Undone, a Homicide : Life on the Streets / Sentinel crossover by Glacis. Rated NC-17. Spoilers for the Homicide movie and final episode. No copyright infringement intended either to the Homicide or Sentinel producers. Final story of my Brackett series (Refraction, Reflection and Distortion. Series began with Catalyst.) Will make more sense if read along with the others, but can stand alone. Anyone wishing warnings, please read endnotes.

might take a little crime to come undone

"Be seeing you, detectives."

That fucking cheerful laugh.

No conscience behind those eyes. No remorse. Awareness, and laughter, and godhood, untouchable, unreachable. Unstoppable.

"Might go down to New Orleans. They have some hot women down there."

Crash. Gavel. Delays. I just got so busy I forgot. So sorry.

A predator walks the streets. Because the fucking DA can't keep his fucking daytimer in order.

No longer.

A predator walks the streets.

Muzzle flash. Another.

Fog in the air. I'm breathing quickly. Stomach hurts.

It's dark out here.

Shell casings. Carefully scanning the street. Sidestepping the blood, careful not to step in it, no tracks, no spent shells to identify. No clues to give away the executioner of the predator.

"The ones who think it doesn't change them -- they're the ones that change the most."

Just rearranging a few things. Things I don't need anymore. Olivia's picture. My name plate. Everything in my desk. Anything that points to me and says, hey, look, he's murder police. He does justice.

The water's cold. Almost as cold as I am.

Gotta think.

Gotta stop thinking.

Gotta stop feeling.

Gotta think.

It's very quiet here. That's a good thing. The fish like it when it's quiet. Too many days standing in the water and pretty soon all you can hear is the fish, the water, the trees. The thoughts that won't shut the fuck up in your head.

I can see it under the water. Come on, come on, come on, you know you want it. Ready to bite. Sharp, sudden, foreign noise.

I jump.

Cell phone! Who the hell is calling me clear up here? I'm on sabbatical! "What?"

The world is as cold as the water is as cold as my skin is as cold as the air is as cold as my heart is as cold as

"Gee's been shot."

like a radio tune I swear I've heard before

"Frank." Of course. My heart is at war with my mind. My partner is back. I can give them to him. Frank will know. Later. After we find the bastard who shot Gee.

Lewis is making stupid comments. Falsone is trying to keep the peace. Gharty -- Gharty! -- is trying to act like a leader. They're stupid enough to try to keep Frank out. Don't they know? He'll find the way.

He always does.

Don't know whether to thank him or curse him for that. Just know he's the only one I trust. Him, and Gee, maybe. Maybe not, not with this. Frank catches me reacting to Ryland's name on the board. He knows me.

Maybe.

In the car. Memories. The last eight years rush over me, and the last few months disappear, a nightmare I wish I really could wake up from, then he can't have coffee. It brings the reality back, and I wince. Standing there, on the corner, I try to tell Frank how much I love him. It comes out in stumbling words of appreciation, my heart in my words. Frank, being Frank, sails right over the top of them and comes up with a theory. A theory that makes my knees shake along with my voice.

What if a cop did it. What if a law enforcement officer shot one of our own.

What if a law enforcement officer shot one of them.

Where is the line then?

We watch the tapes. Over, and over, Gee getting shot, curling down, a great bear brought low, looking surprised, then sleepy, then just not there. One spectator after another in the crowd. The faces. The hands. The body language. I tell him the women, the ones Ryland killed on the internet, they still bother me. He tells me that's good. He doesn't hear me.

He sees the puff of smoke.

A cop didn't do the shooting, of course. Not with Gee. We find him. I don't have any cuffs on me. I can't get the Miranda out. My throat hurts. I understand. Oh, not that he shot Gee. Not Gee.

But that he defended his kid. The only way he knew how to defend a child who was already dead. Tried to keep any other kid from dying that way.

Tried to defend the dead by protecting the living, by killing the living.

Frank finds the gun strapped to the side of the camera case. That's how he did it, so nobody could see. Kept right on rolling his film after shooting Gee. Cool as could be. Knew what he had to do and did it and kept right on shooting. In every sense of the word.

We turn over the shooter and the film, walk the prosecutor through it, and I try not to look at him. We sell Gharty on it, go for a walk. It was hot in there. It's cold out on the streets.

I can see my breath.

I can see Frank's heart break in his eyes.

He does not believe I meant to do that killing. He doesn't want to believe that I'd executed the predator. I know he doesn't. He can believe whatever he has to believe. I know the truth. I see it in his eyes.

I hear it in his voice, when he says he can't absolve me. We're so close to one another. I can see his breath, too, can't tell where mine is and his is and it's not mine, or his, it's ours. His skin is warm under my hand as I touch his neck, his cheek, against my forehead as it presses against his. There are tears in his eyes, in his voice, but his fine steel core is the same as it was, as I need it to be. He will take me in, he will save my life, for the moment, at least, but he won't take away the guilt. Won't settle the conflict. Will leave my heart and my head at war with one another. He takes a deep breath, lets it out. I watch him. Watch the resolve take over the regret.

Frank is my guide. I've lost my way, and he can't bring me back.

He can just take me in.

My hand doesn't shake as I change the names on the board. Ryland, in blue. Giardello, in black.

I stare at the names. Behind me, I hear noises, and I tune in, not thinking much, just idling, wondering how it will go down.

"He didn't make it. Aneurysm."

Son of a bitch.

Another corner of my foundation is chipped away as it sinks in that Gee is dead. So much for being too tough to die. I see Mike walking past. He doesn't see me. There's a rosary in his hands. I find myself hoping that his faith will do him good, give him some strength here.

Somebody needs some. Faith. And strength.

Turning, I see Frank watching me. He blinks, slowly, and turns away toward Gee's office. Always Gee's, never anybody else's, certainly not Gharty's. He's talking to Mike. He's looking at me. I know what he's saying. I know what he's telling me to do.

I turn and walk outside. By the time I get to the Waterfront, I can see through the window that they've heard the news. Some people are crying. Lewis is standing on the sidewalk, staring up at a balcony on the second floor of the hospital. His face is calm but his eyes remind me of Frank's, a little bit.

"Lewis."

He looks at me. "Coming inside?"

"Walk with me?" I counter-offer. His lip curls up in a mild sneer. "It's about the Ryland case. Got new evidence."

"Can't this wait, Bayliss?" Disgust now, and no trace of any resemblance to Frank. I shrug.

"No," I admit. The disgust melts into a glare. I swallow, and it feels like there's sandpaper lining my throat. I dig into the deepest corner of my pocket. I've been carrying it, stupid, I know, but my head wouldn't let my heart get rid of it, and my gut tells me it's the thing to do now. I'd flushed one down the toilet, but I wasn't able to flush the second one. Frank wouldn't want me to do this, but Frank is making me do it. His bullet, the one's he's taking for me, by proxy, by his shadow standing behind me. Watching me. Pulling the shell casing from my pocket, I offer it to Lewis, a bent piece of metal with a spiral signature on it. "It matches the slug in his brain."

Lewis' hand stretches out, but he's staring at me, not my hand. I lay the casing gently in his palm, and close his fingers over it. "Bayliss?" He's asking.

I nod.

"No fucking way."

I nod, again.

Lewis is shaking his head.

"Ask Frank," I suggest. He shakes his head harder. "Ryland was going to New Orleans. He said there were lots of pretty women there. He'd be able to take his pick. He wasn't going to stop." My eyes drop to his hand, clenched over the proof of my words. "He had to be stopped."

My eyes raise again, but Lewis still isn't looking at me. He's looking over my shoulder, and suddenly I can feel Frank there. "He's telling the truth, Meldrick. It's up to you, now." There's a breath, I can feel his warmth at my shoulder. "Son of a bitch." It's a benediction. Then the warmth is gone. I can hear his footsteps.

Now Lewis is looking at me as if he's never seen me before. I can only agree.

can't ever keep from falling apart at the seams

It's not happening the way I thought it was going to happen. My mind had it all mapped out. My heart repeated, over and over, that it was justice and it had to be done. That was as far as my heart had taken me, to the point of squeezing the trigger. My mind had taken it from there, gone over the scene, sanitized it, then begun the endless litany of all the reasons I had to give myself up. They'd fought, the immovable object and the irresistible force, until Frank had pulled me away from the edge and pushed me the right direction. I'd given myself up; he'd taken me in. That was as far as my mind had taken me.

I'm numb. Homicide's reeling from Gee's death; Frank's gone again; I'm waiting for the legal part of my nightmare to commence. Lewis takes me in to see Gharty -- Gharty! Gharty looks at me. Lewis looks at him. I look out the window. It doesn't matter, somehow. It's all over. Fate can take me from where Frank has left me, and wherever it takes me, I'll cope.

Gradually, I realize that something's off. The DA isn't here. Lewis isn't reading me my rights. I'm not filling out a statement. It's not quiet any more. Lewis is talking, but what he's saying isn't making any sense.

"-don't see no difference. If anything, this is cleaner than Mahoney. Nobody else talkin', no statements to worry 'bout, one dead scuzz. He already given up his badge."

I look at Lewis. What the fuck is he talking about? I'd committed murder. Why aren't they booking me?

"It's not like anybody's going to care," Gharty says hesitantly, looking at Lewis. Lewis gives him the tiniest nod. "Ryland was a scumbag. There's no physical evidence."

Lewis' fist clenches over his pocket. He refuses to look at me. I open my mouth.

"Shut the hell up, Bayliss," he growls.

"All we got is the confession of a burned-out homicide cop who hasn't exactly been stable the last year and who's been on unpaid leave for the last few months. And you gotta admit, his actions during the whole Ryland mess weren't exactly normal."

"Ain't nothin' been normal 'bout Bayliss since he seen the white light on the operating table." Lewis still isn't looking at me. I stare at his hand. He has the only piece of physical evidence I kept.

This is insane. I try to interrupt. Lewis' hand clamps over my wrist, holding me to the chair. It hurts, and that surprises me. I thought I was too numb for anything to hurt. Then dark eyes are an inch from mine, and I can feel his breath on my face.

"Don't fuckin' say one word, Bayliss. Too much goin' on here, too much too fast, and you not goin' to make it worse. It's done, man. It's over. It's done."

It is.

Gharty asks for my gun, to go with my shield. Lewis walks out of the office, over to the board, and erases Ryland's name, writing it again in red at the bottom of the board. They believe me, in that office, with Frank's words echoing. But out in the bullpen, out where anyone who cares can see, where it counts, they think I'm nuts, think I've lost it. Don't believe me, and officially never will. They've got my shield, got my gun, and got the evidence, and it's over. I'm gone, and it's over.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

I stumble a little as I walk toward the door. Lewis looks over at me. His eyes are hard, now, and they're speaking loudly. It's over. Don't say another word. Just go away.

Where?

Why?

mine, immaculate dream made breath and skin

I've been waiting for you

I'd been tracking him for months. The need had gotten stronger, until the risk was worth the reward. He didn't know I was there, but it didn't matter. I knew he was near, and that kept me from losing control. As long as I could focus on him, I could survive. Without him, my senses were completely haywire, and I couldn't evade capture if I spent my life in what I could only describe as an acid trip gone exceptionally wrong.

I watched him take a bullet for his partner, Pembleton. Watched the anguish on the partner's face as he held my Guide, heard the pain in his voice. Infiltrated the hospital and made certain that Tim would survive.

It was a strange year. Tim was dabbling in Eastern religions, drinking too much, playing with dating boys and girls both, not getting very far with either of them. Then something bad happened. Tim's heart rate was up, he wasn't sleeping. He attacked a lawyer on the steps of the courthouse, not something I'd usually see as 'bad' in the general scheme of things, but out of character for my Tim. Not quite as out of character as it got right after that, though.

Who'd've thought he needed to kill someone? All he had to do was ask, and I'd've been happy to do it for him. Tim's not a very good killer. Well, he's efficient, but he has an overabundance of conscience. His instincts are good, but his training is insufficient to meet these sorts of demands. I knew it wouldn't be long before he cracked. I could only wait and watch.

I hate nature. Winter in the mountains freezing my ass off in the trees while he stood for hours playing with fish, sneaking in to watch him while he slept, mentally stripping him every chance I got; it was fun, but it wasn't nearly as much fun as the real thing. He's mine, and I wanted to keep him. As close as he was to the edge I knew if I let him know I was around, the next time he put the barrel of his gun in his mouth he actually would pull the trigger.

So I got soggy and kept my distance. Not a problem. I could see every twitch he made from a mile away. When he got the call, I heard both the news and his reaction to it. Good thing I was sitting in my Jeep. He hadn't moved that fast in months.

Didn't take him long to find the killer. He's a good detective. He's also an idiot when it comes to that partner of his. Absolution? From Pembleton? From what I've seen and researched about Pembleton, black and white doesn't begin to cover it. Tim was right to blow that kid's brains out. I knew what the guy had done. Not only had he carved up women live on the Net -- so, he was a homicidal maniac, that I could understand, even if I don't get the thrill from killing without cause. No, he did something a hell of a lot worse.

He tried to destroy Tim's life.

He used Tim's web site as his launch pad, outing Tim to the whole Homicide Unit, if not the entire Baltimore PD. Which led to Tim being forced to shut down the one outlet he had for trying to make sense of who he was. That irritated me. I'd've killed him for that, if Tim had given any indication he'd wanted it.

Then, he'd walked on the murder charges, after Tim sacrificed so much to drag him to trial. By then, I admit, I was curious. I didn't think Tim would take it so far. I was proud of him. Didn't realize how much he'd take it to heart, although I should have, I suppose. Tim has more things in common with Blair than I'd like to admit. An over-active conscience is just one of them.

So when Pembleton turned him in, after Tim whined him into it, I was busily forming plans to bust my Guide out of whatever jail he ended up in before he could become Flavor of the Month for the long-timers. Sitting in my Jeep, I listened in to see how the booking was going, and if I could get any clue to where they'd be sending him.

I froze at what I heard.

They were going to cover it up.

Tim wasn't part of this. This wasn't something Tim would do. But the other one, the one in charge, Lewis? He wasn't giving Tim time to say anything. Good. Keep him from hanging himself. Good boy.

Not that this would make it any easier on Tim. That would be my job. There'd been a method to my madness. There always was. Waiting time was over. Time to step in and clean up the mess.

chill

is it something real or the magic I'm feeling of your fingers?

Moving by rote, he trudged through his front door, locked it behind him. Draped his overcoat on the peg of the coat rack, shrugged out of his suit jacket and placed it over the back of the kitchen chair. Tugged his tie loose and left it hanging around his neck as he flipped open the top few buttons on his shirt. His body walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, twisted off the cap, and swallowed half the bottle before he took a breath. His mind was still back in Gee's office hearing Gharty and Lewis cover up the fact that he was a murderer.

He was slow in reacting when hands caught his shoulders and spun him around. He lifted the bottle automatically and it was plucked from his fingers and placed securely on the table behind them. Then one hand ran over his shoulder to cup the back of his head, the other slid up between his shoulder blades to cradle him close, and his mouth was efficiently taken and conquered before he could make a sound.

Brackett.

He knew the taste and the hold, his body recognizing his captor viscerally before his mind caught up. Tim was almost getting used to this sequence of events. His body did something insane, his emotions agreed completely, then his brain came in and dealt with the aftermath. It wasn't the smartest way to handle things, but lately it had become his default method of floundering through life.

Lee knew every button to push. Based on conversations Tim'd had with Blair after the first time Brackett had come to him, it made sense. Literally. Lee had an unfair advantage, and he made damned good use of it. By the time Tim had been pulled into the bedroom, undressed, and pushed down onto the bed, most of his body had been licked. Wherever Lee's tongue went, his hands followed, and his hands were magic.

Words were flowing over him, and sounds were coming from him, but he couldn't differentiate between them, and he couldn't think why it might be important that he should. Nothing was important, now, nothing made sense, so why should this? His mind was slumbering and his body was the strangest mix of blue-hot flame and white ice. Wet heat trailed over him, followed by dry flickers of flame from Lee's fingertips, and in their wake his flesh chilled, tiny goosebumps drawing the skin up, sending shivers through him.

A hand closed around him, and he moved with it, the sound rising and falling with his body. The other hand was everywhere, as were soft, demanding lips, and his arms shook against the need to hold on and the requirement to let it all flow away. He heard rain starting on the roof, and he wondered if it would turn to snow later that night. Then the random flames converged to a point of heat at his groin and he screamed as the fire raced from his toes to his knees to his chest to his fingertips and out the top of his head.

That mouth was gone, and he opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed to see Lee licking semen off his hand. It looked like a big tawny cat was lying on his chest, grooming itself. Then dark eyes met his, and Lee smiled again, and it was feral and proprietary and gentle at the same time. Lee nudged his thighs apart, and he went willingly, limp and relaxed. Touch me, he thought, go ahead. It's okay. I said yes. This time.

Lee's eyes closed as he rocked into Tim, slipping into him slowly, easing his way in. Tim watched him, and relaxed further, his mind creeping quietly back into him as Lee worked over his body. It was good, and it felt right. It all felt right. As Lee moved faster, and Tim thrust obligingly back, he knew that this was the way it was supposed to be. This was the only thing left. He could give this. This was his to give.

His hand slid under the pillow as Lee arched against him, dark eyes closing with an expression of ecstasy as he came into Tim. It was magic, and Tim felt a sympathetic surge of pleasure mirroring Lee's orgasm. Maybe this was what it meant to be a Guide? Maybe that was all he had left. He wasn't a cop anymore. Wasn't a detective. Wasn't even a successful murderer, really. Couldn't even get himself arrested. But this ... this he could do.

He smiled as he wrapped his right hand around Lee's neck and pulled Lee's head down to meet his in a kiss, as his left hand brought the .38 he kept for emergencies out from under his pillow up to Lee's temple and his left index finger pulled the trigger. Lee jerked against him, and he kissed him once more. Ignoring the fluid and matter pouring over his right hand, he kept his eyes shut and lowered the barrel six inches, resting it lightly against his skin and squeezing the trigger one

last

time.

lost in a snow filled sky, we'll make it alright

to come undone

He wasn't sure how he'd ended up in the squad room, but that's where he was. To his intense shock, a little girl skipped up to him, smiling brightly, a mass of dark curls bobbing along behind her head.

"Adena?" he whispered.

She stopped in front of him. Reached up to take his hand and tug him down to her height. He curled over, his eyes never leaving her face. "'S okay," she whispered back. "'s all okay now." Then she kissed his cheek. Letting go of his hand, she skipped around him in a circle, then ran back into the room, laughing as she went.

He walked forward slowly. There were people here he recognized, who smiled and nodded at him as he passed. He was confused, but he followed her. Something was pulling him further into the room.

Turning the corner into the break room, he stopped abruptly. Gee was sitting at a table, playing cards and drinking coffee. He looked ... healthy. Peaceful. He was smiling, laughing at a joke one of the other card players made. There was an empty chair next to Gee, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. Tim started to say something, anything, when he felt a hand at the small of his back.

"You'll have plenty of time for card games later, babe." The warm hand slid around his waist, and a strong arm pulled him back into the bullpen, then walked him in lock-step over to the box. Once they were inside, Tim turned in the circle of arms and stared down into Lee Brackett's eyes. "Tell me you never wanted to do this." Lee grinned wickedly at him.

Tim couldn't say he hadn't. As Lee laid him across the table and dove into his pants, he couldn't help but wonder how Hell had ended up looking like Homicide. Then his brain started to melt as his body turned to fire under his Sentinel's hands, and the questions took a back seat to the need. Answers could wait.

They had time.

we'll try to stay blind to the hope and fear outside

who do you need? Who do you love

when you come undone?

~~~fin~~~

Endnotes :

In this series, Lee Brackett (from the Sentinel episode "Rogue") is a sentinel. He tried and failed to take Blair Sandburg as his guide. In the course of other adventures (that would be the previous stories in the series) he discovered Tim Bayliss, and Bayliss discovered that he was a guide, but not much of what that meant. When this story begins, it has been two years since Brackett has visited Bayliss, and many things have happened in Bayliss' life to essentially destroy it. This is a death story.

In real life, a name written in blue on the board denotes an open case from a previous year that has been closed in the new year. In H : LotS world (this is still under debate), it's written in blue for the new year when it's reopened, whether it's closed or not. For story's sake, I'm going with the real world usage.

The concept for this story is formed around the song "Come Undone" (lyrics by Simon Le Bon, recorded by Duran Duran). They are scattered throughout the story. No copyright infringement intended by their use.