Ok, this is just a piece of a much larger 21 Jump Street fanfic I’m working on – sort of to test the waters as this is my first time ever writing something publicly. . .I guess I should say I don’t own 21 Jump Street, it’s characters or anything else – not even a real understanding of why I just had to say that, but there you go. Let me know if I should keep on writing this stuff. . .but go easy on me, I have delicate feelings and this isn’t Shakespeare, it’s 21 Jump Street.

“It’s nothing like that, Hanson,” Penhall said. “We just. . .talk. That’s it. And not even that often.”

“How often?” Hanson tried to keep his voice neutral, though he was pretty sure he wasn’t succeeding.

“A couple times,” Penhall said. Hanson could see that he was beginning to feel uncomfortable as well. “Maybe once a month at most.”

“Is there – something going on?” Hanson asked. He really didn’t think there was, but then again, why else would Penhall be so eager to continue having contact with someone so far away, someone he barely knew?

And why do you care so much, Hanson? he heard himself ask silently.

“Like what?”

“Like -- romantic?”

“Jeez, Hanson, of course not,” Penhall said. “My God, she’s only been a widow six months – do you think I’d really throw myself at someone like that – especially someone I met in those kind of circumstances, where I was with her husband when he took his last breath?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hanson said. “But let’s be honest, Doug – she’s not calling me once a month to talk about things, and if I remember correctly, I was there as well.”

“She asks about you all the time,” Penhall assured his friend. “She wants to know how you’re doing, if you’ve recovered, all that. Believe me, we’ve had conversations about you that lasted way longer than I wanted them to.” He was trying to keep his words light, but knew Hanson wasn’t going to fall for it.

“Why wouldn’t she call me herself, then?” Hanson asked. “Not,” he added hastily, “that I want her to call me. It just seems a little weird to me, is all. That she calls you and has these deep conversations about my health, and you don’t say anything about it to me until now or that she doesn’t bother to call me herself to find out how I am. Or whatever.”

Penhall tossed the file onto his desk and looked directly at his partner. “Look, Tom,” he said. “There really is nothing to this. Some of the stuff we talk about. . .well, it’s stuff I understand. She lost her husband. I lost Marta. She has children – I have Clavo. She was a missionary in the country where Marta was from – a country she and I both happen to love. I was with her husband when he died – I was the last person to talk to him. So, we have these. . .connections. None of it is “romantic” in any way. And it’s not a slam against you. I know she’s still very greatful for what you did, and that she hopes you’re doing all right.”

Hanson’s gaze flickered away. “It’s just – strange,” he finally said. “It’s like, I don’t know, we were all thrown into this situation where we were all trying to survive, and then it all came to an end so fast – and I never really got to thank her or even say good-bye. . .” the last words caught in his throat and he was unable to say anymore -- really, wasn’t that what this was all about? That she’d thanked him in such a beautifully personal way, and he’d never gotten the chance to do the same?

“You weren’t in a position to say good-bye,” Penhall said gently. “And I’m pretty sure she knew you were thankful.”

“Doug – it’s not the same thing. I just feel like” – he ran his hands through the front of his chestnut-colored hair. “Like I have unfinished business to take care of.”

“So – take care of it.”

O.k., that’s my teaser – like I said, it’s just a part of a whole huge Hanson/Penhall fic I have going on – More? If even just one person wants to read it I’ll put it out there because I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.