into everyone's pants.”

“Thanks,” Tom says. “You're so helpful.”

Jon says, “I try.”

“He hates us,” Tom moans, hands tugging at his hair. “That’s the only explanation for why he would do this to us.”

They’re a bottle-and-a-half into the Jack Daniels, and Jon is beginning to become pouring impaired. He tips the bottle over sloppily and is pleased when liquid sloshes into his sticky glass. “’Hates’ is a strong word,” he quotes dutifully. “Maybe he’s just testing us.”

“Look at these files,” Tom counters, gesturing wildly to the papers strewn across their entire living room. They’ve gone through and highlighted the relevant sections, color-coding the way they’ve done case files since sophomore year. Issues, possible causes, specific incidents, history and environment. It started out as a drinking game, which is why they’re now well into bottle number two.

William’s file looks like a sunset. Pete’s looks like a life-sized rainbow.

“Anger management issues,” Tom reads, picking up a page at random, splashed with color. “Violent tendencies. Depression. Disrespect for authority. Feelings of insecurity.”

“At least those are all out-in-the-field problems,” Jon muses, looking mournfully at his own scattered papers. “William won’t talk to me about anything, he just keeps deflecting. And then he propositions me.” He frowns. “I think. It’s always sort of hard to tell.”

Tom tips his head onto the back of the couch, gazing despairingly up at the ceiling. “I’ll bet Adam and Butcher are perfectly well-adjusted. I’ll bet their files say things like, ‘Adam enjoys playing with dogs,’ and ‘Butcher paints trees in his free time as a form of stress relief.’”

“Butcher does paint trees,” Jon comments, because he’s seen them. Butcher brought his newest one into the office a few days ago to show them.

“I know,” Tom says impatiently. Then he groans. “I’ll bet if Pete painted, it would be blood-spattered sheets with naked women lying on them, and a gun pointing at his own head. A gun that represented, like, telepathy, and had an angel drawn on the barrel.”

“If William painted, it would be…” He’s not sure of that, actually. Naked people? A blank canvas? Something artsy and pretentious that he would refuse to explain in order to drive Jon completely insane?

He knocks some of the pages off the coffee table with his meaningful gesturing and has to chase them, crawling onto the carpet and feeling around under the lumpy chair in the corner. Tom starts laughing behind him. “Your ass,” he says. “It would totally be your ass.”

“Are you checking out my ass?” Jon asks, looking back over his shoulder. “You gay homo.”

“I was not,” Tom protests, waving the liquor bottle so the alcohol sloshes around wildly. “It was just there, I couldn’t not look at it.”

“You were checking out my ass,” Jon sings, waggling it in the air and grinning. “My fine, fine ass.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tom orders, and tosses a handful of papers at him.

“Hey,” Jon protests, patting at them. “Don’t do that, I just highlighted these.”

Tom heaves a great, drunken sigh. “Patrick hates us,” he mourns.

Jon looks at the debris around them and thinks about the mentor review session first thing in the morning. “Yes,” he agrees mournfully. “I think he really, really does.”

Jon walks in the next morning nursing only a mild hangover, thanks to the extremely greasy breakfast he and Tom had consumed on the way in, to find Patrick’s office empty.

“Patrick’s not here,” Pete informs him unnecessarily, looking up from where all four telepaths are clustered together at their desks in a huddle. “He got called away by Carden to a meeting thing.”

“Oh,” Jon says. “Thanks.” He wishes he’d known earlier so he could have slept in another half-hour without getting caught and chastised for it. Then again, in an office full of telepaths, it sometimes seems like what one knows, all know sooner or later. He looks at Tom, who shrugs.

“We’re gossiping,” Pete tells them. “Get over here.”

They do, standing on the fringe of the little circle because police consultants apparently have something against chairs and are forever standing beside, perching on, or leaning against their desks.

“Carden was thinking about the logo,” Adam says, clearly continuing on with whatever they were discussing before. “The one with the snake. Not happy thoughts, either.”

“It’s the cover-up,” Butcher contributes, snapping his fingers. “They were almost linked to that thing last year, remember? Embezzling public funds?”

“No. This was more specific,” William says thoughtfully. “Something recent. It had to do with children, somehow.”

“You weren’t even here,” Adam scoffs.

“I was next door on the plaza getting coffee,” William replies, which is apparently good enough because everyone shuts up. “He was thinking about kids, and Patrick. They were connected.”

“Probably because he wants Patrick to take care of whatever the deal is with the kids,” Butcher points out. William looks dubious, but he doesn’t offer an alternative theory.

“It’s Cobra,” Pete says, bouncing his fist against his knee. “That was the logo. Cobra is a business co-operative, they handle finances and legal representation for smaller companies. Could one of those have to do with kids?”

“Maybe,” Adam chips in. “Patrick was thinking he’d have to pull William off calls to put him on Carden’s thing.”

“Yeah, right before he caught you snooping and started thinking about your mom,” Butcher says, grinning and ducking the halfhearted punch he gets in response.

“Don’t say that,” William says, making a face. “I know Adam’s mom.”

“How well, though, is the question,” Pete remarks, leering. William shudders and does something Jon can’t see that makes Pete twitch and bat a hand in the air. That reaction is apparently satisfactory, because William smirks and sedately sips his coffee. Jon wishes, not for the first time, that he could see what was going in their heads. He always feels like he’s missing half the conversation.

“The real question is, what’s Cobra up to?” Butcher says, bringing them back to task. Everyone’s silent for a moment, and then William’s head lifts.

“We’re about to find out,” he says. “Second floor, about to hit the button for the elevator.”

Pete cocks his head as well, then grins. “He says we’re a bunch of old ladies, and he’s not telling us anything yet,” he says fondly. “He’ll cave, though. He always does.”

“Look busy,” Butcher advises, slinging himself neatly into his chair, and Jon heads for Patrick’s office to talk about all the progress he hasn’t been making.

A few days later, William comes in half an hour late, heads straight for Jon’s office and shuts the door behind him. Jon, who has been trying to come up with something to do besides memorize protocol, sits up straight and does his best to look prepared and reassuring.

“Do you want to talk?” he offers gently.

“No,” William says from where he’s collapsed into the chair in front of Jon’s desk. “I’m hungover, and I want to hide from Patrick so he doesn’t start yelling at me.”

“Oh,” Jon says, and he can’t help the note of disappointment. Normally it’s something he’d try to keep William from hearing, but right now he doesn’t appear to be in any shape to notice or care. Jon tries to broach the subject without sounding judgmental, the way he thinks Patrick or his professors at school would. “Do you drink this much a lot?”

William snorts, folding down onto his elbows over Jon’s desk and pillowing his head on top. “Yes,” he answers simply. Then, just as Jon’s about to try to come up with a follow-up question, he adds, “Well, not as much, anymore.”

“Why not?” Jon asks automatically. He glances sideways, at the pad of paper and pen he has set out for note-taking at all therapy sessions, but it seems in poor taste to make a grab for them now, when William is actually doing something bordering on opening up to him.

“Because the time I was still drunk at three a.m. and ended up on an emergency call scared the shit out of me,” William replies, briefly looking up through his disheveled hair at Jon. “Same for the sleeping pills, before you ask.”

Jon remembers seeing that in his file, now that William mentions it. He’s highlighted it in pink for ‘possible mental issue’ along with the blackout drinking. “How long were you addicted to sleeping pills?” he asks casually.

William snorts, burrowing into the cradle of his spindly arms again. “I wasn’t. I took them for two weeks, and then I got another call and woke up groggy. The next day I missed one,” he adds, a note Jon had highlighted in both pink and orange, “because the phone couldn’t wake me up. No more after that.”

“Not ever?” Jon asks. He’s not sure he should be pressing this soon, but William seems willing to play along and be honest, and he wants to take advantage.

William’s smile is faint, peeking out above his left elbow. “Not never,” he counters.

Jon does reach for his pad then, sliding it subtly across the desk toward himself. “Do you have trouble sleeping at night?” he asks, and it takes him a moment because he’s uncapping the fountain pen to realize that William isn’t answering because his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

Jon is debating whether it’s too defensive to say what? when William lifts his head to meet Jon’s eyes. “I’m awake,” he says, “and I’m not under the influence of anything but I have a hangover, so right now I’m filtering about ninety-five percent of what everyone within my range is thinking. Think about that for a minute.”

He holds Jon’s gaze, and Jon does, taking a moment to try to determine just how many people there are in William’s range right now.

William’s lips twist, wry and ironic. “Then think about what it’s like when I try to sleep.”

Jon had known, of course; it was in William’s file along with the rest of it. But somehow there’s a world of difference between reading ‘has trouble sleeping; experimentation with prescription sleeping pills, blackout drinking,’ and William looking at him tiredly saying, “I just want to sleep.”

Jon can’t imagine, honestly. He can’t fathom how William stands anyone being close to him, if he’s already that overwhelmed.

“You’re not really trying to get me into bed, are you?” he asks slowly. Physical contact makes telepathic linking stronger; trying to sleep next to someone would be a nightmare for someone like William. It might be different with Jon, but William flirts like that with everyone.

William snorts. “Are we having a breakthrough right now?” he asks. “Because I’m too hungover for this.”

“No,” Jon decides, standing up. Building the relationship with your patient is crucial, his session psych professor used to say. Sometimes even more important than uncovering the issues, because then they’ll trust you to help them.

William curls up again, looking mildly curious but like it’s too much effort to ask. “Stay here,” Jon tells him. “I’ll tell Patrick we’re in a session, and I’ll bring back coffee.”

William’s lips curl up as his eyes close. “Jon Walker,” he murmurs. “You might just be my favorite psychiatrist.”

“How’s it going with Bill?” Patrick inquires. It’s Friday, which means it’s mentor review day, when Jon presents his findings and he and Patrick discuss them.

“Fine,” Jon says. He doesn’t really have any basis for comparison. The patients he’d worked with in college had all volunteered for it, and were mostly college students; they wanted to talk, wanted to talk about every little detail of their lives and sometimes he couldn’t write fast enough to get it all down.

Patrick fiddles with a pen, half-distracted as usual. “Is he giving you anything yet, or still playing games?” There’s a note of wry humor in his tone. Jon wonders how frustrating it is to know there’s more going on underneath William’s surface and still have him pretending otherwise.

“We’re warming up to each other,” Jon risks saying carefully. He thinks this might be the first time he’s come in for one of these review sessions without his emotions being wholly frustration and guilt over another fruitless week. After the other day, he’s mainly uncertain and confused. It doesn’t feel entirely like a step in a positive direction.

“He’s about to get pulled off rotation and put on something that might be long-term,” Patrick says, finally looking up at Jon and focusing his attention. His eyes are serious behind the glasses as he pushes them back up the bridge of his nose. “Which he knows, of course, although not officially.” Patrick’s exasperation is clear even without the impatient roll of his eyes.

“Okay,” Jon says, waiting for more. He’s not sure exactly what that means, but the idea of switching to counsel Butcher or Adam is surprisingly not as much of a relief as it would have been even a few days ago. After a moment, he asks, “Am I still…?”

“Your assignment hasn’t changed, no.” Patrick frowns a little, like there’s a decision he needs to make that he hasn’t come around to yet. “Just don’t be surprised if there are things Bill can’t talk about. The assignment is…” He purses his lips into a small cupid’s-bow as he thinks of the right word. “Politically delicate.”

Jon just barely restrains the groan trying to well up from inside his chest. Patrick must see it in his face regardless, because his expression switches to one of grimacing sympathy. “I know. Believe me, I know. As soon as he realizes he has that to hold over you, he won’t tell you anything.”

“He’s already not telling me anything,” Jon says, muffled into his hands. Well, that’s not entirely true, but most of what they’ve briefly conversed about has been William arching an eyebrow in confirmation after Jon spends two hours playing guessing games trying to come up with the right answer. They’re still not having what Jon would consider an open exchange of information.

“He will,” Patrick says, and then amends, “Probably.” He grimaces again, and changes the subject. “Do you have any notes you want me to look over?”

It’s part of the mentor thing; Patrick has been reading Jon’s notes every week, even though they don’t tend to consist of much more than guesswork and question marks. Today, though, Jon hesitates.

Patrick spots it instantly, of course; he’s a trained psychiatrist himself, and used to dealing with much more difficult patients. “Jon?” he prompts.

Jon turns the notebook over in his hands, considering. “Confidentiality,” he says carefully.

Patrick sits back in his chair, looking amused. “Jon,” he says, not unkindly. “You do realize that anything he tells you, I’ve probably known about for at least a year.”

“I know,” Jon says, but his conscience is being stubborn on this one. “He hasn’t even told me anything. I just feel like if I don’t start respecting that relationship, then I won’t deserve for him to share anything important with me anyway.”

Patrick steeples his hands in front of him on the desk, looking thoughtful. “Fair enough,” he says, and Jon could be imagining it, but he thinks there’s a trace of pride in the smile lurking around the corners of Patrick’s mouth. “You’ll still come to me if you need help, or just to talk?”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees immediately. “That might be better, actually. My notes…” He stops, thinking of how many notes were in William’s file when he got it, and how many more he could add that wouldn’t mean anything, really. To Patrick, he says lamely, “William doesn’t translate well on paper.”

Patrick laughs, sounding surprised and understanding. “No,” he agrees. “No, he doesn’t.”

Jon can't reach out with his mind and know when something is wrong like some people can, but that's irrelevant when he can hear the shouting through the walls. He drops the file he's studying onto his desk and heads to Tom's office, only pausing for a moment at the closed door before knocking quickly and pushing it open.

Tom is standing on his desk chair, screaming at an abashed-looking Pete. “You are not a cop!” he yells. “You can’t just hit people in parking lots because you look inside their head and don’t like what they did that morning!”

Pete opens his mouth to object and Jon decides to intervene, based on how red Tom's face has gotten. “I think we should all take ten minutes and go to our place of calm,” he says hastily, grasping at a useless Zen Therapy seminar he'd attended during freshman year. “Let's rediscover the stillness within us and then come back in a receptive place of communication and understanding.”

Pete still looks like he's going to object, but finally he just shuts his mouth, stuffs his hands sulkily into his pockets, and goes out. Tom stands for another minute on the desk, chest heaving and eyes wild, before climbing down to sit in his chair and bang his head against the desk.

“Hey, it's okay,” Jon soothes, perching on the edge of the desk. “Believe me, I understand. I've got William.”

“I want to kill myself,” Tom informs him, muffled from the desk. “I'm the worst therapist in the history of therapy.”

“You’re not that bad,” Jon promises. He’s pretty sure, anyway. “You’re here, aren’t you? Experimental pilot program?”

“Negs don’t exactly grow on trees,” Tom points out, but he pulls himself together a little, sitting up and running both hands through his hair.

“What did he do?” Jon asks, curious.

Tom shrugs. “Nothing that bad. Last time he took a baseball bat to some guy’s SUV. At least this time he just cold-cocked him.”

“Fuck,” Jon says, impressed. “You’ve got your hands full, don’t you?”

“No more than you,” Tom says, grimacing. “Don’t look now, but our patients are conspiring to make both of our lives hell.”

Jon peers out between the slats in the Venetian blinds. Pete’s perched on the edge of his desk, talking animatedly with both hands, and William’s leaning over an open file folder and nodding along with whatever Pete’s saying.

“I think they’re probably just working on a case,” Jon says cautiously.

“That’s what you think now,” Tom says in a tone of dire warning. “Just wait until the afternoon session.”

The day Pete nearly gets suspended for reckless disobedience, Tom practically offers his firstborn child as compensation if Jon will take Pete off his hands for one day. Jon’s nearly at the end of his rope with William anyway, trying to get him to open up and talk about something – anything – that actually matters, so he agrees willingly enough, after exhorting a promise from Tom to clean the apartment over the weekend in exchange for the favor.

They feed some bullshit line to Patrick about gaining experience by working with other members of the department, and Jon’s thankful, as he frequently is, that Patrick can’t read their minds. He gives them weary permission, looking worn-out after an hour of arguing with Carden on Pete’s behalf. Pete himself is slinking around outside on the main floor, hands stuffed into his pockets and hood pulled up over his head.

Jon jerks his head slightly in the direction of his office. “Come on,” he tells Pete. “You’re with me today.”

Pete follows silently after him, nudging the door closed behind him with one toe. “Conrad finally got sick of me?” he asks, dropping into the patient’s chair in front of Jon’s desk. It’s weird to see him there instead of William, slouching low in the chair with the strings of his hoodie pulled tight and his legs not stretched out halfway across the floor.

Jon takes his own seat and ponders how to begin. He finally shrugs, seeing no reason to lie. “You disobeyed a direct order from an officer in the field,” he points out.

“I already got this lecture from Patrick,” Pete says, looking sullenly at Jon with one eye obscured behind his bangs. “I don’t need it from an interning shrink.”

“I’m not lecturing,” Jon assures him. That’s not his job, he’s sure. And god knows it hasn’t been working for Tom. He pauses, then adds, “I am curious, though.”

Pete sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, pushes his hood down, fidgets. Jon gives him time, waiting him out. It’s a strategy he doesn’t bother employing anymore with William, who seems perfectly content with having a staring contest for an hour and then agreeably letting himself out. It’s more successful with Pete, who scuffs his feet on the floor for a few more seconds before giving in.

“He was wrong,” Pete says. “I was there, I knew more about what was going on, and it was the wrong call. He knew it, too, he just couldn’t back down once I’d challenged him. I wasn’t letting some bastard burglar get away with something just because a newbie policeman made a poor judgment call.”

“His call to make, though,” Jon replies evenly, not letting any hint of recrimination into his voice.

Pete looks like he’s about to object, but then he just slumps back. “Yeah,” he says glumly. He’s silent for a while, playing with the strings on his hoodie, and then makes a frustrated, abortive noise expelled outward like a sigh. “I hate it,” he says. “I hate that we have this gift but we don’t have the power to really do anything with it.”

“What would you do?” Jon asks, folding his hands in his lap like this is a casual chat rather than a therapy session. “Go vigilante? Mete out justice on your own terms?”

“No,” Pete says, frowning. “Yes. Maybe. If they fucking deserved it.”

“You’re under a lot of pressure,” Jon says. Not only has he read the textbooks and the files, he’s seen the four – five – telepaths here dealing with shit day-to-day that Jon doesn’t think he could handle even without knowing what’s going on inside some criminal’s head. “You can be emotionally influenced, overwhelmed… Not the best conditions for making objective decisions.”

Pete stands up and kicks a leg of the chair. “I know that,” he says, pacing Jon’s office like a caged tiger. Jon’s startled by the sudden movement, but he tries not to show it, sitting still even when his heart rate speeds up. Pete growls, turning again, hands back in his pockets. “I know it, it’s just that I know it in my head, and not always…” He thumps one hand over his chest. “Not here.”

Pete stops pacing, coming to a gradual halt in front of Jon’s desk. Jon searches for something wise to say, some psychiatric insight that could possibly help right now. “Maybe that’s why you can do what you do,” he suggests with a small shrug. “Because you’re listening to both.”

Pete looks at him, and is just opening his mouth to respond when his whole face changes. Jon stands up in alarm, but not fast enough to catch him. Pete slams to his knees on the floor hard enough that Jon cringes in sympathy, and both hands come up to clutch at his head.

“Fuck,” he yells, eyes screwed shut in pain. “I fucking hate when he does that.”

“What is it?” Jon asks, skidding to his knees next to Pete with an equal lack of grace. “What’s wrong?”

“14th and Halsted,” Pete grits out, fingertips white from pressing hard against his skull. “Serial killer. White house, van parked out front. Tell Patrick. He’s got someone. They have five minutes, maybe less. Get a warrant for MacGarraty.”

Jon’s frozen in shock for another second, and then he runs. Patrick has a similar reaction, but he barely misses a beat once he realizes what Jon’s trying to tell him, grabbing the phone and barking out a string of orders to whomever’s on the other end. Jon hovers for a minute, but Patrick appears to have things under control, so he heads back to Pete, who’s still kneeling on the floor, groaning.

“Patrick’s handling it,” he says by way of reassurance, getting close but reluctant to touch. “Can I get you anything? Aspirin?”

Pete’s voice is strained and tight when he answers. “My desk. Top drawer. Orange bottle, white cap.”

Jon digs around in the assortment of paper clips and torn envelopes until he finds the bottle in question, prescription and half-full. Patrick’s in his office with Pete now, one hand on his back, asking him questions from the way Pete’s alternately nodding and shaking his head, so Jon waits until Patrick straightens up and leaves before he goes back in. They exchange nods as they pass, and one of the wrinkles in Patrick’s brow smoothes itself out when he sees the bottle in Jon’s hand.

“Here,” Jon says, shaking a few pills loose into his cupped hand and passing Pete the cold coffee sitting stagnant in the mug on his desk. Pete tosses them back without even counting, grimacing at the taste of the coffee but gripping tight to the handle. Jon crouches down beside him, waiting anxiously until the tension in Pete’s expression eases somewhat.

“Fuck. Fucking fuck. Goddammit,” Pete says without heat, eyes closed but no longer screwed shut in agony.

Jon thinks of Patrick and reaches out to squeeze Pete’s shoulder gently. “What happened?”

“Fucking William Beckett happened,” Pete answers, sinking back until he’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the legs of the chair. He takes a few more deep breaths until the color starts to come back into his face, and then drags himself into a more upright sitting position. He wipes a hand across his face and Jon slowly relaxes enough to sit down across from him, his back against the desk, ready to jump up again at a moment’s notice if Pete needs something.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks, but Pete shakes his head. They sit in silence for another minute, and then Pete speaks up.

“We’re not supposed to be able to do that,” he says. “Bridge across distances like that. Bill’s practically on the other side of the city. It’s harder for us, the further apart we are, especially if we don’t actually know where the other person is. But,” he snorts, shaking his head gingerly, “Bill being the freak of nature he is, he can do it if he has to. Gives us both a bitch of a headache, though.” He winces even as he says it, but then his lips quirk up into a weird attempt at a smile. “He’s going to be worse off than me.”

“Why you?” Jon asks, leaning forward, curious. “Why not Patrick?”

Pete tips his head back, closing his eyes again. “I’m easier. We’re partners, he’s linked with me more than he has with Patrick.” He huffs out a half-laugh. “I tried to get him to start hooking up with Patrick, because that kind of intimacy would make it ten times easier. It didn’t go over well.”

Jon smiles faintly. “I guess not.” He shifts awkwardly, the spike of adrenaline leaving him feeling useless now, with too much energy and not enough ways to expend it. “What can I do? Anything?”

Pete shakes his head, but then stops. “You could touch me,” he says. “Just, like, my knee. Or my ankle.” He shrugs. “Anything. It helped, before.”

Jon reaches out and lays one hand carefully over Pete’s shin. “Like this?” he asks, willing but slightly lost. “Does that help?”

Pete exhales slowly, cracking his eyes open slightly. “Yeah,” he says. After another second, he explains, “You’re like this blank, quiet spot. You don’t make the headache go away, but you can make everyone else shut the hell up for a while.” He grins, and Jon grins back, relieved to be of any help at all. He leans back against the desk and watches Pete breathe.

William calls him after midnight, when Jon is thinking about maybe possibly turning in to go to bed, or maybe staying up for another episode of CSI.

“Are you all right?” Jon has already grabbed his keys and is looking for his flip-flops, ready to run out the door. “Where are you?”

“I'm at home,” William answers, with a lazy quality to his voice that makes Jon immediately pause in what he's doing.

“Are you drunk?” Jon asks carefully.

“No,” William answers, with slightly more amusement this time. “I’ve just seen this CSI before. I thought I could try reading your mind over the phone to see if it works better. Quick, think of a color.”

Jon starts to protest, something about department business and the fact that he really is a Neg, all of the telepaths told him so, but he remembers what William had said about not being able to sleep at night and sits down on the couch instead. “Purple.”

“You can't tell me, that defeats the whole purpose. Do it again. Wait, no, I'm getting something. You had ravioli for dinner.”

“No,” Jon answers solemnly, and thinks of green even though he's pretty sure it won't make a difference.

“You hate wearing belts. No, wait, that's the guy, oh ew, plumber's crack.” William's distaste practically drips out of the receiver. “I really didn't need to see that, thanks Mrs. Halifax.”

Jon kicks back on his couch and props his feet up on the armrest. He has a feeling they might be talking for a while. “You haven't guessed my color yet,” he points out in reminder.

“You're not thinking about it hard enough. I'm getting...no wait, I'm getting...a cat? A kitten. A kitten named Dylan.”

Jon nearly falls off of the couch. “What?”

“You're trying to feed him dry mix for breakfast but he keeps looking at you with his big blue kitten eyes and you give him the good stuff mixed in,” William continues, apparently oblivious to the fact that Jon's mind is reeling. “And this morning you switched from chicken to fish because it was on sale but he really liked it so now you're worried that you're going to have to start buying it all the time.”

Jon's mouth snaps shut with a click. “How did you...?”

William starts laughing, and a second later, when Jon’s cheeks are warm and he's pretty sure he's figured it out, William admits, “Tom. I had you going, though, didn't I?”

Jon rolls his eyes, but it's hard to actually be annoyed when William's voice sounds so much happier. “Very funny, whiz kid.”

William's voice is smug when he replies. “Goodnight, Jonathan Jacob Walker.”

Tom greets him in the morning with a cup of coffee just on the edge of being burnt and a pleading expression. “Can we switch back?” he asks, a shade away from begging. “Please?”

Jon grins, accepting the mug. He drains half of it in one go and casts about halfheartedly for breakfast. It doesn’t look like Tom’s eaten, either; they can get something along the way. “Trouble?” he asks innocently.

Tom scowls, the expression both adorable and incongruous on a face still lined with pillow-creases and framed by bed-head. “I thought I was getting somewhere,” he admits. “Then I realized he was only using me to toy with you.”

“He does that,” Jon agrees sympathetically. Part of him is glad, though, warm with the knowledge that Tom didn’t swoop in and succeed in getting William to open up where Jon has failed. He should be hoping for William to open up to anyone, even if it is to Tom, but he’s human, and selfish. He wants to be the one to make that breakthrough.

“Can I have Pete back?” Tom asks, sounding only slightly desperate.

Jon capitulates, making sure to sound very put-upon and gracious. “Fine,” he answers, turning around to hide his smile by pretending to look for Dylan. “But you’re buying breakfast.”

They get McDonald’s on the way in, and by the time they reach the station, Jon is warm and awake with a bellyful of sausage and hot coffee. He waves at the typical morning cluster of telepaths exchanging greetings and stories over their desks, and after dropping his things in his office, he goes out to join them.

He hasn’t even opened his mouth yet when William’s head comes up, turned towards the elevator. Pete is a half-second behind him, clearly in on whatever mental message William is sending, and then the light flashes and the doors open, and Officer Carden steps out, accompanied by one of the hottest women Jon has ever seen.

Patrick comes out to greet them, with a friendly round of handshakes and some murmured pleasantries that are just low enough not to be heard. Which is almost a pity, because the entire group around him is eavesdropping shamelessly, not even pretending otherwise.

“Gentlemen,” Patrick says, raising his voice. “This is Miss Victoria Asher.” There’s a breath of pause as he clears his throat before adding, “Official representative of the Cobra business co-operative.”

Butcher reacts first, offering his hand and an introduction, which spurs the others into action as well. Miss Asher seems shy but gracious, murmuring polite greeting in return. Only William doesn’t offer her his hand, frowning where he leans back against Adam’s desk, but she doesn’t seem to notice, busy with new names and faces.

“Let me show you to the meeting rooms,” Patrick says when they’ve all introduced themselves. “You can make yourself comfortable there; I’ll get you something to drink. William will join us shortly, and then we can begin. Can I take your coat?”

Miss Asher turns to allow him to help her out of it, revealing a well-tailored, daringly-cut blouse and an a-line skirt that shows off some serious legs. Jon feels his face warm and reminds himself that now is not the best time for staring. When he finally tears his gaze away, though, he can see Butcher, Adam, Pete, and Tom all doing the same thing.

“Right this way,” Patrick offers, escorting Miss Asher off the floor. Carden goes with them, and the door has hardly clicked behind them before Pete’s blowing out a noisy breath and raising his eyebrows at William.

“Neg,” William confirms almost absently, still gazing after the recently-departed group. “Why are they even bothering with an interrogation? I can’t get anything out of her; Carden would do better.”

“It’s for show,” Pete says, hopping up onto the edge of William’s desk. “They need to make it official.”

Tom and Jon exchange mystified glances. Jon’s about to take the hit for both of them and risk sounding like a tool by asking what the big deal is, but Butcher catches their silent exchange and saves him the trouble.

“Negs are rare,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You both know that. Having two of you in the same place is a little ridiculous, but it makes sense, with your program and all.” He nods at the door Patrick had used as an exit. “She, on the other hand, is not a coincidence.”

“And not an accident,” Pete says. “They knew exactly what they were doing, sending her.”

“They’re hiding something,” William seconds. His gaze is unfocused, far-away like he’s listening for clues on the breeze. “Time to find out what.”

Whatever the story is with Miss Asher, Jon isn’t brought into the loop. He is, however, sent out into the field for the first time.

Visiting a preschool is apparently on the list of designated safe excursions into the field for interns, which is how Jon and Tom find themselves tagging along behind William, strolling into Miss Harper's class to see if there are any young minds waiting to be noticed and developed. It's not exactly police consultant business, but they've had a slow week, so Patrick had sent them out on a “training mission” just, Jon suspects, to keep them busy for a few hours.

Miss Harper tells the class about how telepaths help people by working for the police, and they listen attentively while William introduces himself and tells them about how telepaths see things and feel people, a watered-down version that Jon finds fascinating. He knows a lot of it, of course, he's been to lectures and read the books, but somehow it seems much easier to understand when it's being explained to a room full of four-year-olds.

“Now we're all going to play together,” William finishes, clapping his hands. “Everybody go find a game you want to play, and I'll come around and talk to you.”

Finding a game, for some of them, seems to mean finding Jon and Tom. Miss Harper didn't exactly insinuate that they were also telepaths, but since they're hanging around the classroom, it's an easy mistake to make.

“Can you see when I don't brush my teeth in the morning?” a little girl in pigtails asks Jon solemnly.

He kneels to get closer to her and shakes his head. “I can't see in people's heads. I'm not a telepath.”

The girl considers that for a moment, and then beams at him. “Me either.”

“Jon's special too, though,” William says from above them. Jon looks up and sees him smiling, looking even taller surrounded by preschoolers. “He's just special in a different way.”

“Am I special?” the little girl asks, her neck craned almost all the way back to look up at William.

He scoops her up and sets her on his hip, tapping her on the nose with one long finger. “Absolutely.”

Before today, Jon would never have said William was a kid person, but now he's not so sure. He doesn't think it's a job requirement to weed out telepaths by listening to tiny children talk about how their mom met a telepath once and telling them what their heads feel like to him and, in at least one instance, playing some giggling variation of peekaboo.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” William asks a solemn little towheaded boy, both hands in plain sight.

He frowns like he's not sure of the answer, but the little girl on Tom's knee pipes up, “Four!”

William focuses his attention on her like he's seen a light in the dark, coming over and crouching beside them. “How about now?” he asks, resting both hands on Tom's leg so she can see them.

She doesn't even look down. “Three!”

He smiles, reaches out to tweak her ear. “That's very good. What about Tom, how many fingers is he holding up?”

The little girl looks at Tom, face screwed up in concentration while he looks solemnly back down at her, and finally says in a disappointed voice, “I don't know.”

William takes her tiny hand in his and squeezes. “That's okay,” he confides quietly, and winks at Tom. “I don't know either.”

Jon and Tom spend the weekend hosting a party and getting completely wasted, making the most of freedom before Monday rolls around. The consultants are on call twenty-four-seven, but one of the great things about being an intern is that it means you aren’t full time.

Jon wonders briefly if he should have invited them over, sometime on Sunday afternoon during a mostly-lucid interlude that stems from eating half a pizza to balance out the alcohol in his blood. He thinks Butcher, at least, might have come over. Maybe even Pete. They could invite them, next time.

He goes to tell Tom about this plan, but the search leads him to a bobbing-for-goldfish game in the kitchen that’s failing dismally, due to a total lack of enough coordination to actually catch the goldfish, and he ends up forgetting all about it.

Monday they’re sent out into the field for another scintillating, action-packed outing that involves Butcher and Adam interviewing one hundred and thirty passengers from an attempted hijacking on a jet liner to find out who knew what and whether all of the involved parties had been taken into custody. It’s supposed to teach them about their patients’ typical level of ‘job stress’ and ‘working conditions’ according to Patrick, but Jon thinks he probably just wants them out of his hair for the day.

The process takes the entire working day and then some, and Butcher gets a call from Patrick just as they’re reaching the end of the line telling them all to go home and not bother coming back in.

They get deep-dish pizza and talk about how much they hate terrorists and airports and old women who refuse to cooperate for no reason whatsoever, and then they all split up to head home.

Jon’s been thinking about how much going out there today helped him actually understand what these guys are doing, and how – much like William – it’s not the same reading it on paper as it is actually seeing it. He wonders, if he went and talked to Patrick personally, if he could start being assigned to shadow William in the field on a regular basis.

He keeps thinking about it as they wait for the bus and finally turns to Tom. “I’m actually going to go do something,” he says. “Catch you at home?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, and he looks mildly curious, but Jon doesn’t really want to go into it right now, not before talking to Patrick and finding out if it’s even possible, so he just waves and jogs across the street to catch the other line.

The office is quiet when he gets there, most of the lights turned off and the doors closed. There’s a desk lamp still on in Patrick’s office, spilling a narrow circle of yellow light across the polished wooden surface and bleeding over onto the carpet. Jon takes four more steps before he sees who’s currently in there, and then he stops dead.

His back is to the door, but it’s still easy enough to recognize William, curled up in the fetal position on the carpet and shaking. Patrick’s kneeling next to his head, one hand on William’s shoulder almost too lightly to count as a touch. They’re not making any noise, but there’s no doubt in Jon’s mind that they’re talking.

He turns to go and sees Pete, sitting silent and still on his desk. Jon hesitates, wanting nothing more now than to get out and hope they don’t notice he was ever here, but something about Pete’s expression tells him that he might be needed. And he might be an intern, but this is what he was hired for, after all, and Patrick clearly has his hands full. He holds Pete’s eyes, quirks his eyebrows into a question and inclines his head towards the door leading outside.

Pete looks back at Patrick’s office, where Patrick has started murmuring quietly, nothing intelligible besides the soothing tone of his voice, and then he nods. He stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie and hops off the desk, following Jon out.

They just walk for a while, out through the plaza and past a few of the other offices before Jon asks evenly, “Are you okay?”

Pete laughs shortly. Jon isn’t sure he’s ever heard anything sound less amused. “I’m not really the one you should be asking, am I?”

Jon shrugs, taking them around a corner so they can walk towards the park. It’s starting to get dark, but he doesn’t think anyone will hassle them in this part of time. Even if someone does try, Pete will be a step ahead of them, which is an oddly comforting thought. “You’re partners,” he says. “Whatever’s in his head, at least part of it is probably in yours. And it didn’t look good.”

Pete snorts, then takes a deep breath. “No,” he says pensively. “It wasn’t good.”

“Besides,” Jon says, pushing while he thinks Pete might be willing to let him, “you can have your own reasons for not being okay. It’s still a valid question.”

Pete glances sideways at him, and this time the grin is a little more honest. “Are you trying to psychobabble me in a moment of weakness? I still recognize it even when we’re not in the office, you know. Patrick has tried the same thing.”

Jon weighs possible responses, and finally says, “Patrick’s good at what he does.”

“Yeah,” Pete says, and a moment later, quieter, “Yeah.”

They walk for another five minutes in silence before Pete finally caves. “It’s hard,” he says, with no other explanation, just launching right into what’s on his mind. “It’s hard to see him like that, and know how fucked up he is over some of this shit. We see some pretty messed-up stuff. I mean, Bill spent twenty minutes in the mind of a serial killer last week, and he’s going to have to do it again for the interrogations and depositions. That’s fucked up.”

Jon desperately wants to ask if that was what that was about just now, back in Patrick’s office, but he shunts it aside. This is about Pete, and about Jon being there for him. Those aren’t the questions he needs to ask.

“What about you?” Jon asks, instead. “Is it hard for you?”

Pete kicks a few small stones out of his way and sends them skittering off into the twilight. “Yeah, but it’s different. Or it’s not different, but I deal with it. We all do.”

Jon’s trying to work out what question to ask next when Pete makes it unnecessary, continuing on without a prompt. “Butcher focuses on seeing the good in things, and expressing stuff in art, working it out. Adam’s got a huge family, seriously, fucking huge, that kid has more relatives than anyone I know, and they all love him to death. He’s got a good support system. I beat up perverts, and sometimes take a baseball bat to their SUVs.” He shrugs, looking young suddenly, like a teenager in the traditional uniform of jeans, band t-shirt, and brand name hoodie. “We all have ways, things we do to cope.” He looks up at the sky, squinting a little into the fading light. “Bill’s not really coping.”

Jon feels cold suddenly, thinking about the really gifted telepaths, the ones that crack. He doesn’t think Bill’s headed that way, and he knows that Patrick would see something like that coming long before it happened, but it still makes his skin feel clammy in the chill autumn air.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he is, and because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“It’s cool,” Pete says. “It’s the way it is.” They’ve made almost a full circuit around the park now, and the shadows are starting to creep over the last remaining vestiges of light. Pete looks up at the path leading to the main road and says, “We should probably head back now.”

“Sure,” Jon replies. Pete’s retreated into one of his introspective moods, practically disappearing into his hood and walking hunched over with his eyes on the ground. Jon doesn’t press him to talk more. This is more than he’s gotten in a month of being here, just in this one night.

Patrick and William are gone when they get back, the office dark and empty. Pete doesn’t look surprised.

Jon has a session with William scheduled for the next day. He comes in early, organized and determined, combing ruthlessly through his old class notes for reminders on how to be a good psychiatrist. Patrick stops by his office with a doubtful look on his face, half an hour before the others are scheduled to arrive. “I don’t think…” he begins, but Jon shakes his head.

“Please,” he says, meaning it with every fiber of his being. Maybe it doesn’t make him a better man to want to take advantage of this moment of weakness, but he’s been deflected and outmaneuvered for weeks now, and he thinks this might be his only shot at even starting a working relationship with William.

Patrick doesn’t look thrilled about the request, but he just says, “Okay,” and leaves Jon to his review.

It’s a moot point anyway, because William doesn’t show.

Jon waits for half an hour, growing edgier and edgier the longer he sits there and William doesn’t come in. It would be one thing if he were taking the day off or calling in sick, but even though Patrick doesn’t call to find out where he is, he just as clearly hadn’t expected William to play hooky. Jon has a feeling that it’s not for the whole day, either, and that William’s going to show up just after their session is scheduled to end. It’s a pretty clear message that he doesn’t want to talk, but Jon isn’t ready to settle for that.

He runs through his options, taking ten more minutes to wait and calm himself down. Then he goes out onto the floor, because Pete is shuffling his feet and avoiding his eyes, and Jon is dead certain that he knows something.

“Pete,” he says. Nothing else, just that, and hopes that Pete knows everything he isn’t saying, that he wouldn’t abuse William’s trust or push him too hard, that he just wants a chance to do his job and have William actually talk to him.

Pete waffles for a long time, looking unhappy about it, but he finally sighs and slumps back in his chair. “The pier,” he says, rubbing at his sleeve. “Whenever he needs some time alone to think, he goes to the pier.”

“Thank you,” Jon says fervently, making a mental note to buy Pete a beer – maybe two, once William figures out who gave him up – and grabbing his sweater before he heads out into the crisp Chicago morning.

William is easy to spot, all long legs and skinny frame and hair blowing in his eyes from the breeze off the lake. He’s cradling a cup of coffee and watching the water, ignoring the bustle of tourists around him as they pose for snapshots and chatter in foreign languages. William probably knows what they’re saying anyway, each one of them. Jon wonders how that works, if you think in a different language.

He walks right up next to William, who doesn’t notice at first and then has the startle-jerk reaction he usually does, unaccustomed to people being able to sneak up that close without him noticing. When he recognizes Jon, he slumps a little in defeat.

“Pete,” he says, not a question.

“I was worried,” Jon says, which isn’t precisely a lie even if it isn’t all of the truth. He takes another step closer to look out on the water next to William, watching the slow choppy lap of the waves. He hasn’t been able to think of a good conversational opening for when you just want to listen to someone else talk.

“You should probably get used to it,” William comments, sipping at his steaming coffee. “I’m being put on a long-term assignment for a while.”

“I know. Patrick told me.” Jon tucks his hands into his pockets, willing to wait. Patience, he’s discovering, is invaluable in his line of work. He wishes he’d bought a coffee of his own, but it’s not so cold out that he can’t stand it.

William doesn’t crack as easily as Pete does, and when he speaks, Jon can’t identify the tone. “Did he tell you what it was about?”

“No,” Jon says, searching his memory for the exact words Patrick had used. “He just said it was…‘politically delicate.’”

William laughs, not quite mirthless. “That’s one word for it.” He’s quiet for another moment, and then he asks casually, “Do you know what Cobra is?”

Jon doesn’t, although he knows the vague generalities. “A business conglomerate,” he guesses, based on what he’s seen in the paper and heard from office gossip. “An umbrella company for smaller corporations?”

William smiles faintly. “On the outside,” he agrees, “yes. That’s not really what they are, though.”

“What are they, then?” Jon asks, slightly thrown-off by the plural. He’d always thought of a business as an entity, with a single head no matter how many sprawling limbs.

William sips at his coffee for a while, considering. Jon gives him the time, watching a small boat make its way across the water. It’s nearly reached the mile-marker of a tall building when William breaks the silence.

“Cobra was founded for a single purpose,” William says. “As a large corporate smokescreen to provide legal and financial assistance to smaller businesses owned by a certain minority.”

Jon looks at him, still puzzled but slowly beginning to put the pieces together. “What minority?” he asks. He thinks of Miss Asher in her coat and heels, William staring at her as if trying to dig deeper beneath the surface, and part of him has guessed the answer even before William answers.

“Telepaths,” William says. “They exist to protect us.”

Jon stares at him, and William turns away from the water. “Do you want to get lunch?” he asks casually. “I could do with a sandwich.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon says over a dripping Italian hoagie, when they’ve found a quiet corner to themselves and spread newspaper over the table. “What is Cobra protecting you from?”

William picks at his sandwich, rearranging the crinkled shreds of lettuce. “Not me,” he answers. “Business owners. Members of the community who might be hassled otherwise, because of what they are.”

“You have equal rights,” Jon says, still feeling as though he’s missing something.

William favors him with a look that suggests Jon has had a very sheltered education. “Technically, yes. But we’re assets, we’re valuable to the government. There’s more demand than supply. And wherever we are, equal rights or not, we’re under scrutiny.”

“Hassled,” Jon echoes, using William’s choice of words.

William just shrugs. “There are checks, and admittedly necessary ones. With the way we are, it can be too easy to use that for illegal purposes. Gambling, manipulating clients, burglary. We’re practically made for blackmail. It’s not entirely unjustified to have big brother looking over our shoulders.”

“But,” Jon says. He definitely senses a ‘but.’

“But,” William agrees, an ironic smile hovering around his mouth. “There are times the government goes too far. It’s hard to run an honest business when there are agents breathing down your neck over every transaction, and people don’t always trust someone who gets regular visits from the police.” He sighs, licking a slick tomato seed off his thumb. “And there’s pressure to join the public services. They need us. It’s a campaign built on desperation as much as the desire to keep a closer eye on us.”

Jon hadn’t thought about it, honestly. He knows telepaths are in demand, obviously, especially the particularly gifted ones like William and Pete. Somehow government pressure hadn’t factored into his equation of the way they had come to be where they are now.

“Cobra,” William says with clear articulation, dropping each syllable with individual precision, “is sheltering small business owners. Cobra handles their finances, their legal responsibilities, and any and all pressures from the government.”

“Making it harder for them to recruit,” Jon infers.

William holds up a long, slender finger. “But wait,” he says dryly. “There’s more.” He takes a long drink from his pink lemonade before finishing, “They’re also harboring a commune, full of telepathic families. Telepathic children.”

From the triumphant note in William’s voice, Jon guesses that was the dramatic reveal. He hesitates before admitting, “I don’t get it.”

William shakes his head. “We’re weapons, Jon. Or we can be used as such. That commune is a stockpile of automatic rifles pointed at the government’s head. And think like a military force for a minute. Right now they know, if not one hundred percent, at least ninety-four, ninety-five percent of all telepaths with any amount of talent living in the country.” His hands close in a complicated gesture, then open and splay wide. “When those kids go out into the work force without government registration, they can disappear.”

Jon doesn’t like, at all, where this is heading. “The police are trying to shut Cobra down,” he guesses.

William doesn’t answer immediately, but Jon knows he’s right. It’s confirmed when William says, a long moment later, “I don’t want to be responsible for making anyone wear a pink triangle if they don’t want to.”

There’s another side to this, Jon thinks. He just hasn’t figured it out yet.

“You picked that girl out, in the preschool,” he points out. “You identified her.”

William makes a face as he chews a bite of his sandwich, and swallows as if it tastes sour and dry in his throat. “That’s different,” he says. “That’s making sure she gets the training she needs, and the help. That’s keeping her from going crazy by the time she hits puberty, surrounded by people who don’t understand her and parents who are afraid of her. It’s not singling her out and blowing her cover when she’s full-grown, raised by a community that’s already taught her everything she needs to know to be a healthy, productive citizen. Living,” he adds, “a perfectly legal life.”

Jon hears in those words an undercurrent of William’s own past, but he chooses not to pursue it. “Is this why you were upset?” he asks. When William looks blank, he feels his neck heat slightly and explains, “I came in. While you were with Patrick.”

He sees the comprehension dawn on William’s face, and then his expression shutters, like a door being closed. “No,” he says, and Jon curses himself for pushing too hard when they’d finally been getting somewhere. William must see the dismay and frustration in his face, because he laughs suddenly, unexpected, and pops a twist of bread into his mouth. “We have a session on Thursday, right?” he says, and ducks his head, grinning. “Maybe I’ll tell you then.”

Jon makes a beeline for Patrick’s office the next morning, pausing only to unlock his office door on the way past. It’s habit more than necessity by now; open door policy is something he’s taken very much to heart, and he feels like if he reinforces it enough, one day William or one of the others might actually take him up on the offer.

Patrick looks surprised to see him, but waves him into a chair anyway. Jon sits and waits while Patrick finishes up his phone call, and as soon as Patrick hangs up and gives him an expectant look, Jon launches right into it.

“I want more fieldwork,” he requests. “I want to go out with them on calls, as much as possible, whenever you don’t need me here. If William doesn’t like it, send me with Butcher or Adam, but I don’t think he’ll care that much.”

Patrick’s expression doesn’t change as he listens to Jon’s speech. He blinks once it’s over, and then says, “Can I ask why? Are you just bored in here? There’s not a lot to do, I know, we could probably loan you to the PD for a few days…”

Jon shakes his head, and Patrick trails off, waiting for more. Jon thinks of how to phrase it, and finally settles on, “I want to know what it’s really like to be them. All the time, not just here in the office. I want to know what happens out there.”

Patrick doesn’t answer right away; he broods on it for a bit, and then says, “It’s not always pretty.”

“I know,” Jon says, even though he only has the vaguest idea. “That’s why I want to do it. If they can handle it, so can I.”

“They’re trained for it,” Patrick begins, only to be interrupted by the phone on his desk ringing. He frowns at the caller ID, brow furrowed, and finally holds up a finger for Jon to wait and picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

Whoever’s on the other end is loud enough for Jon to hear the incomprehensible buzz of his voice, upbeat and rambling. Patrick’s expression clears almost instantly, and he leans back in his chair, smiling crookedly at the far wall. “Is this a social call, Gee, or are you seriously phoning my office to complain about our national statistical ranking?”

Pete pokes his head into the office a second later, summoned by whatever invisible thread keeps the lot of them constantly in each other’s business. “Hey, Patrick,” he intrudes, waving his arms for attention. “Say hi to Gerard for me. And tell him to tell Mikey I said hey. And to call me.”

“Am I your answering service?” Patrick inquires, but he barely sounds annoyed. “Pete says hi,” he tells the phone, and then, “Yes, of course to Mikey. I don’t even bother to pretend he doesn’t have an ulterior motive for everything anymore.”

There’s more emphatic rambling from the other end of the line. It sounds a little like Charlie Brown’s teacher, nothing but foghorn-noise and a string of junk syllables. Jon tries to pick out a few words and fails completely. Back in the main office, Pete suddenly laughs.

“I told him. They’re probably texting right now,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes with good humor. “How’s Frank?”

Charlie Brown’s teacher gets a lot more enthusiastic, and Patrick grimaces. “I wasn’t asking for those kinds of details,” he says hurriedly, and casting a desperate look at Jon, he adds, “I’m putting you on speakerphone,” setting the phone back in its cradle and pushing a button that clicks on with a ‘beep.’

“…amazing, I don’t even know how he does it,” the disembodied voice finishes, more comprehensible now. “Oh, hey, am I on speaker?”

“I want to introduce you to someone,” Patrick says smoothly, obviously ignoring whatever it was that had been so amazing. “Say hello to Jon, one of our new psychiatric interns. Jon, this is Gerard.”

“Hi, Jon,” Gerard says cheerfully. “Oh, right, the Neg program, yeah? How’s that working so far?”

Patrick looks to Jon, who clears his throat and says, “So far, so good.”

Gerard laughs, which Jon guesses to mean that he knows something of what Jon’s dealing with here. “That’s cool,” he says earnestly. “I’m glad it’s working out. You guys get all the cool stuff.”

“Gerard heads up what’s going to be one of the best telepathic response units in the country,” Patrick explains. “He was just calling up to complain about our national ranking.”

“I’m not complaining, I’m thrilled for you,” Gerard argues, weirdly muffled. “Anyway, you have the freak, I can’t compete with that.”

“Is that Gerard?” William calls, from far enough away that he really shouldn’t have been able to hear the speakerphone. “Is Mikey there?”

Gerard laughs again, almost rueful. “Never should have fucking let him work that vice job,” he complains. “He’s the most popular kid on the planet now, no one ever wants to talk to me anymore. How are your little dudes, by the way?”

“Driving Jon crazy now rather than me most of the time, which is a considerable improvement,” Patrick answers. “How are yours?”

“No clue,” Gerard says, sounding surprisingly happy about it. “They don’t talk to me. They don’t talk to Greta – who’s leaving, by the way, did I tell you? She got a fucking transfer, she’s going to work with kids in need, emotional counseling and shit. I’m happy for her and everything, but fuck, we can’t hold onto a shrink for more than six months. I think it’s Smith and Ross, they’re driving them away one at a time.”

There’s a weird noise from the speaker, a whistling gust of air, and Patrick’s brow wrinkles. “Are you smoking?” he asks.

Gerard coughs, pulling the phone away from his mouth a second too late to avoid the crackling burst of static. “Don’t tell Frank,” he says. “He thinks we’re trying to quit.”

“Are you?” Patrick asks, sounding as if they’ve been over this before.

“No,” Gerard says. Then, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, it’s hard.” He makes another whistling sound, coughs again, and says, “Hey, anyway, I should go. I just wanted to call and say hey.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Patrick says. He clicks the button to disconnect the call as Gerard distractedly returns the farewell. There’s an oddly contemplative look in Patrick’s eye as he turns back to Jon and says, “So. Fieldwork.”

“I want to shadow William,” Jon says, which is when Patrick’s phone rings again.

“Fuck,” Patrick mutters under his breath, annoyed, and casts Jon an apologetic look as he picks up the phone. “Stumph.”

He listens for a while, then says something halfway between an acknowledgement and a grunt, and hangs up the phone. The look he gives Jon this time is even more considering.

“Bill,” he calls. When William appears in the doorway, Patrick makes a face and says, “You’re going to want this one. 1556 Sedgwick.” William stiffens, and Patrick says, “I know, I know. I don’t make the rules. Carden will meet you out front. Take Jon.” When William opens his mouth again, clearly to protest, Patrick cuts him off again. “I do make the rules on this one. He’s with you. Go.”

William favors Jon with one long, measuring glance, and then turns around and walks away. Jon looks at Patrick, frozen in surprise for a moment, and then jumps up and runs after William.

The address in question is a small music store, tucked in between a bustling clothing boutique and a pharmacy. Jon doesn’t see any broken glass, any reason for alarm, but he still stays behind Carden when they get out of the car. He expects William to do the same, but William just breezes past both of them, the sound of a bell tinkling over his head as he steps through the door.

There’s a handful of customers inside, browsing through sheet music and instrument racks. A few of them look up when they enter, but only one displays any recognition, a tall man with shaggy blond hair who expression changes to a smile. “Billy,” he says, and then there’s a flicker of something on his face and the smile fades.

He’s a telepath, Jon thinks, startled by how sure he is. And William just tipped him off. Carden steps out from behind them and flashes his badge. “Sorry, Chislett,” he says, sounding sincere but resolute. “This is an official visit.”

“I see,” Chislett answers, and glances around at his customers – all of whom are watching with varying degrees of fascination and worry – before reluctantly asking, “What can I do for you?”

“Just answer a few questions,” Carden says easily. “It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

Chislett looks around again but seems mostly resigned. “We can step behind the counter,” he offers. “Or I can close up for a bit.”

“You should do that,” Carden suggests. Most of the customers have gotten antsy anyway, edging toward the door and leaving their stacks of intended purchases on available shelves. The few remaining are watching like hawks and pretending not to be.

Chislett sighs and begins the business of emptying the shop. Jon hears him giving explanations to customers, offering to hold their items for pickup later and directing them to a coffee shop across the street if they’d like to wait for a bit and come back. William’s expression is unreadable, but Jon remembers their conversation over lunch, and wonders how many of those customers are never going to come back, and what kind of rumors they’re going to spread to everyone they know. This can’t be good for business.

“You had to do this during business hours,” Chislett says, after he’s flipped the sign on the door to ‘CLOSED’ and come back over to them. “You could have called.”

“I had to make sure you weren’t going to flee the country,” Carden says. “You’ve come into quite a lot of money recently.”

“Not illegally,” Chislett counters. His accent is thick and wide, Australian; it broadens even further now. “There’s nothing going on, which I told you the last time you came around.”

“The last time we came around you hadn’t just pocketed an additional few thousand over what you usually bring in,” Carden says. “How about you tell us about that?”

“It’s private funding,” Chislett says. He doesn’t look at William, but Jon has the feeling they’re more connected than they appear to be.

“Private funding from whom?” Carden asks, tapping his finger on the counter. “Can I see your books, please?”

“We don’t have a warrant,” William breaks in, speaking up for the first time. Chislett has his mouth open to answer, but he shuts it at once, apparently taking that as a cue. Carden spares an irritated look for William and returns his attention to Chislett.

“We don’t, but I could get one,” he says. “You could make this easier and just show me.”

Jon wonders if he actually could, as easy as that. With no crime committed or even suspected, besides having a few additional thousand dollars above normal. He casts an uneasy look at William, but William’s focused on Carden and Chislett.

“I told you, it’s private funding,” Chislett says again. “That’s all it says on the books.”

“Nothing to hide then, right?” Carden replies. Chislett doesn’t answer. He also doesn’t move to get the books. “Look,” Carden says, “We could take this downtown, but then you’d be closed for longer. Every minute we’re in here is bad for business, right? Let’s get it over with.”

“We don’t have enough to bring him downtown,” William interjects, almost casually. This time the look Carden shoots at him is more of a glare. Carden knows, Jon thinks. He knows William isn’t on his side in this. Patrick had, too. That’s why William is here. There’s no other reason for him to be on this call.

“We don’t need to have an excuse to hang out for a long, long time,” Carden counters, sounding as irritated as he looks. “There’s a coffee shop across the street, right? We could get comfortable, ask questions all afternoon.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Chislett protests again.

“Look, this isn’t personal, okay?” Carden says, and Jon believes him, thinks the irritation is partially with William for playing both sides and partially at the situation. “But I do have a job to do.”

“I think he’s answered the questions,” William says, voice pitched louder than his usual. Jon freezes mid-exhale, because that doesn’t sound like mediating anymore, it sounds like William’s about to take a side. Jon thinks about Pete going on suspension, and wonders if he and Tom are both going to be without case studies soon.

Carden just ignores him. “Where did the money come from, Chislett?” he asks.

“I already told you…”

“Who’s the private donor?” Carden presses.

“It’s not…”

“Who gave you—”

The bell above the door tinkles, and all four of them startle as it opens. Neg, Jon thinks without even having time to process it, because no one else can startle William like that, no matter how distracted he is.

“Mr. Chislett is being represented by Cobra,” Miss Asher says, cool and put-together in her coat and heels. “Any further questions will have to be directed through our lawyers, I’m afraid.”

Jon can almost hear Carden’s teeth grind. He doesn’t look as surprised as Jon feels, though, which makes Jon’s stomach drop a little. Carden must have suspected this all along. He hadn’t actually believed the money had come from an illegal source; he’s been pressuring Chislett because he couldn’t touch Cobra directly.

“If you have someone you’d like to send,” Carden says, straightening, “I believe we can leave Mr. Chislett out of it entirely.”

Miss Asher gives him a once-over that Jon is grateful not to be on the receiving end of. “If you hassle him again without notifying us, we’ll file a complaint,” she warns. “You’ll be hearing from us on his behalf soon.”

“I look forward to it,” Carden says pleasantly, obviously lying, but just as obviously with his hands tied. Jon feels a brief stab of pity for him, but honestly, with the standoff they’ve got going on right now, he doesn’t know at all whose side he should be on.

It doesn’t occur to him until after they leave to wonder how Miss Asher had known they were there.

They’re on the way back to the station – in distant, aloof silence – when Carden hears something on the police broadcast that makes him turn the volume up. William’s chin comes up at the same time, focusing and tuning them out to listen to something else only he can hear.

The dispatcher relays a mouthful of code numbers and abbreviations Jon doesn’t understand, but Carden’s mouth tightens. “What is it?” Jon asks.

“A local kid just got shot. Six years old. Gang violence, the neighborhood is up in arms. There’s a riot on the way.” Carden changes lanes but doesn’t speed up or turn on the flashing lights. Jon glances down at the dispatch broadcast and then back at Carden.

“How far from here is it?” It doesn’t sound like anything Jon honestly wants to be involved with, but he also doesn’t want to get in the way.

“Two blocks.” Carden’s frown has deepened, but he shakes his head. “No fucking way I’m taking the two of you into that. I can’t even drop you off here; if the neighborhood riots, it’ll spread this far in a matter of minutes.”

“I can stay in the car,” Jon offers. Bulletproof glass, locked doors…there are definitely worse places to be in a violent situation.

“No offense, but you’re only half of what I’m worried about.” Carden’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, and William’s eyes sharpen back into focus, undoubtedly picking up that Carden’s thoughts had turned to him. “If I take him into a riot area, Patrick will fucking have my balls on a kebab stick.”

“I can handle it,” William says, sounding distracted but matter-of-fact.

“Fuck,” Carden says. His hand is hovering over a knob; probably the siren. He doesn’t turn it, still indecisive. “There are other cars in the area, they’ll be here within ten minutes.”

“Mike,” William says suddenly, sharp. “We need to go now.”

Carden swears viciously under his breath, but he flips on the siren and turns hard to the left. Jon grips the armrest and hangs on. Carden has the radio in his hand, reporting in: “This is Officer Carden, I’m two blocks away and en route. Requesting additional backup.”

Jon hears the noise before they reach the end of the street even over the wailing siren, the shouts and curses of a mob. He looks worriedly at William, but his expression is blank, almost eerily calm. Carden jerks the car as far off the road as he can get it in the midst of the crowd and sets one hand on the butt of his gun before stepping out of the car. William’s a half-second behind him, his hand skimming the glass window as if he’s grounding himself before touching electronics.

Jon debates for a few more seconds, but he’s no good in here, and this is what he’d told Patrick he wanted, right? More fieldwork. He gets out of the car but stays close to it, watching Carden for the lead.

Carden’s trying to gain control over the crowd, but he’s only one against a multitude, and it’s not really working. They haven’t turned on him yet, which is the only good point that Jon can see. They’re largely ignoring William, who has a distant expression on his face that Jon knows from experience means he’s listening. William says something to Carden, who nods shortly and starts wading out into the press of people.

For a while – a few minutes, at most, which feels like an eternity – it seems to be working. William gives directions, Carden placates the ringleaders most inclined to violence. Then a man - the father, Jon thinks with sudden certainty – lifts his tearstained face and a gun, and the first shot rings out over the sound of his bereaved keening.

William reels, and for a panicked second Jon thinks he’s been hit, but there’s no blood. William is ash-pale and off-balance, leaning against Carden’s car, and Jon fights his way through the people standing in his way with a single-minded determination he’s never experienced before.

There are other officers in the area now, Jon sees, which is a good thing, because there are more gunshots. Jon shoves his way the last few feet to William’s side and pulls him down, trying to shield him behind the car as much as he can. He tries the door, but there are too many people crowded around him, panicked and packed together more tightly than ever, and he can’t get it open.

William’s face is tight with pain, but when Jon frantically pats him down, he doesn’t find any sign of a wound. Then again, considering how sensitive William is and the sheer magnitude of emotional turmoil around them that even Jon can sense, he hardly needs a physical wound to be in pain.

William hasn’t pushed him away yet, which means he really must be overwhelmed. Jon remembers something Pete had told him, weeks ago – it helped, before – and physically puts himself between William and the mob, wrapping both arms around him like a shield to try to block out whatever he can.

William shudders, but some of the pain-lines creasing his forehead smooth slowly away. “Carden,” he says, almost yelling to be heard over the chaos.

“He’s fine,” Jon yells back, although he doesn’t know that for certain, and thinks William ought to be able to tell more easily than he. William just nods, though, so Jon assumes it’s true, and tips his head forward to rest on Jon’s collarbone.

Jon presses closer to William, against the car door, and protects his charge.

“A firefight?” Tom says, his eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

It’s been a few hours now, but Jon is still buzzing from the aftermath of the adrenaline. He’s been at Butcher’s desk – “Where I can keep an eye on you,” Patrick had said – but he starts to stand up as Butcher and Adam come over, following Tom in from whatever assignment they’d been out on. A food run, it looks like. Adam and Tom both have their hands full of greasy paper bags.

Butcher just puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down. “Stay put,” he says, for which Jon is profoundly grateful. His legs aren’t feeling the sturdiest right now. “Where’s Mike?”

“Still dealing with it,” Jon answers. They’d gotten a ride back with another car, but Carden had remained on the scene, doing what he could to subdue the worst offenders once the riot itself is over. “He said it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

Adam’s head turns toward Patrick’s office, where William and Patrick are cloistered in deep discussion. Patrick hadn’t said much to Jon, besides telling him to sit tight, but he’d given William a critical look-over and squeezed Jon’s shoulder before going into his office, so Jon assumes he’d done the right things. William seems to be handling everything much better than Jon; he’s a shade paler than normal, still, but speaking rationally and answering questions with a professional calm that Jon doesn’t feel.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Butcher says, as if reading his mind. Jon looks over, startled, and Butcher shrugs. “He’s good at pretending, for very brief periods of time.”

The door bangs open, making Jon jump, as twitchy as he still is from the gunfire; Pete, back from his own assignment. He’s apparently in agreement with Butcher, because he makes a beeline for Patrick’s office, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Are you okay?” Tom asks, brow furrowed.

Jon opens his mouth to say yes, then stops and shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he admits, almost laughing with nerves. “No, actually. I’m really not.”

“How long until you can leave?” Tom asks, looking to Butcher and Adam for an answer. It’s after five, but Jon knows this isn’t always a job he can clock out from on time. Sometimes they stay late. Today feels like it’s going to be one of those days.

“He’ll need to talk to Patrick,” Adam answers, shrugging. “There might be a report.”

Jon laughs a little at that, thinking of how little he’d actually seen and been able to process. It must sound a little hysterical, because Tom’s brow stays furrowed and he moves a little closer.

“Would a drink help?” he asks. “Because we can stop and get a whole bottle.”

The door to Patrick’s office opens. Pete and William walk out together, locked in silent conversation. Jon feels a pang of something; the wistful desire to understand, maybe, to be able to reach that level of communion. He feels more like an outsider here than ever.

Patrick appears a moment later, framed in the doorway before he jerks his head at Jon. “Walker, come on in,” he says, and Jon finds thankfully that his legs are at least willing to support him now for the few steps it takes to reach Patrick’s office.

He sits in the chair in front of Patrick’s desk, looking at Patrick and waiting, not sure what to say. Patrick seems to feel the same way, because he’s quiet for a minute or so before he says finally, “Good work out there today. I know it’s not exactly what you were thinking when you signed up for fieldwork.”

“It’s okay,” Jon answers. He pushes both hands between his knees so they’ll stop shaking. “I think it’s the part I needed to see.”

Patrick makes a little snorting noise, and when Jon looks up at him, the corners of his mouth have twitched up into a crooked smile. “Not anymore tonight, at least,” he says. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees immediately. He’s not about to turn down that offer.

Tom’s waiting for him, hovering right outside the door. Jon slings an arm over his shoulders and says, “Let’s go get a drink.”

A few days after Jon’s first foray into the law enforcement front lines, Carden invites him out for a drink after work. Jon’s surprised by the offer, but he accepts readily enough. Carden seems like a decent guy, for all that he and the telepathic response unit seem to butt heads a lot, and Jon can always use another friend.

“Officer Carden,” he says when they meet up outside by the front steps. “Thanks for the invitation.”

“Mike, please.” There’s a wry grin that goes along with that statement. “You don’t go through a hail of bullets with a guy and insist on proper titles.”

“I guess not,” Jon admits, falling into step beside Mike as they walk out of the courtyard. “I’m still not really used to the whole hail of bullets thing, I guess.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Mike glances over at him. “That’s why I asked you for a drink, actually. I wanted to see how you were handling it. I know you guys aren’t exactly trained for riots and gunfire.”

Jon ponders for a minute, hands tucked warmly into his pockets against the chilly Chicago air. “I’m okay,” he says finally. “A little shaken, but I mean, I’d be more worried if I wasn’t, you know?” He laughs a little. “I keep thinking of what I’d say to myself if I were a patient. I know Tom’s doing the same thing, because we both keep quoting the same textbook.”

Mike snorts. “I guess no one needs to worry about sending you to a shrink, right?” He rolls his shoulders out. “And you have Patrick, too.”

Jon’s quiet for a second. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Although I get the feeling he doesn’t know quite what to do with me. I’m not really what he’s used to.”

There’s a little smile playing at the corners of Mike’s mouth. “I’m sensing there’s more,” he says dryly.

For the first time since starting out in this internship, Jon feels like he actually has someone to whom he can vent, and he’s stupidly glad of it. Tom’s his best friend and willing to listen, but he’s going through the same shit, so it always feels like whining when they talk. And Jon can’t talk to his supervisor about his feelings of inadequacy, or to any of the guys at work. But Mike’s an ordinary guy. He probably knows all about what Jon’s dealing with.

“I’m just feeling like I’m never going to fit in here,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “They all belong to this private club, and I don’t have the criteria for membership. I feel as though I’m left out of ninety percent of the conversations, and all of the jokes.”

“Well, you are,” Mike replies, grinning a little. “Welcome to the other club. The largely-clueless club.”

Jon scuffs his flip-flop on the pavement and glances down at the worn leather thong starting to crack between his toes. “I guess I just don’t see what use I’ll be here, in the long run.”

They turn the corner and Mike doesn’t say anything for a while, but then he offers, “Or you could say you see more than anyone else does.”

“What?” Jon asks, confused. “How am I seeing anything?”

“Well, they know when guys like me are paying attention, and they know what I’m thinking, so fuck if I have any idea what’s really going on in their heads. Bill and Chislett could have been plotting to kill me the other day and I wouldn’t have had a clue, because they know what to hide and when. And with each other…” Mike looks up at the sky, choosing his words as they wait at the corner for a break in traffic. “They might not be able to hide as much, but they definitely don’t know all of each other’s secrets. And they’re still aware of each other. You could be in the room watching one of them pour their heart out and they’d never know you were there.”

Jon remembers William on the pier, lost in thought and unguarded until Jon had given himself away. He thinks about it now, as he and Mike wave to a slowing car and jog across the street. “It doesn’t help me reach them, though,” he says finally.

They’ve reached the place, apparently, because Mike points him toward a pub with a green tarp above the front window and holds the door to let Jon precede him. It’s noisy inside, but not unbearable. It feels comfortable, actually, like a house party, full of laughter and conversation.

“I’ll let you in on something to think about,” Mike says, leaning close to Jon’s ear in order to be heard. “The first thing any cop is told about telepaths is that you don’t fucking touch them in the field.”

Jon can’t remember if that had been in any of his department materials or not. He doesn’t see what it has to do with anything, but he figures Mike is getting to that, so he just nods.

“They’re dangerous when they’re in wonderland. Not really aware, whatever you want to call it. Pete and Butcher will knock you unconscious the second you make contact, out of pure self-defense. No one’s ever tried anything with Bill, so far as I know, because his reputation tends to get around, but he could fucking stop your heart and never realize he’d done it. He could tell your brain to stop breathing, or fire every synapse in your nervous system and turn you into a lump of jelly.” Mike pauses, raising his eyebrows. “Do you get what I’m saying here?”

If he’s trying to scare Jon out of further fieldwork, it’s working. “Not really,” he admits, crossing his arms. He doesn’t know if they could do that to him, but he also knows that he really doesn’t want to have occasion to find out.

“I’m saying you grabbed Bill the other day, in the middle of a riot,” Mike says. “You didn’t just touch him, you physically moved him. I would never have done that in your place, not for anything short of trying to save him from a bullet. But he let you. He didn’t hurt a hair on your head.”

Jon sorts through his memories of that afternoon at a frantic pace, remembering the way they’d come together by the police car, William folding up as Jon directed, Jon’s arms trying to block out all the mental chaos. “Oh,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, apparently satisfied that Jon understands. “So, you know, you’re not as shut out as you think you are. It’s just gonna take a while, that’s all.” He leans to the side and snags Jon’s arm, pulling him around the group hanging out halfway between the bar and the door. “Okay, enough shop talk. Let’s have a beer.”

Tom’s out when Jon gets home; probably with some of the guys from work, he and Butcher especially have been getting pretty tight. Jon tosses his keys onto their coffee table and plops down on the couch, putting his feet up. After another minute he gets up again, restless, wandering around the apartment poking at things.

He thinks he has a pretty good idea of what it’s like for telepaths, now, at least much better than he did when he first arrived. He thinks he could still stand to understand even better.

He flips on the stereo when he passes it, trying to imagine having it on all the time. He recalls what William had said about filtering, and gives himself something to do, sorting the mail overflowing the dish on the kitchen bar. It’s not bugging him, though, because it’s music. He can tune it out automatically, or sing along.

He goes back to the stereo and twists the dial until he finds a talk radio station, something religious with a lot of sermonizing. Then he tunes it just slightly off, so that he’s picking up the evangelist, some static, and the drone of a news report interspersed with live report soundbytes. He listens for a few seconds, and then turns it up.

The television is next. He can’t tune that between stations, but he picks one with a talk show on and cranks the volume until it matches the stereo. He thinks for a minute, standing in the middle of the room, and then pads back to his bedroom and digs out his iPod and speakers. He sets those on the coffee table and starts playing a book on tape, the kind set up like a radio drama with multiple narrators speaking the dialogue.

He’s starting to run out of things that make noise, and he’s half-expecting a neighbor to start banging on the wall at any second, but he powers up his laptop and opens up a dozen tabs with sound effects, a streaming video and every media player he has installed.

He circles a few times, trying to think if there’s anything else he can do, but he’s fairly sure he’s exhausted his current options. He goes back to sorting mail, and after he’s through with that, he sits on the couch and picks up a book.

The truth is, he’s starting to get a headache. He’s not sure if it’s the noise level or the amount of input, but there are a jumble of voices all fighting it out for dominance and no matter what he does, the words on the page fail to rise above the cacophony.

This is what it’s like for them, he thinks. This is what it’s like for William every day.

Jon rubs the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters quietly. “No wonder you can’t sleep.”

Eventually he gives up on the book, closes his eyes and leans back on the couch. He tries concentrating on blocking the sound out, and then he focuses on picking out one voice among the others, trying to follow a conversation or a speech. Attempting a nap is clearly out of the question.

He zones out for a while, losing track of time in the wash of voices, and apparently doesn’t hear the door open amid all of the other noise, because the first he knows of Tom’s arrival home is his voice pitched to carry above the rest, saying, “What the fuck is going on in here, are you trying to drive yourself crazy to get a medical discharge from the program?”

Jon blinks his eyes open and watches Tom flip off the television, the iPod, and the stereo, hitting the volume button on Jon’s laptop until it’s muted. The silence is almost deafening after all of the noise. Jon evaluates how he feels, and determines that mostly he’s really fucking tired. His brain needs a break. For some reason, that seems hysterically funny, considering the reason for the exercise.

Tom watches him laugh, highly suspicious. “Seriously,” he says. “What the fuck?”

Jon shrugs, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I’m trying to understand what it’s like to hear voices,” he says. It sounds lame when he says it like that. Or possibly like he ought to be out in a park somewhere, talking to pigeons about their evil robotic overlords.

“Right,” Tom says warily. “Well, cut it out. I’d like to hold onto my sanity, thanks.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, without offering any further explanation.

Tom lingers, pausing in front of the coffee table. “Is this about Beckett?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “You’re not getting weird over him, are you? Is this some kind of crush?”

“What?” Jon’s surprised into sitting up straight. “No, it’s not. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. It’s professional, I don’t have a…Jesus, Tom.” The very idea of it is like a bucket of cold water over his head. He briefly tries to imagine being emotionally and personally responsible for William as well as professionally, and he sort of wants to crawl under the coffee table and kill himself.

Then he imagines William thinking Jon has a crush on him, and the urge intensifies by several hundred percent.

His expression of horror must speak for him better than words, because Tom holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Just asking.”

“Yeah, well, next time don’t ask stupid questions,” Jon says. “I’m his therapist.”

“Plus, he’s kind of scary,” Tom adds, apparently taking Jon’s word for it and wandering off into the kitchen. “I think he probably does talk to pigeons.”

“Don’t be a bonehead. And bring me a beer while you’re in there,” Jon calls.

He leans back on the couch, closes his eyes, and tries to imagine what it would be like if the voices never stopped.

Jon’s all set to spend more time in the field, gearing himself up for gunfire and danger, but William’s assignment with Cobra picks up speed almost immediately, and most of his days are spent conducting interrogations and attending briefings. Jon is still in the dark, officially, but William lets things slip whenever it’s just the two of them.

Therapy sessions haven’t become productive, exactly, but they have gotten a lot easier. William no longer even bothers to pretend to flirt with Jon, and only stonewalls him when Jon forgets himself and pushes too hard for personal information. They’re almost training each other. Jon’s notes have stopped being about William and started being about himself, a journal of techniques and discussions and epiphanies.

Nothing’s changing, so far as he knows, so it’s a surprise when Patrick interrupts a session – in the loosest sense of the word; they’d been talking about Pete and Tom – with his mouth pressed into a thin white line. “There’s been a fire downtown, arson. One of Cobra’s protected businesses.”

William sits up straight, instantly alert. “Anyone hurt?” At Patrick’s headshake, he hazards, “But they’re bringing someone from Cobra in.”

Patrick makes a face like he’s just swallowed a lemon. “Of course they are. They’re investigating the insurance claim angle, or that’s the cover story. Not just anyone, though.”

“Saporta,” William breathes. “Holy shit.”

“He’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You’re on the interrogation, and I don’t think they’ll expect anyone else, so watch yourself in there.” His focus shifts to Jon. “Walker.”

“I didn’t hear any of this,” Jon promises, hands raised.

Patrick shakes his head. “You were meant to, or I wouldn’t have said it. Saporta’s a telepath; whether he’s cooperative or not, I want someone there who isn’t. Cobra is his brainchild; there is no bigger fish in that company. You stay on the safe side of the glass and you watch and listen, you tell me absolutely everything that you see, got it?”

Jon is slightly dazed by the level of trust, but willing enough. “Got it.”

“No one else can be in there or he’ll know. Don’t worry, though, no one else will have any idea you’re listening.” Patrick looks unhappy about having Jon involved at all, but Jon thinks it’s more out of a desire to protect him than anything else. Patrick gets that same look whenever Pete receives an official conduct complaint.

“Is Asher with him?” William asks, standing.

“If she’s not already, she will be soon. We might be able to question her separately; we won’t need you for that, and it’ll keep her busy.” Patrick frowns at Jon again. “I wish we had more time to bring you up to speed.”

“I’ll be okay,” Jon assures him, hoping it’s the truth. His palms are already clammy, but it’s no worse than the nerves he used to have during exams back in school.

Thankfully Patrick doesn’t have any more time or attention to spare in making sure Jon means it. He opens the arson file on Jon’s desk and takes them through the basics, making sure they know the facts and which angles the police want William to work.

Patrick’s in the middle of a sentence when he breaks off and his head comes up, William’s swiveling at the same time. Pete’s not at his desk, Jon notices; he assumes that reaction from both of them means he’s been elsewhere, acting as a lookout.

Patrick blows out a breath. “Good luck,” he says.

“Don’t need it,” William says almost absently as he walks through the door. It has the ring of an exchange well-worn over time, and Patrick just snorts and follows William out to intercept their guest.

They don’t have far to go. Mike and two other officers are waiting for them with a man who can’t possibly be anyone but Gabriel Saporta. The air of confidence surrounding him speaks louder than an introduction.

Beside Jon, William comes up short and stares. Jon almost glances at him, but he's distracted by the intense scrutiny of their prime suspect, who's reclining indolently in a white tracksuit with the Cobra company logo prominently displayed in neon.

“Neg,” Saporta says, turning his attention away from Jon. “Which means you must be Beckett, apple of the law enforcement's eye.”

William continues to stare. Jon's about to touch his arm and ask in a responsible, professional way if he needs a minute, when William visibly shakes it off and says, “You're not a Neg.”

“No,” Saporta says, his smile widening.

“I can't...” William says, thrown, turning to the officers as if they'll be some help.

Saporta leans forward, steepling his fingers and focusing on William. Jon tries not to tense up and thinks he probably fails.

“That's right,” Saporta croons, voice sliding through the air like a caress. “You're not getting in, baby.”

“Let’s take this to a more appropriate location,” Mike suggests, his tone making it more of a statement than a request. Saporta’s still grinning when he stands up and follows them out, toward the interrogation rooms.

William looks as shaken as Jon’s ever seen him. He turns to Patrick, pale-faced, and says, “I can’t read him.”

Patrick doesn’t appear anywhere near as shocked by this development as Jon feels. “That’s okay,” he says heavily, taking his glasses off to rub at the bridge of his nose. “No one else can either.”

Jon stays on the other side of the one-way window into the interrogation room when William goes in. He’s still nervous about being this involved in a high-profile case, in spite of Patrick’s reassurances, but he tries to focus on the knowledge that while he’s in here, he’s essentially invisible.

Besides that, Jon is a little reluctant to let William out of his sight at the moment.

Gabe looks up from his chair just before the door opens, and Jon doesn't know if it was telepathic premonition or the fact that he heard a noise. William tosses a note pad and a pencil down onto the table in front of him, perches on the edge of the table and smiles. It gives him the higher ground for now, looking down at where Gabe remains seated.

“If you answer my questions, we can get you out of here a lot faster,” is William's opening volley. “You know they'll just keep calling you in here if you don't cooperate.”

Gabe puts his hands out on the table, palms up. “Ask away,” he says with a grin.

William leans over toward Gabe and pushes a strand of hair back behind his ear when it falls over his eyes. “You know that's not what I mean,” he says. “They'll never accept a statement without me backing it.”

“But you can't see into my head, can you?” Gabe says, his grin widening at the tic of irritation on William's face. “Guess you'll just have to take my word for it.”

“The government isn't big on blind trust,” William drawls, heavy with sarcasm.

“Pity for them,” Gabe answers, his smile not wavering an inch.

William's hand slides along the table toward Gabe, another more subtle offer of assistance and cooperation. “All you have to do is let me in,” he coaxes, tilting his head. “If you're not guilty, I'll be able to prove it.”

“Ah, but you won't just see the answers to their questions, will you?” Gabe replies easily, folding his hands back behind his head, purposefully casual. Offer declined. “I let you in, you see everything. If there's something else I don't especially want the government to know, you'll find it.”

“I don't have to tell them,” William says quickly.

“You're obligated,” Gabe says, shaking his head though the lazy grin hasn't slipped. "Don't even try that, I know all about TRU regulations."

There's a pause for a moment, and then William clearly changes tack. “You're good enough to keep me out completely,” he points out, and there's no mistaking how displeased he is to have to confess that, the grudging admission in his voice. “You must be good enough to only show me what you want me to see.”

Gabe smirks, hands back on the table. “You're good enough to get in wherever you want, once I give you the tiniest opening,” he replies. “And you will, too. You won't be satisfied with just that much.”

Jon feels like he should be taking notes, but he's not entirely sure what they'd be about. Not the case, not even necessarily about William, but there's enough psychological power-play going on in that room to fill a dissertation.

Gabe leans in, elbows on the table, far enough that he forces William to lean back or end up far too close for comfort. “I'm driving you crazy, aren't I?” he asks, just the slightest bit wolfish. “You can't get what you want and it's frustrating the fuck out of you, because no one's ever been able to say no before.”

William's frozen, his eyes flicking back and forth as he stares at Gabe. “I'm not finished trying yet,” he says evenly.

“I could teach you how to shield, you know,” Gabe says conversationally. “You could be this good. I know you've got the brainpower.”

“You'd have to let me in,” William answers, although there's something wavering in his demeanor, something that tells Jon he's tempted. “And when you do, I'll know everything.”

Gabe spreads his hands and grins wide. “Stalemate.”

“They’re cutting Saporta loose,” Mike says, after he signals Jon and William to leave the interrogation room and they rendezvous out of earshot in Mike’s office.

“What?” William is visibly startled by the news. Then again, Jon thinks he probably isn’t in the habit of leaving interrogation rooms without having gotten whatever it was that he wanted. “No, I can crack him. I just need more time.”

“If you haven’t done it by now, you’re not going to do it,” Patrick puts in from just behind Jon, sounding weary. Jon glances over and takes a half-step aside to let him into the conversation. “He’s not letting his guard down around you.”

“And we can’t hold him longer,” Mike adds. “We really shouldn’t have held him this long, but I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. Time’s up, though.”

William looks right at Patrick, and Jon’s certain there’s something passing between them before William says out loud, “There’s more than one way to catch a fly.”

“No,” Patrick says. “Out of the question.”

Mike glances between them. “Honey trap?” he guesses. “I don’t know that you’re Saporta’s type.”

Jon would have been able to correct him there, but William gets in first. “I am,” he says flatly. “He’ll go for it, even just to see what I’m really offering. And if things get physical, he won’t be able to keep me out.”

“No, and that’s final,” Patrick says, volume still low but with an authority in his tone that brooks no argument.

William apparently either doesn’t hear the tone or chooses to ignore it. “I’ve done it before,” he says.

This time Jon startles. “When?” he demands. He thinks he should have known about this a long time ago, if it’s true. It should have been in William’s fucking file along with everything else.

Patrick and William both ignore him. “Yes, let’s consider how that turned out, shall we?” Patrick says, sounding aggrieved. “No, Bill. I mean it. You stay away from him outside of the building, and you don’t take a step out of line, professionally. This is for you and the case. Think about how much leverage Asher would have if she found a way to twist it.”

“We can always call him back in if we find more to connect him,” Mike interjects into the charged silence between his telepathic colleagues. “Right now we don’t have a fucking scrap of evidence. We can’t charge him, and we can’t hold him without charging him.”

“It’s over,” Patrick says; the tail end of a conversation Jon suspects he and Mike haven’t been hearing. “Let this one go.”

Mike’s cell goes off, and he glances at the display. “I’ve got to take care of something,” he says. “I’ll tell Saporta he can go as soon as I’m through.”

William’s jaw works stubbornly, but he finally looks down. “Fine,” he says, short.

Patrick doesn’t look entirely convinced by the surrender, but also like he’s willing to take what he can get. Jon can sympathize; he’s learning to pick his battles with William as well. “My office in fifteen; we can go over the transcripts at least.” It’s not a particularly optimistic suggestion; Jon had been privy to the whole conversation, he and William both know there’s nothing in there. “Take a break. Go get something to drink.”

He claps William on the shoulder as he leaves, and Jon thinks it’s probably prudent to follow a moment later. Hanging around to prolong William’s defeat seems unnecessary.

He goes to get a Diet Coke instead, and doesn’t look at the closed door to the interrogation room on the way past.

William intercepts Jon outside Mike’s office, just as he’s about to head back to their floor. William looks frustrated, understandably, but also distracted. “Jon,” he says, catching Jon’s elbow. “Patrick said he left his phone in the observation room. He thinks it fell out of his pocket, so it could be on the floor somewhere, maybe on a chair. Could you check?”

Tom would have some choice things to say at this juncture about bigwigs running their own errands, but Jon likes Patrick, and William’s growing on him, so he just says, “Yeah, sure.”

There’s not a lot of furniture in the observation room, and it’s not brightly-lit. Through the window he can see Gabe still waiting, slouched down in his chair with his ankles crossed. Jon has no idea how long they’re planning on keeping him, but he suspects they’ll be getting a visit from Miss Asher if it takes too much longer.

He’s checked the tables and chairs and is about to start searching the floor when he hears the click of a door being shut and Gabe’s voice joking, “Back for another round?”

Jon looks automatically, and freezes in surprise when he sees William, ID badge conspicuously absent. William spins one of the other chairs around and straddles it, leaning forward towards Gabe. Putting himself on the same level, Jon thinks; William’s playing a different game now.

“I thought you might want to talk,” William suggests, and his smile has an edge to it when he adds, “Off the record, this time.”

Gabe doesn’t bite yet. “I thought we’d been over this,” he replies casually, not moving an inch. “There’s no such thing.”

“There’s no one else watching,” William says. “I’d be able to feel if there were. You would, too. And there are no Neg cops in this precinct. It’s just us.”

Jon wonders if William’s forgotten about him, and then he realizes with cold clarity that Patrick never dropped his phone in here. Patrick probably doesn’t know anything about this at all. But William’s given him plausible deniability and a way out if he needs it.

“Even if I believed you,” Gabe says, in a way that makes it obvious he doesn’t, “telepathic evidence is still accepted, remember? Anything you tell me…”

He trails off as William finishes scribbling something onto a piece of paper and pushes it across the table without a word. Gabe reads it and his eyebrows go up when he looks back at William.

“Now you have leverage,” William says with perfect calm. “I don’t use anything against you, you don’t use that against me. And you could. No one knows, not even my partner.”

Gabe looks intrigued, although Jon isn’t sure he’s convinced yet. “What do you want to know?” he asks, folding his hands in his lap and bridging his thumbs. His smile bares his teeth when he says, “Off the record.”

“You knew you’d end up with me,” William says, which isn’t an angle Jon was expecting, but Gabe doesn’t seem put off by it. “You knew I was on this case, and you knew they’d never give you to anyone else even if I wasn’t. So what I want to know is,” William says, volume dropping as he leans in, “are you here right now because you want something from the department? Or because you want something from me?”

Gabe’s grin is all teeth, flashy and sharp. “I’ll bet you already know I want something from you, don’t you? That’s why you’re dangling it in front of me.” He leans in as well, until their faces are spare inches apart. “I’d offer to blow your mind, but that’s what you want, isn’t it? Because you know I’ll let you in if you get your pretty hands on me.”

William’s smile, when it comes, is almost as sharp, and not an expression Jon’s ever seen him wear. “You’ve been offering an awful lot,” he says. “But you’ve been here for far longer than you needed to be, with no evidence and no official charges, and your legal advisors must have told you that. So what do you want?”

For a fraction of a second, Jon thinks they’re going to kiss. Then Gabe leans back in his chair, casual again, but his eyes on William are shrewd. “You’re good,” he says, an almost offhand compliment to which William doesn’t bother to respond. Gabe considers for a moment, then says, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a taste.”

“Of what?” William asks warily. Jon takes a step almost unconsciously towards the door. No one else knows William’s in there right now, and Gabe isn’t restrained. If anything goes down, Jon doesn’t know that he’ll make it in time, but he’s damn well going to try.

“Of what you want,” Gabe says. “This is, after all, still off the record.” There’s something dry and ironic in his tone, and Jon wonders if Gabe knows he’s in here, if he’s guessed all along.

William’s eyes start to focus and go distant, the look Jon can now recognize as his prelude to touching someone else’s mind, but Gabe just chuckles and straightens up in his chair.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, and then he’s leaning forward, twining his fingers through William’s hair to cup the back of his neck. “We’re doing this my way.”

William hesitates for a split-second, long enough that Jon’s hand is on the doorknob and tensed, but then his eyes flutter shut and he bends to meet Gabe halfway. It’s a chaste enough kiss, just the briefest press of their mouths together, but William stiffens and jerks away, his head dropping back, mouth falling open and slack. Jon doesn’t know whether he should really bust in there or really not, so indecision stays his hand just long enough for William to pull himself together, his eyes opening slow and languid, looking almost drugged.

Gabe chuckles. “I can’t believe no one’s ever done that for you.” Then he smirks, mouth twitching crookedly, and adds, “Well, maybe I can.”

He stands up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder as his chair legs scrape back over the raw floor. William looks up at him, eyes dark and unreadable, and Gabe bends to brush a butterfly-soft kiss across his mouth. “Think about it,” he says in a low voice, and lets himself out of the room.

Jon waits in the observation room for longer than is probably necessary, but he doesn’t want to open the door and walk right into Saporta. He waits until William leaves the interrogation room, and then there’s a light series of taps on the observation room door.

“What did he do to you?” Jon asks, as soon as he opens the door to a contemplative William on the other side.

William’s gaze sharpens, like he hadn’t been expecting this line of attack, but Jon isn’t backing down. Whether either of them are completely satisfied with the arrangement or not, Jon is William’s department psychiatrist, and he is fucking well finding out what that was about in there. If William hadn’t wanted him to witness it, he shouldn’t have arranged for Jon to be in that room in the first place.

“He shielded me,” William answers finally. “Almost completely. Not quite, because that might have let me in under his defenses, but enough to make his point, that he could if he’d been…properly motivated.”

Jon doesn’t like the sound of that. He also doesn’t think that’s all there was to it, but he already knows William doesn’t share secrets easily. “He still hasn’t told you what he wants in return, has he?”

“Not yet.” William smiles briefly, distracted. “He will, though. That was the bait, to see if I’d take the hook.”

Jon almost doesn’t want to ask, but he has to. “And will you?”

William holds his gaze while he thinks it through. “I’m not sure yet,” he admits. He starts to walk and Jon falls in beside him, but William breaks off once they hit the hallway, shaking his head. “Not that way. I can’t go to see Patrick like this, he’ll know something’s up. I need to think about this first.”

That makes sense. Jon lingers anyway, reluctant to let William leave alone. “Where are you going?”

William smiles. “Patrick told me to go get a drink, right?” he asks rhetorically. “Let’s hit Starbucks. You too,” he adds. “I don’t want Patrick seeing you either.”

Jon’s confused, but game enough to fall back into step, heading toward the front doors alongside William. “He can’t read my mind.”

“No, but you’re not the master of deception you think you are,” William replies dryly. “And Patrick’s a shrink too, remember. It’s best if you come with me.” He pushes open the glass doors and adds, lips quirked into a half-smile, “Besides, don’t you want to ask me as many questions as you possibly can while you’ve got the chance?”

Fair enough. “Do you think Saporta will try to contact you?” Jon asks. He has too many concerns for that one to be called primary, but it’s fairly high on the list. He’s worried about what might happen if Cobra decides to turn the tables and start going after law enforcement.

William doesn’t ponder for long. “No,” he answers. “He won’t have to. Chicago P.D. isn’t about to let a big fish like Gabriel Saporta get away, not without a fight. They’ll bring him in again, and I’ll be there when they do. Saporta knows that as well as I do. Whether I can read him or not, I’m still the only one who even has a chance.”

“And when that happens, you think he’ll make his move,” Jon infers.

William shrugs. “Maybe. It depends on the move.”

The Starbucks is warm and smells heavenly. Jon orders a venti because the coffee in the office is shit, and he’ll take the good stuff if he can get it. He uses his old employee number and gets a discount, which makes William cast a sideways look in his direction as he takes Jon’s place in front of the counter.

“You know you’re getting mine too, now,” William tells him, and orders a venti chai latte to go on Jon’s card. “A barista?” he asks afterward as they wait for their drinks, eyebrow raised. “In college?”

“Every summer,” Jon confirms. He watches the drinks being made, out of habit more than any lingering nostalgia, and asks, “Not getting coffee?” Come to think of it, he can’t remember seeing William with a mug from the office kitchen all that often. His Starbucks cups always tend to have two or three tea bag tags trailing down the side.

“Caffeine,” William answers. “My parents made that mistake a few times when I was younger, and I made it myself exactly once during holiday madness one year. We get a lot of calls, I hadn’t slept in a while. Now I just do decaf, and only when I need it.” He glances at Jon and shares a quick smile. “My brain doesn’t need any extra help.”

Jon winces. William, surprisingly, laughs. “You know,” he says, grinning, “sometimes I think you might just be starting to understand.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jon replies. William picks up their cups from the counter and raises his in toast.

Jon’s phone rings at two in the morning on a Saturday, which he fully expects to be a drunk dial from a college friend until he sees William’s name on the caller ID.

He snaps it open immediately, muting the television and sitting up to feel more alert. “Hey,” he answers neutrally, because he thinks that opening with, Is everything okay? would probably be too much.

“Am I bothering you?” William asks. He doesn’t sound concerned, exactly, just curious.

“Not really.” Jon clicks off the television. “Not at all, honestly, I’m just wasting time. I slept in this morning and then I took a nap before dinner, so now I’m not tired.”

“The woes of the slothfully lethargic,” William drawls with a smile in his voice. It sobers a little when he says, “I can’t sleep. There’s too much else going on, Saturday nights. Everyone’s awake.”

“Sucks,” Jon says sympathetically. “You want to come over or something?”

“No,” William answers, but there’s a brief pause, so Jon at least knows that his offer had been considered, if only for a moment. It’s surprisingly warming. “Talking would be good, though, if you’re up anyway.”

“I’m up.” Jon leans back down against the arm of the couch and asks, “You have anything in particular in mind?”

“Not work,” William says immediately. “I’d rather not think about that for at least another seven hours if I can get away with it.”

“Are you on call?” Jon asks.

“Adam,” William answers. “Butcher after him. I ought to be a last resort. Patrick tries to give me the weekends when he can.”

“Sweet,” Jon replies. He wishes he had more to contribute. There ought to be insightful therapist questions he could ask right now, but it’s 2 AM and he can’t think of anything. He doesn’t even really want to, anyway. He thinks William would probably appreciate if they skipped the normal song and dance.

“I’d try to read your mind again, but I’m finding that I don’t particularly enjoy coming up against walls,” William says, and it sounds good-humored, but Jon knows him well enough now to read the frustration beneath it.

“Too bad we can’t play poker over the phone,” Jon jokes. “I’d have pretty good odds.”

“I have mad poker-playing skills,” William replies solemnly. “How are you at bingo?”

“About the same as everyone,” Jon says, laughing. He doesn’t remember what games they have in the apartment, if any. A deck of cards, maybe, but nothing they could play over the phone. He checks his laptop for the list of games and asks, “Chess? I’m abysmal, just so you’re warned in advance.”

“I never really had a challenge,” William admits. “I always knew what my opponent’s strategy was before they made a move. You have a board?”

“Computer,” Jon answers, clicking it open. “You?”

“Who goes first, white?” William asks. He sounds like he’s settling in, and maybe also like he’s starting to relax, a bit. Jon bites his lip on a smile.

“That’s me. I’m the white knight, I insist.” Jon sets his game to two-player and drags one of the pieces forward. “Pawn to D4.”

He hears William repeat the move under his breath, and then a click later, “Knight to F6.”

“Queen’s bishop to G5,” Jon says, clicking on the pieces to make sure he’s moving the right ones. At least the computer won’t let him do anything illegal, so he’s relatively certain he’s playing correctly, if not necessarily well.

“I see what you’re doing there,” William chides, clicking away. He definitely sounds less tense. By the end of this game, Jon hopes, he’ll be half-asleep in his own bed and out until morning.

“Pawn to H6,” William says. Jon kicks his feet up onto the couch and plays.

With William buried in the Cobra investigation, Jon takes the opportunity to go out on a few calls with Pete. It’s nothing major, all low-risk assignments that don’t require much supervision, but Jon’s still grateful for the time in the field. He feels more useful when he’s out learning what it is his patients do.

They’re on the way back from one such call when they pass a young mother with a little girl in tow, the child valiantly trying to chase melting ice cream around her waffle cone with her tongue and keep up with her mother at the same time. Jon watches her as they go past, grinning fondly, and then he notices he’s not the only one.

There’s a man staring as well, but he’s not smiling. He looks almost hungry, and Jon thinks he’s checking out the young mother until he identifies the man’s line of sight, and then his smile fades.

Pete turns around as the girl and her mother go into a shop. Jon barely has time to process what he’s doing before he says, “Hey asshole!” and takes a swing at the guy’s face. And Jon had suspected, maybe, but he can tell that Pete knows, for certain, what that guy had been thinking when he’d looked at the little girl.

The man staggers back, startled but not bleeding. Pete gives him half a second and swings again. Jon’s frozen in place, unmoving, until the guy punches Pete in the face and Pete leaps at him, and somehow that breaks his indecision, because Pete’s half the size of the other guy. And he can’t be suspended again, not this soon, not while Jon ought to be looking out for him. Pete could even go to jail for this, if the man hasn’t actually done anything wrong besides have sick thoughts.

“Pete,” he says, getting hold of Pete’s shoulder and holding him back, pulling to put himself between them. “Come on, he’s not worth it.”

Pete squirms free of him, teeth bared. “You know what this asshole does with his nieces?” he snarls. “He sits them on his lap and tells them if they’re good, he’ll give them sweets. You know what being good entails?”

Jon doesn’t, but he can imagine. It’s enough. He pulls Pete back, steps firmly between him and the creep, and suckerpunches the bastard right in the nose.

There’s a satisfying crunch, and blood starts spurting everywhere. Jon shakes out his fist and takes a step back. “Come on,” he says again as the guy shouts curses at them, doubled-over, and they walk away.

Pete’s grinning and bouncing on his toes the whole way back. Jon hopes it’s because that guy will be too afraid now to ever touch another little girl, that they’ve just brought someone’s nightmare to an end. He doesn’t think it will be that easy, but he hopes.

“I wish we could put him away,” Jon says without meaning to, the words breaking free in frustration as he thinks about the situation. He knows why Pete does what he does, now. Or at least he has a better idea.

“Done,” Pete says, rocking onto his toes as they reach the curb and have to wait for the light. “Providing the girls will testify. One of them might, she’s older now. I’ve got his name and address memorized.” He shakes his head, still smiling grimly. “I’m going to be suspended again.”

“Worth it,” Jon says shortly. He flexes his fingers, the knuckles still red, and says, “Tell them you were defending me.”

“That’s the problem with working with telepaths,” Pete sighs. “Everyone will know better.”

“They also probably know you,” Jon points out with a smirk.

“Yeah, well, they apparently don’t know you,” Pete says, shooting him a sideways look. “Nice shot, Walker. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Hey, I was quite the brawler back in my drunken college days,” Jon boasts, trying to look tougher than he feels, with his holiday tree sweater and blue striped scarf. He glances back at Pete and admits, “I just never had a good reason before.”

As soon as they walk into the office, Patrick sighs, and Pete looks abruptly sheepish. “Name and address?” Patrick asks, and Pete rattles them off, hands stuffed into his pockets and looking guilty. Not remorseful, though, for which Jon is fiercely glad. He himself doesn’t regret a thing.

William slips past Jon to hook Pete’s elbow and lead him out, probably to get him cleaned up. Jon glances at Patrick, but he’s already in his office, on the phone. There’s some adrenaline left over from the fight, but Jon doesn’t really have anything to do with it, so he goes into his office and sits down.

He’s still there, re-reading the list of lawful telepathic evidence accepted in criminal cases, when William comes in and shuts the door. Jon looks up, startled out of his clauses, and his expression sobers immediately at the look on William’s face.

“Last month, there was an assignment you asked me about,” William says without preliminaries. “Do you remember?”

There have been a lot of cases and a lot of questions, but somehow Jon knows which one he means. He can still remember William’s face at the restaurant, and the way he’d been curled up on the floor in Patrick’s office. Jon nods, slowly.

“I was on a suspected domestic violence call,” William says. “They put us on them sometimes if we’re free, because it means the cops can’t be sent away as easily if someone really is in trouble and afraid to speak up.”

Jon nods again, patient. William takes a deep breath, obviously struggling with something, and pushes on.

“This one was legit. The guy was using identity theft to repeatedly gain access to the foster care system.” William breaks to breathe again, and Jon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe himself until William starts talking again. “He took in kids, young kids, ones who’d already been abused and were scared, ones that social services was trusting him to keep safe, and he raped them. Repeatedly. And when he was done with them and ready to move on to the next, he filled a bathtub with water and held them under while he did it one last time, until he was finished.”

Jon’s lungs are starting to burn, but now he physically can’t bring himself to inhale. His throat has closed up, dry and raw.

“The call I was brought in on, it was one of those times,” William says, his tone perfectly neutral. “There was a body already floating in the tub when they made the arrest.” William swallows before he finishes. “She was six years old.”

Jon sits silent for a long time. Finally he whispers, “Jesus,” and it sounds just as harsh as he feels, scraped open.

William’s throat works for a second. “Sometimes it’s not that I don’t want to tell you something,” he says quietly. “It’s that I don’t know what to say.”

He turns the doorknob then, and slips out as silently as he’d arrived. Jon sits alone in his office for a long, long time.

William pokes his head into Jon’s office on Thursday, barely two hours after their session. Jon’s sure he looks perplexed, but he makes a cursory attempt at appearing welcoming even though William doesn’t seem all that distressed.

“Patrick’s on the phone with Mrs. Gutenberg from River North,” William says without preamble. “She’s going to ask him to send someone down to check out her property again, because she thinks there’s a man hiding in the walls spying on her, and I’m afraid of her little dog, it gives me the creeps.” He holds up a bag. “How do you feel about udon noodles?”

“I accept your bribe,” Jon tells him, as his stomach rumbles lunchtime agreement. “Close the door behind you.”

William’s smile is radiant. “Thank you,” he says, pulling take-out containers out of the bag as Jon clears a place on the desk. “He’ll know exactly what I’m doing, of course, but it’s his fault for instituting the open door-closed door rules in the first place.”

“Why is he even sending someone?” Jon asks. “You guys are valuable, why waste your time on a call you already know won’t turn anything up?”

“Mrs. Gutenberg is a department widow,” William explains, offering Jon his choice of fork or chopsticks. Jon is not at all ashamed to claim the plastic fork, even when William grins at him. “She’s also a generous contributor to police funding.” He rubs his fingers together meaningfully in the international gesture for money.

“Ahhh,” Jon says wisely. “It all becomes clear now.”

“It would be an easy enough call, if it weren’t for that dog,” William complains, grimacing. “It has these beady eyes and this ratty-looking tail. It gives me the heeby-jeebies. No wonder she’s paranoid, living with that thing.” He shudders dramatically. “Adam will take it, just watch.”

He jerks his head toward the window, and Jon follows the movement to see Adam nodding, presumably at Patrick, and standing up to collect his things. A few seconds later, he stabs his finger in their direction and mouths something that Jon can’t make out, but William apparently does, because he laughs.

“I should have bought more noodles,” he mourns.

“He’ll probably barter for something with more value, like fewer hours or less calls,” Jon points out, grinning. Although, come to think of it: “Why would Patrick be sending you out on a call like that anyway? I thought you were still on long-term assignment to the Cobra thing.”

William sighs. “I am, it’s just been slow lately as far as I’m concerned. They’re playing the tax evasion and fraud angles as far as they can, so I’m on standby until the paperwork possibilities are exhausted.”

“It worked for Capone,” Jon says optimistically.

“It won’t work on Saporta,” William replies, taking a piece of carrot between his chopsticks and considering it thoughtfully. “He’s too smart for that. There’s no way they’ll catch him on something as foolish as tax evasion when he’s playing for such high stakes.”

“The company?” Jon asks.

William shakes his head. “The children.”

Jon considers what William isn’t saying, and how casually he isn’t saying it. “You’ve got kind of a thing for him, haven’t you?”

William looks at him, sideways and from under his lashes. Evasion, Jon thinks, and he almost smiles because he’s sure William knows it, too.

“I have respect for him,” William answers. “And for what he does. There should be checks and safeguards on both sides, otherwise there’s no way to maintain a balance.”

Jon thinks about Saporta bending to kiss William on his way out the door, and William’s face afterward. “Uh-huh,” he says neutrally. William shows him a sharp look, but Jon just widens his eyes and looks innocent. He can play that game as well as William can.

There’s a tap at the door, and William looks briefly hunted but also confused, so Jon isn’t all that surprised when he calls, “Come in,” and Tom pokes his head around the door.

“Lunch?” Tom asks, and then he sees William and says, “Oh, shit.”

“We’re not really in a session,” Jon assures him, glancing at William, and then he does a double-take because William’s entire demeanor has changed, slipped into something more heavy-lidded and languid.

“You could join us,” William offers, his voice almost a purr. “I have enough for two.”

He licks his lower lip, slowly, and Jon looks away in fascination to see Tom’s face go pale and then flushed, and his eyes widen. “No, thanks, I’ll just, um, you…” he stammers, and then he ducks out and hastily shuts the door.

William’s laughing almost before the catch clicks into place. “Was that really necessary?” Jon asks reproachfully. He’d almost forgotten what William had been like, at the start; the way he still is with Tom. It’s bizarre seeing it now, when William no longer bothers keeping up the façade with him.

“I like to keep people off-balance,” William says with a shrug, unrepentant and unbothered.

“You’re shameless,” Jon accuses. William just twirls a noodle dangling from his chopsticks and grins.

The shit hits the fan on a Tuesday, incongruously enough, when they’re past the Monday slump but haven’t really hit their stride for the week. They’re all amazingly in the office for once, hanging out in the communal area and trying to decide who’s going to suck it up and make a fresh pot of coffee. Five telepathic heads suddenly snap up in unison, and that’s all the warning Jon has before Patrick’s phone rings.

It’s eerily silent for all of thirty seconds, and then Patrick’s slamming down the phone and coming back out, looking significantly more harried than he had been a moment ago.

“The cops got an anonymous tip about a meth lab in a basement; they raided the house and took everyone into custody. Both parents worked for Cobra, they’ve been taken into custody and the kids were sent to social services until the investigation is over.” Patrick grimaces. “There’s no sign of any meth lab ever having been there.”

“They took the kids?” William asks, his tone disbelieving. Jon’s a little shocked himself.

“Saporta’s on his way,” Patrick warns. “And he’s gonna be pissed.”

“He’s already pissed,” Mike says, joining them from the elevator. “He just hasn’t started shouting at you yet.”

“They took the kids,” William repeats, and his voice has dropped ten degrees into frosty.

“Don’t fucking start with me, Beckett, this isn’t my fault. I need a united front on this one, all right? You can take my head off later, but I fucking need you on my side right now.” Mike’s breathing hard, and from the way he and William are staring each other down, Jon guesses this is the reason for the early warning.

“Fine,” William says finally, sharp. “But if you lie to me or to him, I’ll know it, and I won’t hesitate to call you on it.”

Mike swears, but seems to recognize it’s as good as he’s going to get. “It might be better if I talk to him first,” he suggests. “Get him calmed down, just the two of us, man to man. I’ll call you in once that’s done for the actual questioning.”

“What questioning?” William demands.

The elevator dings. Mike glances at it, then back to William, and says in a lower tone, “United front.”

The elevator discharges not only Saporta, but also two tall men flanking him, another one closer to Jon’s height, and the pristine Miss Asher rounding out the formation. It’s an impressive entrance, and Jon straightens up automatically. This is not a man who’s come to fuck around, this time. Cobra means business.

“Mr. Saporta,” Mike begins, as calmly as possible without, Jon notes, quite managing to sound apologetic.

“I want the kids, and I want them now,” Saporta says, cutting him off. “I want their parents released, or I want them moved to an interrogation room where the family can be together. And I want to know why their house was raided, and not some bullshit line about drugs, because that was a family’s home, not a fucking drug lab. There were fucking kids living there.”

Saporta is as well-dressed and immaculate as before, but there’s something new and hard in his expression, and the slick, nonchalant veneer he’d shown in the interrogation room is completely gone. He’s angry now, because someone else has made it personal, and he’s not playing games with them anymore. For the first time, Jon sees why the police consider him a threat.

“We received an anonymous tip that there were drugs being made on the premises,” Mike explains, standing his ground. “We are currently investigating and will release the suspects as soon as they’re cleared.”

“Bullshit,” Saporta bites off, taking a step forward to get in Mike’s face. The rest of the Cobra representatives don’t move, but there’s an air of menace nonetheless that makes Jon’s skin prickle. He’s acutely aware of the six other members of their department clustered around him, frozen and waiting. He’s more aware than he’d like of where William is standing, and how his eyes don’t leave Saporta’s face.

“It’s not…” Mike tries.

“You sent officers into their home with guns,” Saporta interrupts, voice raised to overpower Mike’s. “You terrified a family and then you took away their children, with no evidence whatsoever, all because they work for me. You want me? You’ve got me. Ask me whatever questions you’ve got, but you leave my people alone.”

“I swear to God,” Mike says, speaking up for the first time without the air of polite implacability. “It wasn’t us. I don’t know who it was, but we did get a tip. I double-checked as soon as I found out what had happened.”

“You’ve been chasing my company for months,” Saporta shoots back. “Don’t tell me this wasn’t a golden opportunity on a platter for you. Now you’ve got leverage. Who cares if it’s two scared kids, in the end? Whatever works, right? Does that justify the means?”

Mike takes a breath. “I’ll have the kids removed from social services and returned to their parents,” he promises. Giving an inch, Jon thinks, because at this point Saporta won’t stop at taking a mile if he feels he has to. “We’ll still need to question them, but we can have them interrogated individually, so that someone’s always with the children. As soon as we’re through with that, pending any evidence turning up, they’ll be released to return home.”

“To return with me,” Saporta retorts, but his aggressive posture has eased a fraction. “Your people knocked down their fucking front door.”

“We didn’t know,” Mike swears. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Saporta doesn’t answer immediately. He studies Mike’s face, and then he turns and looks at William. Jon can feel Mike tense up, but after a long moment, William nods.

Saporta returns his attention to Mike. “I assume you have questions for me as well,” he says, and his tone is practically dripping irony.

Mike’s jaw clenches, but he says simply, “If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience.”

Saporta snorts. “Let’s get this shit over with,” he says, gesturing for his people to follow them back to the elevators. He’s only taken a half-dozen steps before he swings back around. “Beckett comes, too.”

Mike glances sideways at William. Probably, Jon guesses, evaluating whether he can afford to have someone with proven sympathies in the room during whatever this interrogation turns out to be. He seems to fall on the side of either trusting William’s loyalty or recognizing that he has little choice, because he jerks his chin at William to join them.

William catches and holds Pete’s gaze for a moment before he moves. Pete nods, just the slightest dip of his head. They’re going to stay linked, Jon thinks, slightly dizzy from the tension swirling around the room. If anything unpleasant goes down in that room, William will have reinforcements.

Jon just wishes he knew what side they would be on.

The elevator door closes, and Patrick blows out a breath. “Pete, find out where they’re holding the kids and walk them back to their parents. They’ll trust you more, and they’ve had enough to deal with today. Butcher, you’re first on calls, be ready to go if something comes in. Adam, make a nuisance of yourself, bug the hell out of the P.D. downstairs. If another tip comes in, I want to be the first to know. Tom, go with him, they don’t know you yet. They might talk more around you. Find out who made that call.”

He turns to go back into his office, and Jon is briefly lost. He feels stupid clearing his throat, but he’s the only one without orders, and he’d like to be at least marginally useful. “What do you want me to do?” he asks when Patrick turns back around to look at him.

Patrick’s eyebrows go up. “What you’ve been doing,” he says. “Keep being William’s shadow. Stick to his side and stay invisible.”

Jon can absolutely do that.

When Jon reaches the interrogation rooms, it’s not all that difficult to figure out which one is currently occupied by Saporta. Unfortunately, that’s because the two tall gentlemen who came in with him are waiting like bodyguards outside of it, and the other one is lounging in front of the observation room door. It looks casual, but Jon doubts he has any chance of slipping in without starting a fuss.

He loiters instead, just far enough away that the Cobra representatives don’t start getting suspicious, but within eyeshot of the interrogation room door so he can see when it opens. He doesn’t have to wait all that long, honestly, before the room’s occupants file out. He suspects, from Mike’s expression, that he has Miss Asher to thank for that.

He wanders over just in time to hear Saporta say, “A pleasure as always, gentlemen,” laced heavily with irony, and then he tips a wink at William so quick Jon almost misses it, and he thinks most of the others probably do. “Maybe I’ll see you around down under sometime,” Saporta suggests. “I’d hate to let professionalism get in the way of behaving unprofessionally.”

“How long have you been practicing that line?” William asks, but he’s amused, Jon can tell.

Apparently Saporta can as well, because his grin widens. “Since the moment I saw you,” he replies. “If you give me an hour or so, I might be able to come up with another one.”

“Hopefully an improvement,” William tells him, smiling, and Saporta laughs.

“Until next time, Officer Carden,” he calls, and the other Cobra representatives fall in around him into that same loose formation. It’s impressive as hell, Jon has to admit. The man knows how to make a statement.

The doors swing shut behind them and Mike focuses with an arched eyebrow on William. “Did you get anything at all from him besides that he’d like to see you out of uniform?”

“I don’t wear a uniform,” William answers absently. “And stop trying to picture it, I don’t look anything like that. You have no flair for seduction.” He bites a nail thoughtfully and adds, “Nothing. Besides the fact that he’s still hiding something.”

“What else is new?” Mike asks rhetorically. He rolls out his shoulders. “I still wish I knew how he found out about this so fast. The suspects hadn’t even reached the station yet, and they didn’t have time to make any calls.”

“Alarm system?” William suggests.

“That or he has his own people being watched. I’ll bet if we knew where that anonymous tip came from, we’d be one step closer to finding out who passed it on to Saporta’s people.”

“I’ll take a walk,” William says, and something in his voice suggests it won’t be a casual stroll. If anyone in this building knows anything, Jon suspects, William will find out about it within minutes. Mike stiffens, but nods.

“I’ll go check in with Patrick,” Mike says, and they disband. Jon doesn’t think tagging along after William at this juncture will be particularly helpful, so he goes after Mike instead, nodding to Tom and sorting through a few pieces of largely meaningless paperwork while he thinks.

They’re still no closer to knowing what Saporta wants. William had thought Saporta would make his move this time, but if he had, Jon hadn’t seen it.

Then again, Saporta wouldn’t have wanted Jon to see it anyway.

He glances at the clock. It’s been more than half an hour, but he doesn’t remember seeing William return to their floor. He goes to the doorway, but there’s no sign of William, just Patrick in his office with Mike and Adam at his desk drawing doodles on his official department calendar.

“Have you seen Bill?” he asks.

Adam glances up, looking slightly confused, before shaking his head. His eyes go slightly vague in that way that means he’s looking with more than his eyes, and then he shrugs and says, “Maybe he got a call?”

Adam isn’t really the covering-up type, which Jon takes to mean that he hadn’t picked up on William even being in the building. They can usually find each other within a reasonable radius.

Jon goes back into his office, sits down in his chair, and thinks, maybe Saporta made his move after all.

He doesn’t think William has been taken, or anything as dramatic as that. He thinks William had just known exactly what he’d been doing when he’d taken that walk, and it hadn’t been what Mike or Jon had expected.

If they’d exchanged some kind of secret message telepathically, William and Saporta, Jon would never have caught a trace of it. But Saporta had still seemed unwilling to give William even an inch when it came to his mental shields, and William would have known where the tip-off had come from, if he’d gotten into Saporta’s head even briefly enough for a message to be passed. Jon doesn’t think, intrigues aside, that William would have lied to Mike about that.

William had been distracted, though. Maybe there had been a message he’d been trying to figure out as well.

Saporta had winked. Maybe I’ll see you around down under sometime, Jon remembers. Give me an hour or so.

“Fuck,” he says out loud. It’s been forty minutes now, roughly, since Jon and Mike had come back to the office. More than enough time for William to slip out and meet Saporta.

“Fuck,” he says again. He runs his hands through his hair, tangling and tugging just enough to clear his head. Saporta could have passed William more hints in the interrogation room, but somehow Jon doesn’t think so. Mike would have been watching too closely, and there would be transcripts. It had to have been after that, after the wink in the hallway.

Down under, he hears again, and blinks.

“Siska, tell Patrick I’ll be back in about an hour!” he calls, already heading for the door. Adam calls something jokingly after him, but Jon isn’t paying attention. He thinks he can find the music store again if he has to, but he knows he can find the café across the street.

There’s not really enough time to take the bus. “I’ll tip more if you drive faster,” he tells the cab driver once he slides into the back seat.

“You got it,” the driver agrees, bobbing his head, and Jon slouches down and tries not to keep counting minutes.

The sign on the front door of Chislett’s music store is flipped to ‘CLOSED’, but Jon can see someone moving inside. He goes around to the back, keeping an eye out for any of Cobra’s people, and finds the door into the alley propped open a crack with a broken brick.

He hesitates before opening it and going in, but it’s not like he’s committing a crime. The door is open. And if William is inside, Jon needs to be in there with him.

There’s no one in the back room, but Jon can hear voices coming from the main area. He takes a few steps closer, as quietly as possible, and holds his breath until he hears William’s voice.

“…very cloak-and-dagger,” William’s saying. “I feel like I should be wearing black and speaking with a Russian accent.”

“You’d make it look good,” says the other voice, and Jon’s heard it enough now, along with the slightly-suggestive tone, to recognize Saporta. “I’d apologize for not making it easier, but I don’t really want Chicago P.D. breathing down our necks while we discuss this, and I don’t think you will, either.”

“You haven’t given me enough information to know either way,” William counters easily. “Let’s put it all on the table, shall we? What do you want?”

There’s a pause, but not a long one. “Let me put it this way,” Saporta says. “You weren’t far off the mark when you asked whether I wanted something from the cops, or from you. I’d like to make a bid for your services.”

Jon freezes, surprised. He can tell William’s been thrown off slightly as well when he answers, although he does a good job of masking the surprise. “If you’ve done any checking up on me at all, you already know I won’t turn on the department. If you’re looking for a mole, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble for nothing.”

“I’m not talking about spying on the cops,” Saporta replies. “I’m asking you to be a liaison to the police department, working in my employ. Health benefits, pension plan and everything. All legal and above board.”

“Why?” William asks warily.

Saporta chuckles, darker than his casual tone. “Lets’ face it, the cops aren’t about to lighten up on us. It’s a valid investigation, and I get why they see us as a threat, but this isn’t good for anyone. They’re not going to take my word for anything even when I tell them the truth. You, on the other hand…you know the system. You’re someone they trust.”

“Even if I switch sides, I wouldn’t lie to the police,” William says. “You can’t buy my loyalty along with my services.”

“I wouldn’t be asking you to,” Saporta tells him. “You’d have full access to our client database and files, everything not restricted by privacy laws. What I need you for is credibility. Being someone they can hear the truth from and believe it.”

“Even if that’s true, there are easier ways to do what you want. It would make more sense to get people on the inside, working for the police…” William trails off, and there’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, breathy with surprise and understanding. “That’s what you’re hiding, isn’t it? That’s what you don’t want us to know. There are already telepaths loyal to Cobra working their way up through the ranks in law enforcement.”

“You’re good,” Saporta says, and Jon can hear the grin in his voice. “And that’s without the telepathy. You must be amazing at full capacity.”

“Keep that in mind when you make an offer for my salary,” William returns dryly. A beat later, he asks, “Would I know that information as well?”

“That depends.” Saporta’s tone is abruptly sober. “They’re not doing anything illegal by being there, and they’re working hard in civil service for their country. Would your loyalty to the police mean there’s no room for loyalty to me?”

William’s reply is slow and considered. “I don’t see any reason I should have to reveal anyone’s identity without a reason, and against their wishes.”

Saporta sounds satisfied when he replies, “Then I think we’re in business. Full disclosure, starting the second you’re on my payroll.”

“How long do I have to decide?” William asks.

“I can be patient. Don’t decide right away, at any rate. I want the chance to wine and dine you, woo you over to the side of corporate evil.” The grin is back in Gabe’s voice, along with the teasing note. Jon guesses the business discussion is essentially over just before Gabe says casually, “Oh, there is just one more thing.”

“Is there?” William drawls, wary again.

“You’ve been buried in the investigation, you already know we have a commune. And we know, to a degree, how you operate.” There’s a laugh under the words when Gabe says, “I hear you’re good with children. We’ve got a few up-and-comers, how do you feel about molding the young minds of the future?”

“Horrified,” William tells him after a second.

Gabe laughs out loud then. “Just think about that, too. You’re the best there is, it would be a shame to waste you when you could be training the best of the future.”

“How will I reach you to let you know once I’ve decided?” William asks.

“Hey, don’t forget the wining and dining portion of the negotiations,” Saporta chides. “I take courting prospective business associates very seriously.” There’s a rustle, and then Saporta’s voice, lower and darker. “Take this as a sign of good faith.”

Jon strains to hear, but he can’t hear anything spoken after that. Curiosity wins out over prudence, and he edges close enough to sneak a glance through the doorway.

William’s back is against the counter, one heel lifted to brace himself against it. His hands are on Saporta’s elbows, and Saporta’s fingers are in William’s hair, cradling his skull. They’re kissing, but it’s soft, almost without movement. Jon would be willing to bet that both of their attentions are elsewhere, in a more intimate meeting to which he isn’t privy.

Jon ducks back out of sight, listening to the quiet until he finally hears the sound of the kiss breaking. “That’s a very generous gesture,” William teases, and there’s a smile in his voice now, too. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever heard William sound like that, like he’s relaxed and calm beyond anyone’s ability to ruffle him.

Saporta laughs again. “That was probably enough to give you my social security number, dating history and high score at minesweeper, wasn’t it?”

“One-hundred-eleven, really?” William murmurs, sounding amused.

“What can I say, I have other talents.” There’s another brief, soft silence, and then Saporta says, “You know most of our operation by now. If you want to get in touch with me, just ask any of my people.”

“I’ll need a week,” William says.

“It’s yours,” Saporta answers without hesitation. “But if you want the wining and dining, make sure you give me enough time for reservations.”

“Fancy,” William comments.

“The best for the best,” Saporta answers. “Chiz will be back in a few, so don’t worry about locking up. He’s just across the street; I’ll let him know we’re done when I leave.”

William says something else, lost in the tinkle of the bell, and then the store is silent.

“You can come out now,” William calls.

Jon jerks, startled, but after a second of guilty indecision, he steps out of the back room into the store. “How’d you know I was there?”

“Flash of light when you opened the back door. I knew someone was back there, I just didn’t know if it was you or Asher. I have you and Tom to thank for that; I’ve gotten infinitely more suspicious about being taken unawares with the two of you lurking around. I don’t think Saporta noticed, if it’s any consolation.” William arches an eyebrow. “So?”

“Are you asking what I think about it, or whether I think you’re thinking about it?” Jon asks, tucking his fingers into the warmth of his pockets.

“I don’t know. Either. Both.” William looks out the front door at the sunlit sidewalk. “We should probably go before Chislett comes back and finds you here as well. Do you have a car?”

Jon shakes his head. “Took a cab.”

William shrugs, fatalistic. “Then we take the long way home. It’ll give us more time to come up with something to tell Patrick.”

In the end, William only takes four days to make up his mind, but it feels like the longest week of Jon’s life. He taps on the door as Jon’s settling in for yet another weekly mentor review session, trying to decide what he can possibly tell Patrick that won’t make him suspicious.

“Can I talk to you?” William asks, leaning against the door frame.

Patrick frowns, but Jon knows the open door policy rules as well as anyone, and he suspects he knows what this is about. “Jon,” Patrick says, “could you give us a minute?”

“Sure,” he says, but William’s hand on his shoulder stops him, along with the click of the door closing behind him.

“Jon should probably hear this too, it affects him.” William looks smaller than usual, for just a second, lost in his own skin, and then he straightens and the confidence drops around him again like an invisible cloak. “I’m resigning from the department.”

Patrick sits very, very still. Jon understands the reasons William has included him in this, but he thinks he’d really rather be elsewhere right now. He slumps down to make himself as unnoticeable as possible while Patrick continues to stare.

Finally Patrick makes a noise and pushes his glasses up with one short finger. “May I ask why?” he asks.

“I’ve received another offer,” William answers evenly. “Police department liaison and advisor to the Cobra business conglomerate.”

Patrick exhales in a startled rush. “When…?”

“I was approached a few days ago, and I haven’t had anything to do with the official investigation since,” William assures him hastily. “No evidence or interrogations have been compromised, it’s only just happened.”

“But why?” Patrick asks, and he sounds for a second like he’s going to explode, but then a crooked smile graces William’s face, and whatever passes between them makes Patrick deflate.

“As much good as I can do here, I can do more elsewhere,” William says. “I’ve been making you and Pete nervous on assignments for years now, and I think Jon’s starting to make complicated mathematical predictions about how long it will be before I go nuclear. Don’t tell me you haven’t been looking for a way to pull me out as well.”

Patrick adjusts his glasses again. “I never thought you’d do it,” he admits.

“Yeah, me either,” William says, flashing a quick, self-deprecating smile.

Patrick sits back in his chair, giving William a considering look. “Have you told Pete yet?”

William shakes his head. “You’re the first. It’s not as if I’m going to be dead or out of state, though. I’ll probably be in here all the time, at least until Cobra and the police finish measuring and settle on territory lines.”

“Still. Pete has territory lines of his own.” They share a smile Jon is only just starting to feel like he’s a part of, and then Patrick laughs. “Jesus, Carden’s going to kill me.”

“Sorry,” William says, not particularly apologetically.

“Save it,” Patrick says. “You’re the one who’s going to tell him.”

The mood in the department shifts a little once William breaks the news, but not as much as Jon might have expected. There’s a party, during which everyone gets completely trashed at Tom and Jon’s apartment and no one can remember who’s on call anymore when Patrick’s phone starts beeping. Luckily for everyone, it turns out it’s just Mike texting that they’re all fuckers for starting without him and asking if he needs to bring more ice.

William still has two weeks officially on the department’s payroll after giving his notice, so Patrick sends him out on the most ridiculous calls they get, things like burglars in tutus stuck on the roof of a bank claiming they have a bomb, and an altercation involving two cheerleading squads after a high school football game.

“This is your penance for leaving us,” Patrick calls from his office when William looks up to give him a dirty look. “You know the address.”

“Mrs. Gutenberg and that fucking dog,” William mutters under his breath, but he grabs his ID badge and flips off a cackling Adam as he walks out.

Jon’s about to call after him, to ask if he wants company, but Patrick’s voice reaches him before he can say anything. “Walker, got a minute?”

Jon glances around reflexively, but life around here isn’t all that exciting for an intern. “Of course,” he answers, coming over. “What’s up?”

“Shut the door,” Patrick says.

Jon’s surprised, but he does as Patrick asks, and slides cautiously into the chair in front of the desk.

“With William gone, I’ll be stepping in as Pete’s partner whenever it’s necessary, to provide additional support in the field,” Patrick tells him. “That means there’s an opening of sorts here, for someone to move up officially as my assistant. That person will take care of things when I’m not around, and work extra hours on the weekends to make sure the guys have someone here to talk to if they need it.”

Jon’s heart starts beating a little faster. He nods, slowly.

Patrick studies him for a second, and says, “I’ve given it to Tom.”

Just that fast, Jon’s stomach drops. It’s not that Tom isn’t a good psychiatrist, he reasons. It’s not that he doesn’t deserve this, or hasn’t earned it.

It’s just that Jon thinks maybe he deserves it more.

Patrick clears his throat. “You’re probably wondering why,” he says, fiddling with a pen and half-smiling. “Or, more specifically, why I’m not giving it to you.”

“Tom’s good at his job,” Jon says automatically. It might be a shock, but he’s still a loyal best friend. He’s not going to try to steal this opportunity away.

“He’s getting there,” Patrick agrees. Then he adds, “He’s not as good as you are, and nowhere near as good as you’re going to be.”

Jon’s throat is dry. “I guess I don’t understand, then,” he says carefully.

Patrick looks up over Jon’s shoulder, prompting him to glance out the office window. Tom’s joking around with Adam and Butcher, the three of them throwing balls of crumpled paper at each other from the waste bins. As Jon watches, Pete comes over and gives Tom a noogie, shoving Adam’s shoulder to wedge his way into the middle of the cluster.

“Unless I miss my guess, Tom’s not going anywhere anytime soon,” Patrick says, and Jon turns around again to look at him, to try to figure out what’s really going on here. “He’s a good intern, but he’s going to be learning for a while, and he’s comfortable here. And I might be working more in the field, but I’m not going anywhere either. There’s not really any upward mobility in this department.”

Jon clears his throat. “So you think I…?”

“You’re good,” Patrick says, smiling slightly. “You’re going to be better. In another year, I think you might find even an assistant position limited.”

“You said there’s no upward mobility here,” Jon says carefully.

Patrick’s smile widens. “Let’s just say that I have a feeling something might be opening up.”