<i>Shit.</i><br/><br/>The bag of groceries slipped from his fingers again, crashing to the ground with the crumple of brown paper, accompanied by the jingling of keys that he couldn't quite manipulate around the steel coffee mug in his hand.  Reluctantly, and against every instinct he had as a man, he put the cup on the floor outside his apartment door, the warm steel wall clanking as it came to rest on the cold concrete.  Flicking his wrist to shift the superfluous keys away from the one he needed, he inserted the cylinder key into the daunting metal door's lock, giving it a gentle twist clockwise, feeling the resistance of the grimy old tumblers.  The mechanical lock disengaged, though he had to pivot the key, applying pressure downward to connect the ailing electronic lock at the tip of the key which checked his biometrics to allow access.  It was more of a hassle than he had thought strictly necessary when he'd moved in, but things had changed since then.<br/><br/>He had something worth protecting now.<br/><br/>"Come on," he groaned, listening as the mechanism in the lock swiveled, attempting to unlatch the deadbolt.  It struggled to do so, the teeth of the gears having dulled down over the decades since the landlord had actually updated the mechanism.  He'd protested on more than one occasion for the management to update to one of the more modern magnetic drivers, reading unique signals from the stack to allow users entry regardless of the owner's sleeve, but his requests typically fell on deaf ears.  It was ever the onus of the proprietor to neglect the needs of the tenants, yet somehow they were always prompt on matters involving the rent.<br/><br/>Finally the deadbolt ground open, and with no small effort, he wrestled the key out of the lock.   Swiping his coffee and grocery bag off the floor, he muscled a sturdy shoulder into the door, pushing it open as the hinges protested loudly.  Though the neighborhood was not among the safest, he left the door unlocked as he entered, per the habit he'd been forming over the past month.  He was anticipating company, and though his guest (and occasional roommate) had a key all her own, and had been added to the lock's database (with some cajoling of the management), he didn't want her to have to go through the same difficulties with the mechanism, and he did not fear for his own safety.<br/><br/>He entered the narrow foyer -- more of a short hallway than a proper foyer, but ever since Kiera had (partially) moved in, cheap but substantial improvements had been popping up all over the apartment.  Granted, he’d have never made the changes on his own, fancying himself a bit too utilitarian for much customization, but he’d discovered some function in the enhancements.  For example, the first thing she’d added was a full height mirror to the ‘foyer’.  Glancing over his shoulder at it as he slammed the door shut with the back of his foot, he took in his reflection, shuddering slightly.  He was a handsome man -- short chocolate hair swept back, strong jawline, broad shoulders on a tall, muscular frame, though much of this was largely invisible to the opposite sex as a result of his piercing blue eyes -- but today, he<i>looked </i>frazzled.<br/><br/>Cascading calamity caused him to run late, threatening promises he’d every intention of keeping.  He didn’t cook often; his career kept his hours unpredictable, and often sent him out the door at a moments notice, so turning on the stove was literally playing with fire.  Tonight would be the exception: an off day where his shift at the precinct was well covered, so he would put himself to the test to take on an ambitious meal.  The ingredients were sometimes rare and expensive in the city -- real beef, real spices, none of the protein blocks and synthetic flavor enhancers -- and on his way back after his shift he’d hit unexpected traffic, unnecessary delays, and people at the store paying with pocket change, most of his preparation time had been needlessly squandered.  Still, he’d been eyeing his watch every idle moment, recalculating in his head how he could accelerate the process.  He could still pull it off!<br/><br/>He tore his eyes away from the reflection.  The shower he’d been looking forward to may have to be sacrificed, but he’d have ample time to run a comb through his hair.  It’d be enough.<br/><br/>Holding the weary grocery bag from the base in the crook of his arm, grappling the coffee cup in the same hand, he dropped his keys on the small entry table across from the mirror -- another of Kiera’s functional additions to the slate-gray cement walls of his apartment -- he fished in his pocket for his badge.  Glancing at it briefly as he dropped it on the table, he glanced over the still shimmering silver icon, strapped onto a small leather folio.  It was new, less than two months, and the shine hadn’t yet worn off of the plate.  Beneath it, his name and title, something he found himself idling on as he proudly recited the words in his head again.  “John Angevin - Detective - BCPD”.<br/><br/><i>Not tonight</i>, he thought to himself.  Tonight, he was simply ‘Jax - Chef and Lover Extraordinaire.”<br/><br/>He hauled the grocery bag inside, dumping out the tepid coffee and leaving the cup in the sink, quickly tearing open the package of steak tips.  There were better cuts of meat at the butcher today, but his job didn’t pay nearly as well as it seemed it should.  He was only just able to afford the modest apartment through virtue of consistent overtime work.  The promotion had helped, but he still found things tight as Kiera needed the occasional injection of cash to help with some of her bills.<br/><br/>In his heart, he knew she wanted to move in with him.  The savings would have allowed them to live very comfortably on their combined incomes, but she was still tied to that crummy apartment that was in an even worse neighborhood than this one.  She had shared it before, after all, with his brother, Jenson.<br/><br/>They’d been married for several years, struggling to get by with his unstable work.  What he did for a living had always been somewhat hushed, questions eliciting shamed distance; Jax had always believed it to be unscrupulous, though he knew his brother was as opposed to anything truly heinous as himself, so he knew it couldn’t have been too unsavory.  If he’d been pressured to guess, he would have gone with “hawking counterfeit watches”.  The money was too uneven, too irregular, and frequently insufficient.  Kiera had always worked a few extra shifts to cover them, and Jax had known his brother long enough to know that she was thanked with a sad smile, a sweet kiss on the cheek, and a promise that they were<i>this </i>close to finally making it big, and he’d finally buy her that fancy penthouse downtown that she’d always dreamed of.<br/><br/>She must have known on some level, Jax suspected, that the penthouse was never as close as he suggested.  But neither one of them could have foreseen his brutal murder.<br/><br/>The ‘real death’.  No one knew quite what had happened, who’d been involved, what brought it on.  After going missing for a few days, his sleeve turned up on the edge of the river, a hole burst clean through his stack from close range, erasing everything that he was, and ever could be.  It was destined to end up a cold case from the moment the body was found -- these crime riddled streets had filled a closet with ‘untraceable’ crimes.  Even Jax’s strongest protests and the extra attention they garnered brought little progress.<br/><br/>Shot through the stack from point blank range -- closer than that; the surrounding skin hadn’t even been burned.  The barrel had been pushed into his neck, right at the first vertebrae, from an elevated position.  His brother wasn’t murdered, he reminded himself, he was<i>executed</i>.<br/><br/>Jax shook his head, trying to shake off the memories that made his eyes mist, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.  He’d had a year to mourn -- both he and Kiera had -- and mourn they had, eschewing all else that was good in life as they pursued justice together, and failed.  And in that failure, there was a strange camaraderie.  She had talked him into pursuing that promotion, working his way up from a beat cop to something more, to apply himself and solve cases like Jenson’s.<br/><br/>It had long been on his mind.  He was highly observant, smart as a tack and twice as street smart.  His brother’s death, and the urging of a good woman had been the catalyst he needed to put that to use.  The requisite training and necessary steps had been completed in record time, and he quickly demonstrated to his superiors that he was ready and able to contribute more.  And while he studied and worked overtime, she had been there, encouraging him, cooking for him, keeping him always pushing ahead.<br/><br/>And in their interactions, something…<i>strange </i>happened.  The condolences, the well-wishers, the sad glances and sorrowful casseroles they received isolated them from the world around them.  Hushed whispers from just inside earshot built a wall of isolation that they were trapped in alone.  Real death was universally feared, but few felt the harsh reality these days, and fewer still from someone so close.  It was an exclusive club, and they were the only ones they could talk to on the inside.<br/><br/>As tears turned to bitterness, depression, anger, and sorrow, they walked that morose path together, finding an unexpected closeness that they hadn’t anticipated.  Jax and Jenson had been close in life, the closest thing that either had to a best friend, though as a Law Officer, Jax had understandably grown somewhat distant to avoid any fallout of his brothers illicit dealings.  They spent the major holidays together, and regular Sundays shouting at whatever game happened to be on TV at the time, so of course Kiera and John were acquainted.  He’d never thought much more of her -- beyond wondering what she saw in his screw-up older brother -- until they were forced to experience grief together, filling the void that Jensen left with one another, and getting to know each other through it.  One night that Kiera had a very vivid dream that Jensen had come home, and showed up at Jax’s apartment in tears, clutching a photo album that they paged through together, and wept.  From that moment on, they’d been all but inseparable.<br/><br/>Then came the day they both got drunk and shared a spontaneous, sorrowful kiss.  It was the very breath of life they needed, and the most dreadful mistake they’d ever made, all rolled into one bittersweet moment.  They both agreed -- it could never happen again, and for a day they made a good show of it, avoiding each other as if they were leprous.  But the longer they tried to avoid the other, the more time they had to reflect.  To ache.  To yearn.  When they came together to talk through the complicated feelings again… well… history repeated itself.  In short order, they couldn’t keep their hands off of one another, and they both eventually elected not to try any longer.<br/><br/><i>Shit!</i><br/><br/>Jax glanced at the clock, having just wasted another ten minutes with the trip down memory lane, pointlessly replaying the events of the past in his head instead of focusing on his immediate future.  He cursed himself again for allowing the distraction to deter him from his tasks, feverishly crossing off a few extra things from the list of achievable goals.  The promise of this auspicious and romantic evening was rapidly waning!<br/><br/>Throwing a pan on the stovetop and flipping the burner to ‘high’, he hastily assembled his marinade -- which would typically require an hour to soak, but today would serve as more of a ‘glaze’.  He added the steak tips and quickly seared them on every side before splashing the concoction in, keeping it moving with a spatula and a long reach as he labored to smash potatoes, struggling to keep the sauce from burning.  A little brown sugar added sweetness to the savory marinade to try and convert it to a sauce, though without time to do its magic, the meat would likely come out chewy.<br/><br/>He worked feverishly to salvage the meal, skipping away a few times when he thought the stove would tend itself for a full minute or two.  Struggling to work the stereo she’d added to the apartment and load one of her favorite romantic playlists, he grew impatient and sprinted back to the stove when he smelled the glaze beginning to burn.  With a flick of his wrist he flicked the pan, sloshing the glaze over the pieces of meat once more before putting it directly into the oven, using a moderate heat to ensure they were cooked through while he dashed back over and fumbled with the device, smiling triumphantly as Kiera’s favorite tunes pumped into the apartment, dialing the volume low so the concrete walls did not acoustically overwhelm them.<br/><br/>Jax tended to the mashed potatoes, adding a hint of sour cream and cream cheese to add moisture and flavor, sprinkling on ground pepper and garnishing with a flourish of chives.  This much at least, he was able to do successfully.  He pulled the meat out of the oven and it had browned nicely, the sauce thickening and caramelizing in a way that was not unattractive to look at -- though it didn’t say much for how the meat would taste, or feel.  With a spoon, he scooped out the burned bits and moved to begin plating it.<br/><br/>He could tell from the small beads of sweat on his forehead and the way his short hair fell about his face that he probably looked like a hot mess.  Running his fingers through his locks to shove it back and out of the way, he finished getting the food onto the plates, arranging it just so.  With something resembling pride pulling at his lips, he took a step back and looked at the meal he’d prepared for an unforgettable evening.<br/><br/><i>Shit.</i>It was<i>shit.</i><br/><br/>There was still time for him to at least run a comb through his hair, though.  He may have botched the meal, but he still knew how to show Kiera a good time, and he only needed a few moments to clean up to feel ready.  This could still be salvaged.<br/><br/>… Until he heard the doorknob turn, and his heart sank.