Jocelynn - Partners?

I step through the doors to Emmy's lab and wonder why she couldn't have taken a job in Forensics or Cyber Crimes. Instead, in order to see my best friend, I have to walk through these doors every day. The smell is enough to make me gag each time. 

She's sitting at the back of the room, staring into a microscope and taking notes on the little notepad next to her. 

"Hey," I say, walking through the room and bypassing a man in an identical coat to hers. 

Her head snaps up and she beams at me. "Hi," she says, turning in her seat. Her brows pull together as she studies my face. "What's the matter?"

I shake my head and walk over, taking a seat in the chair next to hers. "I got transfered,"

"What?" she asks, a smile on her face. "That's a good thing, right? No more of Jonas's bullshit. Why don't you look happy about this?"

"To Homicide,"

The smile is wiped from her face. "No," she says quietly, shaking her head. 

"Yeah,"

"Oh my god, why?"

"Baker says it'll be a good image to show the state, and the psychs that I'm getting better,"

"Baker's going along with this?"

I nod. "He agrees with them. And I'm not entirely sure he's wrong,"

She shakes her head, brown eyes boring into mine. "Oh, babe, I'm so sorry," she says, reaching for my hand. 

"I don't know how I'm going to do this," 

"You're going to do great. Like you always do. You've gotta remember to breathe, okay?" she says, squeezing my hand. "Take it easy. You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to not want this,"

I nod. "I know,"

"Come here,"

Her arms wrap around me and she holds on tightly. It feels like I might fall apart if she lets go. I bury my face in her shoulder and take a deep breath, the scent of her perfume calming me. Emmy always manages to provide a type of comfort I haven't felt in years. 

"You're okay. I'm here for you, always," she whispers. 

"I know. Thank you,"

She lets go of me and presses a kiss to my forehead a moment later. She pushes her chair back to the microscope, giving me a little space. She always says that it's so I know she's here but that she won't coddle me or suffocate me with affection. 

"Smirnov's buying me boba," I tell her, running a hand through my hair. 

"Andrei Smirnov? You're letting him buy you boba?"

I nod. "I didn't get the chance to this morning, and he insisted,"

"He's a nice man, Joce. If you're going to be friends with anyone, he's your best bet,"

"I'm not here to make friends,"

"No, I know, but if you do, he's a good person. And he'll look out for you, regardless of whether or not you're friends,"

Baker said the same thing. "I don't need that,"

"Regardless of whether or not you need it," she tells me, rolling her eyes. "And he's pretty good looking,"

"Emmy," I say, stifling a laugh. 

"He is. And that accent," she says with a content sigh.

"It's just an accent," 

"He sounds like a Russian Lord,"

"He is Russian, dumbass,"

"Oh, your attitude is atrocious. Try being nice to him,"

"I'm never mean,"

"You're not nice, either," she laughs. "And before you say it, I know the others gace you hell in the Academy and during your probation, but he's nothing like that. Neither is Ian. They're good people,"

Before I can ask how she could possibly know that, a knock sounds on the door behind me. I turn to see Smirnov slipping through the glass door, holding a drink carrier in one hand. 

"Good morning, beautiful," he says in what can only be Russian. 

It seems my best friend has been holding out on me because she responds in fluent Russian. "Hey, handsom,"

I gape at her, my mind unable to process the words that just came out of her mouth. When in the hell did she get the time to learn Russian? She can barely speak Spanish, and she's been my best friend for well over six years now. 

Smirnov stops by my chair and pulls a purple coconut boba from his carrier. 

"Here you go," he says, setting it on the desk. 

"Thanks,"

I look at the cup from Honey's Cafe. The coffee in the carrier is from a different place. Why would he go to two different places just to get me boba? And how does he know what I like to drink?

"This is what you like, yes?"

"Yeah. Thanks," I say with a nod.

"You are welcome," 

He moves to Emmy and she gets out of her chair to hug him. All I can do is stare as they break off into a conversation in Russian, smiling and laughing animatedly. Emmy sounds like she's been speaking the language her whole life. Another thing she neglected to mention is what good friends she and Andrei Smirnov are. I am beyond confused, my brain filling with questions. However, I keep my mouth shut and focus on my boba. 

Stabbing the straw through the top, I try to focus on anything but the fact that I now work in Homicide, the last division I ever wanted to be a part of. I try to convince myself that it's okay. That I'll just do my best and hope Baker and his merry band of psychs see that I'm okay to work on my own without having a mental breakdown. 

As if I haven't already proven that. 

"Hey," Smirnov's voice comes. "Do you mind sharing what you noticed at the scene?"

I nod. "Sure." I turn to Emmy. "You have the report, right?"

"Yup," she says, moving her chair to the end of the table. "Six gunshot wounds. Two to the shoulder and four to the chest. You guys got lucky on one, because there was a bullet still lodged in his ribcage. It is being analyzed as we speak. Now, along with the ligature marks around his wrists and ankles, there were smaller, less visible ones around his neck,"

"He was tied up and strangled before he was shot, right?" I ask. 

She shakes her head. "That's what they want you to think. But it's actually the opposite. Your victim was shot twice in his shoulder, and then tied up, and then shot again, and then someone tied something very thin around his neck, probably before they dumped him,"

"He was not killed at the scene?" Smirnov asks. 

"No," I say. "If you'd have looked closely at the crime scene, you'd have noticed the tracks of dried mud that made it all the way to the body. There was also very minimal blood at the scene,"

"Right," he says with a nod, not questioning a single thing that came out of my mouth. "Do you want to go back upstairs, and see what we can figure out about this case?"

"Sure," I say, rising to my feet with my boba. 

As we make our way back up the stairs, Smirnov goes over what I said about the crime scene as well as his own observations. I'm only half paying attention, because there is a steam of noise coming from the boys in Homicide. My new co-workers. God, I am not going to get used to being around them. 

Heads turn our way as we step into the room. 

"Hey, Sanchez," one of them, Anderson, shouts. "Welcome to Homicide,"

I don't respond and keep walking to my desk. If I give them a reaction, they win. 

"We could give some pointers if you'd like," comes Deluca's voice. "I mean, do you even know the difference between a drug dealer and a murderer?"

"Ignore them," Smirnov says, standing beside me. 

The blood in my body turns hot and I want nothing more than to hide in my car. I could blast my music and forget this day ever happened. I could forget that these assholes are people I have to work with from now on. They are too fucking old to be acting like little boys. 

"We could find someone able to take a punch from you and you know, further your training," Deluca says, laughing his ass off. Because that was so funny.

"Give it a rest, guys," Ian Sorenson says, sounding exasperated. 

He looks between the two men and shakes his head, telling them to stop. His eyes move this way, landing on Smirnov, and he shrugs. I don't look to see Smirnov's reaction. The man stands lifeless beside me, but at least he hasn't jumped in with the criticism. 

"I bet she punches like a girl," Anderson says, laughing. 

That's it. 

I've had it. I set my boba on my desk, wipte my hands on the sides of my pants and walk over. Smirnov asks what I'm doing, but he knows, and he trails after me. 

"What's this?" Anderson asks when I'm in front of him.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reel my arm back and deck him in the nose. His head flies back as a searing pain runs through my hand and right up my arm. Anderson groans and his hands come up to cup his nose. He looks at me with murder in his eyes as his friends laugh at him. 

"How was that?" I ask, wringing out my hand. 

"Bitch," he spits, stepping toward me. 

A hand grabs onto my arm and gently pulls be backward. Smirnov steps in front of me, blocking Anderson's path to me. He places my boba in my hand and turns back to his friend. 

"Back off," he tells him, a strange edge to his voice. 

"What?" Anderson questions, eyes wide. 

"Back off," he repeats. "You got the reaction you wanted, and it is over now,"

"She punched me,"

"You deserved it. Now back the fuck off,"

Anderson looks between Smirnov and me and scoffs, but he backs off. He'd be stupid not to. I don't like any of these men, but anyone knows that as easy as it was for me to deck Anderson, Smirnov would have him on the floor in a second. 

"Are you okay?" Smirnov asks. It takes me a moment to realize he's speaking to me. 

I drag my gaze from Anderson to meet his waiting eyes. "What?"

"Are you okay? Are you calm? Is your hand okay?"

I blink at him. "Yes,"

"Yes?"

With a sigh, I say, "I'm fine. I'm calm. My hand is fine."