"What?" He snarled into the small scrap of obnoxious plastic.

"I take it you're not much of an afternoon person?" Detective Knight sounded irritatingly awake, which only added to Vachon's surly mood.

"Oh yeah, I'm no use to anyone 'til I've had my first cup of blood. What the hell do you want, Knight?"

Nick paused and there was no trace of amusement in his voice when he replied. "It's Tracy."

Vachon felt his chill, empty heart lurch painfully. "What's happened? Is she hurt? Dammit Knight, you're the one who's always on my case about keeping her safe--"

"--No, no, she's okay Vachon, really. It's just that I think she may need some ... company tonight."

Vachon breathed a silent sigh of relief and scraped his unruly hair away from his face as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "That's an interesting request, coming from you. Care to tell me what's going on?"

"Tracy's been put on administrative leave."

"Yeah, I know. For taking down that shooter, right?"

"She was put on leave for that, but there was another incident last night." Nick told him unhappily. "She's been through a lot in the past few days."

"Tell me." Vachon said simply.

Vachon stood outside the door to Tracy's apartment, thinking about what Knight had told him about Tracy's experience with the serial killer. That sonovabitch had drugged her, handcuffed her and let her know exactly what he was planning to do with her.

His Tracy, with the sunbright hair and sparkling eyes had been threatened by such a piece of mortal filth. His muscles clenched fiercely and the leather of his jacket creaked as it stretched across his shoulders. He should never have let her go off on her own that night. He'd let his temper get the better of him and abandoned her, just when she needed him most.

But she had fought her way free. Bound, terrified and groggy from the drug, she nearly made it out of that hellhole, until she stumbled upon the killer's collection of 'trophies'. Vachon grew even colder at the thought of anyone, mortal or otherwise, deriving pleasure from such grisly reminders of another's death. He knew that he was far from a saint himself, but there was a world of difference between what he did in order to survive and what this ... this inhuman monster had done out of a sense of perverse pleasure.

"I only hope Trace can see the difference." He murmured softly to himself as he raised his fist and knocked.

It took such a long time for the door to open that Vachon had just about decided to zip outside and try the window instead.

"Hey." Tracy greeted him with a noticeable lack of interest. "What's up?"

"Nothing much." Vachon shrugged, trying not to show how disturbed he was by her bedraggled appearance. One thing that he had always noticed about Tracy was the way she seemed to sparkle. The gold of her hair, the shine of her eyes and the brightness of her smile. Even when she was upset with him, or worried about a case, he could almost see the little fizzles of energy surrounding her.

Now it was gone. Her hair was dull and tangled, her face drawn and there was no life in her eyes. None at all and that frightened Vachon more than anything else Knight had told him. "Can I come in?" He asked as she simply stood in the doorway, fiddling idly with the tie of her ratty terry cloth robe.

She lifted one shoulder tiredly and turned around, leaving the decision up to him. She shuffled over to a soft armchair, picked up a stuffed Pooh bear that had been sitting in it and slumped down. Vachon closed the door behind him and wandered into the room.

"I hear you got that serial killer." He offered, leaning back against the window sill.

"I shot him." There was no inflection in her voice and she stared fixedly at a blank wall.

"Wanna talk about it?" He asked gently.

"Not much to talk about, really." Neither her position nor her voice changed at all. "He tricked me, drugged me, tossed me into a pit and then Nick came and saved the day."

"That's not how I heard it." Vachon responded, coming forward to stand a few feet behind her chair. "I heard you managed to get your gun back and you had nearly gotten away when Nick arrived." He moved closer and crouched down so his breath stirred her hair. "He got you out of a jam, but you were the one who took the guy down and saved Nick's life."

"Does that make me a hero, then?" A slight tremor had found its way into her voice. "I kill two jerks in one week and that's supposed to make me feel all big and powerful?" The tremor had turned into a full-blown quaver and Vachon could hear the tears she was fighting to hold back. "Well it hasn't worked out that way."

Vachon stood up, lifted Tracy--Pooh and all--into his arms and sat back down in the chair with her cradled securely against him. "No querida," he whispered, stroking her hair away from her face. "All it means is that you're still alive and so is your partner. Those are the two important things for you to remember. Nothing else matters."

Feeling his arms around her, with all their inhuman strength and yet so terribly gentle, Tracy finally allowed herself to break apart, knowing that he would be there to pull her back. "Oh Vachon," she sobbed into his chest helplessly. "I saw what he did to those other girls. He cut them into pieces and put them into jars, so he could look at them whenever he wanted." She scrubbed her face against the sleeve of her robe and looked up at him with her eyes all puffy and her nose red and swollen. "All I could see was my face looking out of one of those jars." Her voice disappeared into a hoarse whisper and she clutched at him desperately.

He pressed her against him as firmly as he dared and buried his face in her hair. The idea of her ending up as one of those sick trophies filled him with a cold, hard dread. Nick may have ordered him to watch over Tracy, but now he made a vow to himself. As long as he lived, he would keep her safe.

Instead of feeling burdened by this heavy responsibility, he felt curiously lightened and smiled as he murmured tender words of comfort in as many languages as he knew. Finally the tension in her muscles eased and she rested against him, breathing easily.

"Would you like something?" He asked solicitously. "Some...ummm, tea maybe?"

She eyed him skeptically. "You're offering to make me tea?"

"Sure." He affirmed a little defensively. "I've seen you do it, how hard can it be?"

"Then I would love some tea." She told him, slipping off his lap.

"You got it."

He managed to find and fill the tea kettle, but he had to test the electric burner with a finger before he would believe it was getting hot.

"Are you okay?" Tracy asked, catching a faint whiff of barbecue.

"I'm fine, no problem." Vachon called out, wondering if sticking his burnt finger in his mouth would actually help it heal faster. "Uh, Trace, where's the tea?"

"In the cupboard on the right."

"I don't see it."

"It's right between the Tang and the tortellini."

"All you have are these little bags."

"The tea's in the little bags."

"Oh. Well, where's your strainer, then?"

"You don't need a strainer. Just put the bag straight in the hot water."

"Oh. Ummm, where does the trash go?"

Tracy rolled her eyes and sighed. "Under the sink."

A high-pitched shriek filled the air. "What's that!?" Yelled Vachon.

"That's the tea kettle. The water's boiled."

"How do I make it stop?"

"Turn off the stove and move the kettle to another burner."

"Right. Uhh, I'm supposed to pour it into something now?"

"Teapot. Cupboard by your left knee."

"Got it." Vachon returned to the living room, carrying the teapot and two mugs triumphantly.

Tracy looked at the second mug with raised eyebrows. "You're going to join me?"

Vachon shrugged. "How bad can it be?"

Pretty bad, judging by the face he made, which caused the corners of Tracy's mouth to twitch. "Maybe you'd like it better with sugar?" She suggested and started to get up.

"No no, I'll get it," he offered hurriedly. "I think I've figured out your system."

She heard him rummaging around in her cupboards and waited for the inevitable.

"I found the stew and the syrup, but there's no sugar." He called out and Tracy heard the slightest hint of a whine in his voice.

"It's in a canister on the counter, next to the flour." She informed him, trying not to laugh.

"Well what the hell was it doing there?" He fumed, setting the entire canister on the coffee table.

She looked at the canister and then at Vachon.

"What now?" He growled.

"Spoons?"

He started to turn and then paused. "Where?" He sighed, defeat evident in every line of his body.

"The drawer to the right of the sink. Oh and Vachon?"

"Yes?" His voice sounded frayed.

"Could you bring the milk out?" He just looked at her and a slow, brilliant smile stretched across her face. "Right side of the fridge, second shelf."

He trudged back into the kitchen, but once there he had to hang onto the handle of the fridge to keep himself upright as he struggled to keep his laughter silent.

He was in perfect control when he returned with spoons, milk and even some cookies that he'd stumbled on during one of his searches. She picked up a cookie and there was a hint of a sparkle in her eyes when she looked up at him and bit into it. She stirred generous amounts of both milk and sugar into her tea and took a deep sip with obvious pleasure. Vachon sat on the couch, holding his tea between his hands, enjoying the sensation of warmth, even if there was nothing on this earth that could make him ingest another drop of the vile brown liquid.

Tracy leaned back into her chair with a sigh, resting the mug on Pooh's head. "Is it... is it different for you?" She asked hesitantly.

"Is what different for me?" He responded softly, fixing his large, dark eyes on her face, noting the color in her cheeks with satisfaction.

"Killing."

He blinked and tried to keep his expression open. "Different than what?" He replied carefully.

"Different than what I did, or what... what he did."

He placed his mug on the table with a clunk that made Tracy flinch. He cursed himself for that and rubbed his hands together, trying to gather his thoughts. "You killed in self-defense and in defense of a fellow officer, just as you'd been trained." He began slowly. "Your justification for killing is based on the laws of your society. You didn't kill for yourself--you derive no pleasure or benefit from it."

"That's for sure." She murmured roughly.

"Unlike me and my kind." He continued. "We derive both pleasure and benefit from killing."

"But you kill to survive."

He gave her a small, grateful smile. "Yes. Until very recently, we had no choice. If we wanted to live, we had to kill. But you must understand Tracy, for us it feels very, very good to kill."

She swallowed uneasily, but nodded. "I guess it's a survival mechanism."

"I suppose so. And you want to know if we're any different from the monster you shot last night?" He shook his head ruefully. "Some of us aren't. Some of us are just as ruthless and twisted as he was. There are always those who delight in killing just for killing's sake and do it only for the pleasure it gives them."

"But you're not like that." She whispered, looking at him for confirmation.

He took her hand between his own. "You know my story Tracy, I'm no angel."

She touched his cheek gently. "I know your story, Vachon and I also know you. Do you want to know what I think?"

"All right, I'll bite."

She made a wry face at him, but she didn't pull her hand away. "I think you've got just as much good and just as much evil in you as anyone else. You're as human as I am and just as liable to make mistakes as me."

He smiled slightly. "Well, I don't know about the human part, but I've certainly made my share of mistakes. And do you know what?"

"What?"

"I wouldn't take back any of them."

She wrinkled her nose in the way he loved. "None of them?"

He scooped her up in his arms with a laugh and popped her into his lap. "Not a one."

"Good." She sighed and nestled her head against his chest. "I'm glad you came by tonight, Vachon."

"So'm I, querida," he whispered into her hair. "So am I."