Notes: I wanted to finish When It Rains before posting this, but I also wanted to finish this story before S3 starts and seeing as how that's 100-ish days (!) away and seeing as how SChimes is the loveliest of terrible influences... well, I'm posting it anyway. :D This is my speculative take on what we might see happen next season, including, among other things: Rusty's best efforts at Being An Adult, Sharon's best efforts at handling that, Sharon dealing with Jack once and for all, and Rusty finding some peace with... a lot of things. This is mostly a Sharon-and-Rusty story, so there won't be much in the way of 'ships besides maybe some mild hinting here and there.

The title is pulled from the song "Forever Young" because... that's what I happened to be listening to when I realized I needed to give this thing a title and it seemed appropriate.

When the Winds of Changes Shift

rosabelle

Chapter I

Dear Rusty.

A full day after the email had popped up, he still hadn't read further than that. Maybe it was that he'd developed an aversion to that particular opening—as in, full-body tensing with the feel of a thousand spider legs crawling up the back of his neck and his stomach dropping like the ground had been yanked out from under him. Yeah. That was probably it. Who could blame him, really, when that was the phrase of choice of the serial killer who had stalked him?

He still felt cold when he let himself think of how easily that knife had plunged into the couch, and how that had almost been his heart.

Rusty shifted on the couch, his laptop wobbling precariously on his knees as he tried to scratch between his shoulder blades.

That wasn't it, though. Because basically every birthday card, college letter, and automated response to job applications he'd gotten over the last couple of months had started out Dear Rusty—or Dear Mr. Beck, if they wanted to be uptight and formal—and it hadn't so much as registered with him.

No, he was forced to admit, this intensely unpleasant physical response had everything to do with the person sending it. That she'd opened with that was just unfortunate luck, and that she'd looked him up on Facebook instead of going through more official channels was... well, he wasn't sure what it was, but he did feel a little...

Slowly, he closed the laptop and leaned forward to rest it on the coffee table. He picked up his phone instead. The last message Sharon had sent him was still displayed on the screen. Be home soon. Miss you.

Saved you some dinner, he'd sent back.

That was almost an hour ago.

Blindsided, he decided. That was how he felt. He had always assumed that in what he deemed the highly unlikely event that this day ever came, Sharon would hear about it first, and she would break the news to him carefully and walk him through whatever came next.

Instead, the message had come up out of nowhere without a second's warning, just the unalarming chime that meant he had an unread email, and it had happened while Sharon was busy trying to solve a triple homicide and he'd seen her for all of fifteen minutes in the last two days.

Maybe that was a good thing, he told himself. Hadn't he been trying to act like the adult he was supposed to be? Sharon had done so much for him—he didn't need to bring her his every problem.

Except...

Rusty fidgeted uncomfortably as he watched his phone. That excuse didn't really work, either, because this was definitely one of those things that Sharon would expect him to mention, and he really had learned his lesson about keeping secrets from her after the whole letters fiasco after it had turned out that actually, her response hadn't been a giant overreaction. But... he hadn't even read the message all the way through yet, and maybe once he did, there would be nothing to worry about. Maybe he wouldn't respond right away. Maybe he wouldn't need to respond at all—he didn't even know if it was the sort of message that required a response. He should at least work up the nerve to read the whole thing first, because Sharon had, like, an entire morgue's worth of dead people to worry about at the moment, and she didn't need to worry about him too. Especially if there was no cause for alarm.

Maybe, he reasoned, he didn't have to tell her at this precise moment.

Yeah.

He could do that.

But the unease remained firmly in the pit of his stomach. He sent her another message to distract himself. Where are you?

He thought about turning on the TV, but yesterday, he'd tried to wait up for Sharon and it had just lulled him to sleep instead. By the time she'd made it home, he'd been out for almost an hour, and he'd tried to wake up enough to talk to her, but she'd just shaken her head and pointed him down the hall to his room with a reminder that he had to work in the morning.

Which was true, but it wasn't like his job required much in the way of actual thinking, but even half asleep, he'd known that he couldn't make that argument to Sharon because then she would just remind him for the hundredth—no, the thousandth time that he didn't have to work anywhere and if he would rather volunteer somewhere, that was fine with her, and he just hadn't wanted to go there again. Partly because he hadn't found a volunteer opportunity that didn't sound boring, partly because he could snack as much as he wanted as long as no one was looking so it was like he was being paid to eat tacos, and partly because Sharon had questioned whether he had the temperament to work in the food service industry and he wasn't ready to admit that he didn't.

... And also because he hadn't found another job yet.

And no, okay, he didn't want her to call around and ask her lawyer friend if he needed someone to, like, file paperwork for him, because first of all, that sounded terrible (he didn't tell Sharon that), and second of all, he was going find himself a job himself. And he had. Three of them, in fact, but it wasn't his fault that the manager at McDonald's had decided that Rusty had a completely fictitious problem with authority and fine, if that was how they were going to be, then he was happy to leave and never eat their awful hamburgers ever again.

His first summer as an adult wasn't going quite as smoothly as he'd hoped, but he thought he was starting to get the hang of it. He just needed a little more time.

Rusty checked his phone again. Speaking of time...

But there was nothing from Sharon.

He was in the middle of composing another text when he heard the key in the lock, and the sound soothed away some of his agitation. Not all of it, because now he was going to have to decide whether he should tell her the thing now or later, but... enough of it.

He could guess at how exhausted Sharon was from the time it took her from unlocking the door to actually opening it and stepping inside, and that was definitely a point in the "later" camp.

"Hey." He twisted around on the sofa, turning towards the door. "What took you so long?"

Sharon leaned back against the door, her eyes shut. "There was an accident on the freeway."

Her voice was low with fatigue and her shoulders were heavy with it. That settled it, then; he wasn't going to tell her tonight.

"So, wait," he said, rearranging his legs to make room for her on the couch. "When I'm late, I get are you alive texts, but when you're late—"

"Texting while driving is how accidents happen in the first place, Rusty." She set down her keys and purse before coming around towards him. Her hand brushed his shoulder as she passed him, and she stooped down to give him a kind of loose and one-armed not-actually-a-hug on her way to sit down that he found himself leaning into anyway. "I wasn't sure I wouldn't wake you up if I called."

"I was just kidding, Sharon." Rusty shrugged, settling back into the couch. "It's all right. Did you catch your bad guy?"

"We did." Sharon sank down with a quiet groan, tilting her head against the back of the couch. "Unfortunately, he doesn't like the deal Emma offered him, and his lawyer actually thinks they can win this in court..." She shook her head from side to side without opening her eyes.

"So you lost?"

"It's not about winning or losing," she told him, which was ridiculous, but after a short pause, she added, "But yes, it would have been more satisfying if he had confessed and taken the deal."

Which was basically Sharon's way of saying that she'd lost and she was grumpy about it.

"But," she went on, opening her eyes to smile at him, "the good news is I'm home now, I think I have just enough time to get a decent night's sleep, and I made it back before you went to bed—and you know that I'm happy to see you, but you don't have to wait up for me."

"It's not a big deal, Sharon." He shrugged. "Besides, you were gone by the time I woke up this morning."

"I checked on you before I left, but you were dead to the world," she said. "Did you get up for work all right?"

"It's not like it's any different than getting up for school," he told her. "Easier, actually, because I never got paid to go to school."

"Which reminds me," she said. "When do you get paid?"

"Uh... sometime next week," he said. "I think."

"If nothing comes up, I'll pick you up on my way home," she offered. "We'll go somewhere to celebrate."

"What, that I made it two weeks without being fired? It's not like that's hard, Sharon." Never mind that it had taken him three tries to get there, but he didn't need to remind her about that. "And besides, the whole point of having a job is so that you don't have to buy me everything."

"It can be your treat, then," she said.

"Oh," he said, and paused to consider that. "I'll think about it."

"So, it's going well, then?" she prompted.

"Yeah, I guess." He shrugged. "I mean, it's kind of boring, actually—but that doesn't mean I should quit or that you should try to find me a job you think is better, or—or—"

"Rusty." She sounded almost amused as she straightened up, drawing first one foot and then the other up so that she could remove her heels; then, barefoot, she stretched her legs forward and flexed her toes back and forth. "I wasn't going to suggest that—but the offer's always there, if you want it."

"Sharon."

She ignored his tone. "What I was going to say was that learning to work well in an environment that's less than ideal is an invaluable life skill. And I'm not going to lie to you, I do wish you would look for something more to your liking, but I am proud of you for going out and doing this all on your own."

"You... are?"

"Very much so."

"Oh," he said again, lowering his eyes. "Um. Thanks."

"It's true," she said, giving him one of those knowing half-smiles. She pulled one leg up again, massaging the ball of her foot with her thumbs. "It has been such a long day."

"Do you want some dinner?" he offered. "I made spaghetti."

Sharon shifted her legs, switching to the other foot. "I hope you ate at a decent hour, at least."

"I did," he said. "But that was, like, hours ago and I could eat again, if you wanted some company."

"Just have a snack if you're still hungry," she said, amusement coloring her otherwise tired face. "I think I'm too tired to eat."

"Shouldn't you go to bed, then?" Duh, Sharon.

"Soon. I need a moment."

He passed her one of the throw pillows without thinking. She drew it into her lap, fiddling with a corner of it even as her eyes slid shut again.

"While you're awake," he said, though she was barely that. "Do you need anything from the store? I was gonna go tomorrow."

She opened her eyes to look at him sideways. "I went grocery shopping yesterday. You said you didn't need anything."

"Well, yeah," he said. "I didn't then. But now we're out of ice cream."

Her mouth flattened, but from the way the corners of her eyes rose up, he thought it was to hide a smile rather than to suppress annoyance. "I appreciate the offer. I'll leave you some money."

"No," he protested. "I can—"

"Rusty, you should be saving your money," she said. "You'll wish you had, later."

"I can afford bread," he insisted. "And, like, peaches or whatever fruit you want this week."

"You don't even like peaches."

"Do you like ice cream?"

"Sometimes," she said, after an entirely too long pause.

"Come on, Sharon."

"If it means that much to you," she relented.

He sat back in satisfaction. "Thank you."

He suspected that she was going to give him a list of four non-expensive items and then come home herself with the rest of the groceries and some excuse about having forgotten to tell him. He also suspected that this wasn't normal behavior for people his age (shouldn't Sharon be encouraging him to take on more adult responsibilities?), but normal was a ship that had sailed a long time ago.

"I'll write out a list for you in the morning, then," she said. "And now I think I really will head off to bed. I'm just glad I caught you before you fell asleep in front of the TV again."

"Me too," he said. "Sharktopus gave me the weirdest dreams."

She was less successful at hiding her amusement this time. "I still can't believe that's what you wanted for your birthday."

"I still can't believe you wouldn't tell me what you wanted for yours." In the end, he'd gotten her a small potted rosebush to replace the one he'd accidentally drowned.

Sharon stood, bending to pick up her discarded shoes, and straightening with a quiet sigh. "Good night, Rusty."

"Night," he echoed. He watched her disappear into her room, and then he gathered up his phone and laptop and brought them to his own room. He plugged his laptop in to charge and changed into his pajamas, curling up in bed with his phone.

With Sharon gone, his thoughts were all drawn back to this problem. He had to tell her, and he knew that the longer he waited, the more upset she would be—but he still thought he'd made the right choice not telling her tonight.

But since he was going to have to tell her soon... like, tomorrow soon, he was going to have to decide what he wanted to do about it, and that meant he was going to have to read the entire thing.

It still took him another half hour to work up the courage to actually do it because once he did there would be no going back, and for all that he wanted to prove to himself that he was an adult, that he could handle this—he drew the covers up to his chin and felt uncomfortably like a child as he read the message with tears smarting in his eyes.

Dear Rusty,

It's hard for me to write to you when I know you probably don't want to talk to me. I was in a bad situation the last time we talked, but I'm doing better now and I'm not that person anymore. I've missed you. I'll be in town awhile.

Love, Mom