Summary: AU, way way back. A look into what a second chance could look like. How changes and how choices affect our lives. Written for the RaydorFlynn livejournal comm prompt: choices.

A/N: I tweaked here and there with facts, fun-fun. Hope you all enjoy.

/The second time around/

Andy Flynn watched the figure of a woman through the window, fatigued and yet strong, her boy's hand small and pale entwined with hers. White pallor that in the artificial light of the hospital seemed to transform into a sickly color that would have appeared inhuman if not for the comfort of a mother's hand. That connection somehow anchored the boy to some form of life.

Andy had been in the room once, a week ago. The quiet and stillness of the hospital room doing its own to raise the hair on the back of his neck, the bustle of the ward outside seemingly at odds. He had never cared much for hospitals; every visit in his life had been permeated by a need to be in and out of the establishment as quickly as possible.

The impromptu visit had surprised the boy, his mother even more so. The boy slept now but last week, the boy had followed Andy with wide eyes. Curiosity that had peaked when Andy had pulled a small gift-wrapped cap engraved with LAPD from behind his back. He had watched those small eyes alight with mirth, the small corners of his pale lips turning upside at the present. Andy had tussled brown hair and promised the little boy that his father was coming home soon, purposefully avoided looking at his mother.

The lie left his mouth sour and his insides in turmoil but the truth was impossible to grasp let alone speak; that a father would abandon his child – abandon his wife. It was a truth that made his hands clench and he had an odd feeling of resentment towards the man he was supposed to sponsor into sobriety.

Now he watched the slow rise and fall of the boy's chest, machines keeping apprise of vitals with low beeping reminiscent of the steady rhythm of a heart. The boy slumbered peacefully. He watched the tremble of her lips, the dried path of tears and the way her hand was calm when she touched the hand of her boy. There was a natural beauty to her, even in sadness.

She turned her head. He watched her eyes transform the moment they connected with his. Instead of softness he saw only barred steel. He gave an acknowledging nod and a weak wave with his right hand. He didn't want to bother the kid. She rose slowly and kissed the forehead on her little boy. She opened the door almost silently, her eyes on him and for brief moment he wished he was anywhere but here.

"I got a hold of him. He should be on his way home," he told her without preamble.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips trembled again – this time he doubted it was with sadness. Her pain seemed to hesitate, contained inside those hard eyes.

"You talked to him? On the phone?"

"Yeah," he lied, quickly schooling his features. There was no reason to torture her with the fact that he had talked to Jack in person; short of putting a gun to the man's head, Jack would not visit his son in the hospital, avoiding everyone at every cost. Andy remembered the feeling well; the way you felt better if you avoided everyone who knew you. That way drinking wasn't a problem – everyone else drank and new friends were always easy to gain in bars and hotels.

Anger blossomed in her cheeks.

"So, he talks to you. He picks up when you call. But me, god damn, he won't -," her voice cracked.

"I'm sorry," he said and he wasn't sure whether he was apologizing for Jack or himself – but he was sorry. She didn't deserve this.

He tried to explain, "He's far out of reach. I tried – I really did. But if he's not ready to do the heavy lifting himself, there's not a lot of good I can do. He has to admit to having a problem first."

Her eyes softened and she looked at the floor, "I know."

He wanted to comfort her, desperately. Take her into his arms, hold her close and tell her everything would be fine. It would be another lie.

Like a moth to a flame however, he couldn't contain himself, and with a silent curse he tucked a tress of her auburn hair behind her ear and trailed a thumb gently against her cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I wish - " he stopped. He did not know how to say out aloud what he felt.

She looked up again, anger gone and replaced by detachment, "There's nothing to wish for. The world doesn't work like that."

He nodded, swallowing back a lump at the back of his throat.

She was bitter, not that he could fault her.

Yet he couldn't leave. He had made a goddamn promise. Take care of her – make sure she's alright. Please.

Somehow even if the plea had been spoken in an inebriated state, Jack disheveled from a concussion and the steady flow of blood from his broken nose, yet the words still reverberated inside Andy's skull now – forcibly. However much the man was an awful husband, it did not mean he didn't love his wife. He was just a mess, and incapable of showing love at the moment.

"Do you need anything?"

She shook her head, eyes no longer on him. She seemed far away.

"If you think of anything, let me know," he told her, earnest.

She simply nodded, the motion not seeming to convey much.

"I mean it, Mrs. Raydor."

She looked up and there was something in that hard stare that softened, "Sharon, please."

Andy nodded, a small smile, "Okay, Sharon."

"I appreciate the offer, I do," she told him.

Andy nodded.

Silence descended, awkward and tensile. He couldn't bring himself to deliver false platitudes and nothing much happened in his life that was worth sharing. What was there even to tell someone who associated you with darkness? Someone who was at the edge to an abyss?

He scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the silence and confused about where to look. The view into the hospital room only reminded him of guilt and the visible lines of exhaustion in her expression only reminded him of regret. The floor was too detached in its grey color, the white walls no less clinical.

In the end there was nothing to say.

He squeezed the outside of her elbow, the touch sheepish and awkward; she was not meant to be touched by him even if he had already touched her cheek. They were neither friends nor colleagues. They were barely acquaintances and then only on account of her husband. He barely knew her; and yet that distinct pain barely concealed in her eyes, that he was all too familiar with.

How to live with pain, emotionally, well, maybe in those terms they had some sort of connection.

…

The first time Andy met her, it was dark out and the 8pm meeting had run late. The night and the onslaught of rain was a welcome, chilly compared to the dampness of the room he had just left. At first she was a blurry figure, half running, half waddling, with an umbrella held protectively above her.

At first he just kept on walking, down the three steps from the local building they used for their AA meetings, his hands deep in his pockets and his thoughts far away.

The next time he looked up she was in front of him, huffing with red cheeks and a vague smile that only seemed hesitant about approaching him.

Andy stopped, his eyes briefly on the locks of wet hair that stuck to her face.

"Erm, can I help you?"

Her complexion was pale beneath the rosy cheeks, her eyes shrouded in the shadows of her umbrella. For a brief moment he thought she was one of those strays he met on and off, just waiting outside not attending the meeting. Some needed a bit of encouragement, too hesitant to do anything but linger outside, too uncertain to come inside. He found a lot of strays like that, standing outside even when it rained heavily, unsure about their life and whether AA was for them.

A shared cup of coffee and sometimes he met them at a later meeting. Sometimes he even watched them sober up. Sometimes he never saw them again. Other times it was back and forth tirelessly without fail, sober, drunk, sober, drunk.

"Oh, hi," she stepped out of the shadows and her umbrella tilted back so he could see her face fully.

"I'm so sorry to impose," she started, her hands tightening on the arm of her umbrella in a nervous fashion. Her mouth was redder than possible, lipstick immaculate. Bright deep red. She smiled self-consciously and there was something about it that made him feel at ease, "I was told that you have meetings here. I mean, AA meetings."

"Yeah," he nodded and took a step back, beckoning for her to follow him back up the steps to the porch, the overhang roof of the building providing cover. There was no reason for them to stand outside in the rain, getting soaked through. He saw Reggie walk past, a weary smile. Andy waved at the man before he once again looked at the woman, "but the meeting is over. We start at 8 pm on Wednesdays. We can grab a cup of coffee if you'd like? There's a little diner just around the corner," he pointed, watching her features, "get out of the rain. Talk, if you wanna?"

"Oh, no, I'm not here for that," her hand went to her stomach. Her big round stomach, stretching out like a bulb, "I'm just looking for – I'm here for Andrew – an Andrew Flynn, I mean. Well," she looked bewildered, "I was told he was supposed to be here. That he would most likely be here."

"Well, you're in luck. That's me," he extended his hand, waiting for her to shake it, "Now, what can I do for you?"

She seemed relieved now, yet still hesitant.

She shook his hand, her slender fingers cold, "I'm looking for Jackson Raydor. You're his sponsor, right?"

"Jack?" he repeated as he tried to make his expression neutral. That would make two of them; he was looking for the man as well.

She nodded, her features momentarily pained and embarrassed.

She looked on the verge of fleeing, and he quickly tried to put her at ease. With a gentle smile, he shrugged, "You know, I should have recognized you. Jack told me about you, talks about you a lot – talks about the baby even more. Showed me the ultrasound," he paused with another smile, "Congratulation by the way, huh – though," he arched an eyebrow at her stomach, "you are pretty far along."

He was trying to overdo it – too upbeat.

Her smile was weak, "Seven months, thank you."

Her hand covered her stomach again, palm sliding up and down in a soothing caress.

"So, are you alright?"

She shook her head in the negative, "I just thought maybe you would have an idea – maybe you would know where he was. I just," she sighed and averted her eyes, "I just worry. He hasn't been gone like this before and I know there was a lot of trouble from the firm he works at. I don't know what to do – file a missing person report? It hasn't been forty-eight hours yet," this time she stopped, a look of resignation in her gaze when she finally looked at him again.

Andy sighed, "He hasn't been to the two last meetings. I've been trying to get a hold of him actually. I've looked in on the places he usual frequents but to no avail."

She looked down, distraught, "Oh."

Andy spoke again, "Filing a missing person report won't do much. We both know that," Jack always talked about his cop wife and even if they were both cops and both practically worked in the same building Andy had yet to actually run into her. She was in another patrol he knew, a different beat from his.

She inhaled and exhaled, "Thank you. I just wanted to know whether you'd heard from him or not. He talks about you a lot too."

"He'll show up again, eventually," he tried to reassure her.

"Eventually."

"He has a hard time admitting he has a problem," Andy told her even if he rarely spoke to the spouses of those he sponsored, "I'll try go look for him again. Try out the usual places again. New ones maybe."

She nodded, "Well, thank you once again. I will be on my way then."

"You sure you don't want a cup of tea, or something. My treat?" he watched her turn around and regard him. A peculiar look.

"I could do with something warm," she relented, a small smile.

She was easy to talk to he found.

She was easy on the eyes as well, the soft warm light of the diner illuminating.

She asked him about his own struggles, a self-aware smile.

He answered, frank and truthful. After three years of being in AA he was more than used to telling strangers the honest facts of his life.

He was an alcoholic, sober for two years now.

…

The first time Andy really understood the extent of human betrayal outside the confines of murder and crime, he found her in the secluded rest room out back at Central, crying her heart out. She was as silent as a ghost and for a very brief second he was even sure she had to be a figment of his imagination.

The motions of her body however, gave her away. She shook – trembled – and it looked more involuntary than anything, as if she couldn't hold it in anymore. Trying to contain it only made it worse, and he almost thought she would tumble to the floor, sapless. She stayed up, her hands braced on the sink.

She must have been crying for some time.

He was only there to witness the end of it.

It was another piece of the puzzle that left him without breath. Life had pushed her to the point where crying at work in a secluded rest room was her only respite. It stood in stark contrast to his own life – at least he had the comforts of his own place to be miserable in. There was no one in his apartment to watch him cry silently in the dark, no one to watch him fling a mug across the room in desperation. He had a feeling she was not one to cry in front of her boy – no, she would keep up a façade at home, bottle it up, keep it in till it exploded.

Her hand went in front of her mouth and her eyes closed shut when she noticed him.

Andy closed the door behind him and took a step toward her, unsure about his intentions – he was even more uncertain about her reaction to his presence.

"Hey, are you alright?"

When she didn't respond, he tried a soft, "Sergeant?"

She inhaled, her hand moving away from her mouth. It landed by her side, rigid, her knuckles white when she clenched it.

She inhaled again, air coming out in broken cascades.

"Sharon?" he tried.

"Fine, fine," she waved away his concern, her voice raw.

"Do you need - " he stopped, a hand at his neck. Shit, he was a moron when it came to offering comfort – he was shit at conversation when it came to emotions. "Is there something you want me to do?" His voice sounded hesitant and her eyes turned to him with disbelief.

She shook her head.

She did not tell him to fuck off however; he took it as a sign to stay.

Small talk. That he could do.

"I heard about your boy, Ricky I mean," he told her. Jack always called the boy Richard – he had overheard the nickname when he had been in the hospital ward. His hands found purpose deep in his pockets as he leaned against the wall, mindful of her space and privacy.

"I was happy to hear he's doing better. Is he ready to come home?"

She smiled, faintly, "Yes. He's getting released next week."

The smile disappeared.

"Jack's gambled our pension away. My inheritance. Everything," she paused, her bottom lip disappearing for a short second. "I'm in debt to my eyeballs. I can barely breathe without the interest going up. And I still need to pay the medical bills, and everything else."

The confession left color in her cheeks, blotches of anger and resentment that looked strange when he took in the red eyes and trail of tears.

On some level it did not surprise him. On another level he felt responsible.

Andy shook his head, barely keeping disgust out of his voice, "I'm sorry." The words tasted stale in his mouth, "It's not your fault."

She looked down, studied the surface of the sink.

"It's not supposed to be like this," she spoke in a whisper.

"No, it's not," he agreed.

"I can barely cover groceries," this time the confession sounded like it was dragged from her mouth without her consent. It pained her to admit this, he figured.

"Please, don't worry about groceries. Okay. I'll buy your groceries," Andy blurted, the offer out of thin air but it sank like a heavy promise.

She looked up with surprise, and then shook her head. The motion was vehement and mortified, "No, no. I can't let you do that. You are not responsible for," she stopped, exhaled, "You are not responsible for his actions and the consequences are mine to deal with."

They both became silent. He watched her warily and she watched the marble in the sink, her fingers fiddling with the belt of her uniform.

"Look, it will just be until you get back on your feet," he offered again, this time trying to sound more insistent, "You've got a kid to take care of. You have yourself to take care of. You need food for that."

Her lips trembled.

"You can pay me back," he quickly told her, "It's not charity or pity, or anything like that. I just can't stand the thought of your life – Ricky's life – being completely bulldozed because Jack gambles with your lives."

This time it was her who blurted, her cheeks flushing a deep red, "Maybe just this week? Just the basics, nothing more?"

He nodded, "Just the basics, sure."

Andy had no use of money. Work provided the uniform and his little apartment was all paid out, inherited from an uncle. He was stacking so much overtime that it had come to the point where he was earning more than he could spend, even if a large amount went to his ex and his daughter. Not that he begrudged that – he was only too happy to pay his part, always sending a bit more than the custody agreement decreed. The little money he spent on himself was nowhere near emptying out his bank account and seeing he had stopped throwing his money away for booze, his savings were merely collecting dust. Buying extra groceries would barely make a dent. It was the least he could do.

She looked at him again, this time obviously waiting for something, apprehension in the set mouth and the uncertain look.

"Nightshifts pay better," Andy told her, uncertainty back in his voice.

Her smile was sad, "I've already signed up for the next month, as much overtime as I can book without leaving Ricky completely alone."

He tried a more cheerful smile, "You've got a sitter?"

She nodded.

"You know, I'll have to show you all the great places for coffee that are open in the middle of the night, huh. Cop-friendly places – you know, you get a discount. They are a life saver."

She smiled back, "Please do."

…

Nightshifts were chaos come to life. The cover of darkness brought out all kinds, the creeps and drunks more prominent in the night life. Nightshifts were hectic and more often than not Andy and his partner spent their time being called out to one disturbance after the other, the siren and blinking lights of the cruiser starting to feel like an inherent part of his own existence. Adrenaline was always pumping, always skirting along his arteries in frenzy.

After his shift ended the rush disappeared as well. In the early hours of the morning when the city was slowly waking up, he was gearing down and ready to go home to sleep.

They sometimes met in the hue of the morning sun, on the down surge of adrenaline. Exhausted and bleary-eyed, they would stand in a break room with other's that had ended their shifts and those who came for coffee to start their day.

Sipping lukewarm coffee that had simpered for too many hours on the heater, massaging sore necks and recounting what had stood out during their long night became routine.

It became so ingrained that when she started fiddling with her coffee cup, looking at her wrist watch and scuffling her feet, he knew she was a second from saying goodbye and heading home. So when she started twitching he took both their coffee cups and threw the content into the sink. With an amicable clap on her shoulder, he herded her out into the corridor and to the garage and their cars.

For a long time she drove with him, a flimsy excuse of her car not working. The car being held up at the garage for more than a couple of months however told him there was more to it. When he probed a bit deeper, he found out Jack had taken their car and driven somewhere.

She sometimes fell asleep in his car, her head on the window as it lulled back and forth, her body slack. He enjoyed those times where she felt comfortable enough – or tired enough – to fall asleep as he drove them through morning traffic. When she was asleep it was so much easier to buy groceries for her. He left her soundly sleeping in his car and sprinted to the supermarket just around the corner from her house, able to fill the trolley with food without her input. She couldn't argue when he had already paid for the extra groceries and they were safely stored in his trunk.

When she followed him inside the supermarket, he usually stocked the trolley with extra food when she wasn't looking, pretending he had no clue where the items had originated from when they checked out and he paid. She always seemed too embarrassed, her eyes avoiding his until they were well away from the supermarket.

She fixed him breakfast sometimes, sending him home with a full stomach to sleep on. He joked about it, sure he would end up with a portly belly. She laughed, softly and restrained.

She paid him back in full, many months later when she seemed to have resurfaced a bit.

They never talked much about it.

He was only happy to help. At least someone depended on him to a degree. It was a new feeling. His ex had long since given up on him, his friends and family too. Some days he even felt he had given up on himself. His purpose, the sole thing that kept him ahead of darkness, was work. He had acquainted himself with his work. He breathed and slept work, dreamed about it. It was what flowed though him, keeping him astride with life.

It was a strange feeling. They weren't friends – it seemed to be something more. Something different. Something more intimate and yet they lacked the intimacy of friendship.

…

The first time they hugged it astounded him.

It took three steps and a half, his arms outstretched and his heart aching.

When words failed him he figured touch was better. The embrace turned out to be something else entirely. It drew life from him, spun him around till he felt dizzy. He felt like someone had sucker punched him in the gut, air being pulled forcefully from his lungs.

It just reminded him that there was something else to life than working.

It reminded him of solitude and loneliness.

Andy was cocooned in loneliness when he thought about it, too obsessed with work and single-mindedly focused on staying sober; those two aspects left him too busy to have time or room for anything else. He was a lone wolf.

Human touch. He'd forgotten it existed and how it could feel. How it could render everything else weak in comparison. How maybe there was a purpose to his life besides work.

She awoke something in him.

There was a distinct scent about her, a distinct feel to her. There was a distinct rhythm to the way he could feel the rise and fall of her chest, the way the outline of her breasts expanded into him. The almost noiseless way she had of breathing, as if she was on the point of not existing. The way she so slowly and softly turned her head and rested her cheek against his chest. He tried to savor it, tried to imprint this feeling into staying with him. It felt special to him, the epiphany it brought.

She clung to him.

He tightened his own embrace, clearing his throat before it closed completely up.

"I know a brilliant lawyer," he found himself saying, the words sounding foreign, "If you want to untangle your finances. He's a wizard, will make sure you get a good deal. Gavin Baker."

Her voice was low and a mumble against his chest, the words nonsensical.

"Separate your finances, so you can start saving up," he said, his voice soft for once, "so you can - ," he stopped. There was no point in telling her what it meant to untangle her finances from Jack's. She was well aware of what shared finances were costing her.

He treaded his hand down her head, her hair soft in his palm. It was the lightest of touches, so soft he thought it impossible.

Usually he spent his days yelling or cursing, his voice only ranging from upset to coarse. Softness was forgotten or reserved for dealing with victims. She wasn't a victim, not like that. But it was something she drew forth from him; softness.

"Stand on your own two feet," he said even if there was no need to say it.

She nodded against the chest, the motion miniscule and barely there.

There was another lump forming in his throat, moving and growing.

Her hands clutched the back of his shirt, the grip desperate and yet strong.

He tightened his arms around her.

…

Separation brought financial peace. Emotional peace however, was short-lived.

Jack came and went like a stray dog; he looked like a stray. Greyish skin on the verge of being gaunt, blotches of red that seemed more than unhealthy. It was like looking at a mirror, Andy thought. It was the same way his reflection had greeted him for many mornings before he sobered up. Back when he had been hell-bent on drinking himself into an early grave. It was a powerful reminder that sobriety had soaked him through to the bone and deeper.

Umpteenth conversations with the man only revealed further chaos. Jack was building himself a fortress of lies and deception, the façade crumbling as his outward appearance cracked. The lack of responsibility, the belief that something miraculous was just around the corner if he continued, the outright denial. There was not a lot to say, not a lot to encourage. Displaying disgust only got a laugh, trying to appeal to a better nature only gave way to insults.

Talking about his son got him even more worked up.

Sharon was an entirely different matter; that subject left a grim taste in his mouth and cast shadows in Jack's complexion.

Apparently the stray only stayed long enough to make a mess of it.

Andy was only too familiar with the aftermath, with ruination. Now he witnessed it from the other side. He was a witness to the crying; he was left with trying to clean up the mess Jack made.

Jack, however, wasn't a witness to anything. He only stayed to the point where his welcome wasn't revoked, and then he flittered off to the dark corners of the country before he could see the impact his addiction had on the people he supposedly loved. The man wouldn't wake up – no, he remained delusional and indifferent.

Andy tried his best to talk to her but he couldn't find the right words that made sense. Every word that left his mouth seemed too rehearsed, too weak – too cliché, too direct. Sometimes he was afraid she would take his words to be cruel, so instead he kept quiet.

They talked about work instead.

When they did not talk, silence was easy.

Twenty minutes of silence, sitting on her sofa and staring off into space, was too much silence. She had fled the moment the conversation had turned somber, leaving him feeling like an awkward guest in her house. At first he had thought she had simple gone to get her emotions under control. Twenty minutes was a long time, however.

He'd told her that sometimes denial was incurable.

She'd told him to mind his own business.

He found her in the kitchen, a dead look as she stared through the window into the garden, lost in her own thoughts.

"Sharon?" he ventured, cautious about disturbing her.

She practically leapt into his arms – such an uncharacteristic move that it nearly staggered him into breathlessness. He did stagger backwards, the extra weight a surprise. They swayed and he kept them balanced, his own arms around her, extra weight on his right leg to compensate.

Her hand travelled up his neck, beseeching, and the other hand rested on his belt in a way that left nothing to be misconstrued. She leaned in close, her eyes numb. He could feel her breath hot on his lips when she spoke. "I need to feel. Something. Anything."

So he fucked her.

It was like becoming lost in fire, pain and euphoria intermingled to the point where it did not matter. The scorch of touch – the burn of kisses. He had forgotten all about desire. Now it blazed through him, left him speechless. He had forgotten about love; it was hard to forget when the little seeds she had sown in his heart blossomed, roots strong and petals violent.

He fucked her well aware Jack would kill him if he ever found out. Good old Jack who never attended meetings anymore. Good old Jack who had relocated to Vegas and forgotten about the two lives he had waiting for him in LA. Good old Jack who only reappeared when he needed something. Good old Jack who had pretended to listen to Andy's stories about his own ex-wife and his daughter that he rarely saw, the struggle to not drown in the bottle – and yet good old Jack neglected his own family. Threw everything away. He and Jack were similar in many ways.

Now it was just one more thing they shared.

Sharon.

…

The next time Andy tried to reach out to her, she jerked away from his touch with wide eyes and a thin mouth.

"Don't," she said, her eyes flittering away from him.

"Don't what?"

Her laugh was hard and mirthless, "It didn't mean anything. It was grief, powerlessness. It was just sex."

Andy gritted his teeth, fisted his hands and cursed under his breath, "I know. I'm not saying otherwise, am I?"

"Good."

"Fine."

He wanted to tell her it meant the world – could mean a lot more than they gave it credit for but he had to concede she was not ready for it. She was not ready for anything. Being bitter and angry made you into something else. No, she had her little boy – she had a little life to take care of. She did not have time for love; not when it had treated her so shitty in the past.

He wished Jack would stay away for good this time, the thought dark but it was the kindest gesture the man could bestow on his family; simply stay away and stop ruining everything in his path.

"I just don't want you to think it means that - " she stopped, avoiding his gaze still.

"It means nothing," he told her, sincere even if the words sounded harsh, "it was just, you know, spur of the moment."

She nodded, skittish like an animal – ready for combat the moment you treaded wrong, ready to flee if the wrong word was said.

"Look," he said, his hands out for emphasis "I hope that we are good friends – and that's not going to change, not for me, not because we had sex. Okay."

"Okay."

"Let's just forget it happened," he offered her even if he would rather do anything but forget.

She nodded, air leaving her lungs in a sigh that sounded deflated.

It did not change the way she skirted past his touch, or avoided looking at him too long. When she finally did look, it was only guilt that slipped through the surface of her mask.

…

The boy looked healthy.

Laughed, giggled and played with his miniature police car on all available surfaces, the wheels of the toy being catapulted across Andy's legs as he sat seated on the floor, trying to comprehend how he was talked into babysitting a kid that wasn't even his own.

The boy reminded him more of Sharon than Jack, minute mouth that was carefree and happy, making noises that were more reminiscent of an animal in pain than the motion of a car. The brown mop of hair always unruly, the freckles on his cheeks that only looked adorable. The way the kid had of smiling at him – the way it tugged at his heart. The way the boy jumped into his arms without thought, without restraint, the way he expected Andy to play with him.

"Vroooom, Adee," the kid giggled at him, the car going over his foot.

"Vroom-vroom," Andy chuckled back, opting for a jovial tone.

Sharon was upstairs, sick.

The noise of retching was heavy from the closed door into the toilet when he walked past with the boy on his hip.

"Mommy's sick," the boy said, lifting his eyes to Andy as if he could somehow make it better.

"Yeah," he simply replied, blindsided by the heavy child in his arms. Blindsided by the way it felt to have a little creature tugged against him, relying on him.

He couldn't do this again.

He would have to tell her. It was too much agony.

He did tell her later on. He watched her curled up in her bed under covers, her skin too flushed and her hair flat and greasy. Her eyes with a film of fever and her words sleepy.

"It's too much. It only reminds me of," he stopped, his voice cracking. When he was sure he had control of his own voice, he continued, "I rarely see my own kid, by my own design I know but I can't see yours, not like this. I can't babysit, okay. It hurts too much. Okay." He felt like the biggest idiot for telling her, for sharing his torment, "I'm sorry."

She only nodded, apparently understanding.

"I'm so sorry," he said again.

"It's alright," she croaked, "I'll make do."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, feeling lost.

"Andy, it's fine. It's not your responsibility."

…

They drifted apart and yet they drifted closer. To be miles apart and yet too close for comfort; it was a strange world.

Andy relocated to robbery/homicide, lieutenant to add to his resumé, replacing his cruiser with a tatty Crown Vic, siren built in the civilian car. There was a different atmosphere to a squad – stretches of time where he worked even more than when he had been on patrol. Cases that would last weeks and weeks and saw him avoiding sleeping more than a couple of hours, working overtime. The new career brought a different, more heightened sense of accomplishment. A more intense rush of being able to nail the bastards and to bring some kind of relief to the victims.

She transferred to internal affairs shortly after his own promotion, likewise awarded with the title of lieutenant.

They celebrated the raise in rank with furtive glances when they crossed paths.

Vague looks that no one knew what meant.

They met up for coffee, sometimes and without any clear schedule.

He still found himself fascinated by her lips and the color she chose to paint them in. He was fascinated by her fingers around the coffee cup, the way they sometimes tapped out a mysterious rhythm on the table, not impatient but waiting. The sound of her voice, low and throaty - intimate.

Andy was more fascinated with those times where her lips landed on his, fastened with zeal and vigor. The intense wait, the tension that hung between them, simmering like high voltage in the air. It was an invisible buzz, her eyes lifting from the coffee cup and landing on his. The secret smile. The fingers that changed rhythm. The legs that uncrossed and crossed, the air of her foot near his ankle.

He pressed kisses from her mouth to her neck, reverent and entranced, pressing her into the walls of the small toilet, able to feel the way she raked her nails down his back, going under his shirt.

He ruined more than his fair share of nylon hoses.

Her fingers left his skin tingling, her lips left his flesh aflame and his heart soared at ridiculously high altitudes. It was impossible to catch it again, to get it down to more sensible heights. It had a mind of its own.

It just sorta happened.

They never talked much about it.

He couldn't tell her how she changed his life.

He couldn't bare his soul when he knew that in return she would crumble.

…

Life moved on and while some things changed others remained static.

It was only in hindsight Andy recognized the path – and where it inevitably led.

She was clumsy when it came to anything electrical and he was half afraid she would up electrocuting herself, no sense about outlets and voltage. It was okay; fixing electrical cords for a new lamp in her living room was easy.

He didn't trust her with a hammer, and so fixing her porch where the wood had rotted away was easy. He simply replaced it with a new plank of wood, the pale hue a remnant on her porch for a long time. Pale until the assault of rain and sun blemished the plank until it began to look like the surrounding old planks of wood.

She left him alone to do it and he soaked up the silence of working in a slow tranquil tempo. To himself he could admit that this was a thing he could get used to.

In the background he could hear voice and that of her boy. Playing. Laughing. Happy – only because they were alone and Jack had been absent for a long time now.

It was temptation to listen to them, he knew, to help her this much. It sounded so serene. It sounded so beguiling. So warm. He could not say no.

So, really, what was wrong with helping her fix the pipes when the sink in the kitchen stopped working?

What was wrong with fixing her up with an old lawn mower his neighbor had meant to throw out? The time he spent on fixing it and making it presentable more than rewarding when she smiled.

He found out exactly what was wrong with aligning his life with hers; he found out precisely what was the consequence of making love to her in the dark of her bedroom.

"I'm pregnant," she told him at work, out of the corner of her mouth, arms crossed and an expression that could have been built out of stone.

Andy only stared.

…

The first time Andy saw the papers they had been signed for months and sent back and forth to a vast variety of odd places in California, always coming back to her with a 'return to sender'. She admitted this to him with a sheepish expression. None of the addresses she had for her elusive separated husband were current it turned out; he wondered why she had spent the good part of five months trying to get divorced without letting him in on it.

He on the other hand had been too preoccupied to notice it. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her, couldn't stop touching her stomach. He needed to read up on parenting, and he dredged himself through book after book even if reading wasn't his strong suit. They needed a new crib. They needed clothes. The bathroom was in dire need of a renovation. Ricky needed his own room. Maybe they should get a little garden out in the back? – a greenhouse?

She was calm whereas he was the opposite.

Deep down it was rooted in the mistakes he had made in the past.

He had a kid and yet he had never mastered the art of having a kid; it was a dilemma slowly eating him up.

So when she finally showed him the divorce papers, he shrugged and said he would take care of it. She hesitated for a second, wary he knew. He promised to go about it smoothly, happy she trusted him with it.

Andy made damn sure Jack got the papers. The man was easier to find than he had thought. Las Vegas PD was more than helpful when he flashed his badge and told them it was about someone evading child support. It wasn't a lie. They tracked Jack down within a day. Andy made sure the papers were signed. He made sure they were filed.

It wasn't out of a misguided idea that she would be free to marry him. He wasn't planning on marriage, and he knew she wasn't either. They had never talked about it explicitly but it was understood. Living together was enough – raising kids were enough. It was about her, exclusively. She deserved to be free. Freedom came at the prize of cutting loose what was pulling her down. The papers had apparently been lying in her desk, unsigned, for years now.

She had been talking about divorce for some time now, however inconspicuously she went about putting it into conversations.

Jack was in a bar, the casino full as night fell.

Andy eased in next to the man, sitting down on a bar chair and leaning his elbows on the counter.

He didn't tell Jack about the pregnancy – did not tell him that Sharon looked beautiful with a round protruding belly nor that there was a glow in her skin. That she laughed as freely as her little boy – that she was capable of laughing without restraint or sadness. That she had made lieutenant, earned a medal. None of it had any bearing and Jack would misunderstand.

Andy did not tell Jack that he loved her dearly.

He put the papers onto the bar, slid them toward the man.

"You are not an easy man to find, Jack," he remarked.

Jack shrugged with a smile. The smile wavered when he looked at the papers.

"I suppose it was just a matter of time, hmm," the man stated.

"She needs this," Andy told him, Jack nodding, "She will be alright, okay."

"I know. I wish I could give the papers to her in person," Jack admitted, "but I'm too much of a coward."

Andy remained impassive even if it was a statement that for once was true.

"I know she's pregnant," Jack told him, his lips on the tumbler in his hands. He sipped the whiskey, "I don't blame you buddy." The voice was bittersweet.

The words left Andy flustered.

…

Father of three, arguable one of them wasn't his by blood but still.

It was a facet of life he had never imagined.

It was a precious gift.

Reconnecting was hard, even more so in between the changing of diapers and trying to juggle an infant, a crying boy who wasn't getting enough attention and a sour older girl who wasn't sure about her father's new family. It was tough, sleep-depriving. Cutting down hours at work and then slipping in a little overtime to compensate. Sick days when the kids were sick. Coming to work with food stains on his shirt or suit, only noticing it when someone pointed it out.

It was a new experience, so very novel and enlightening.

Sharon made it all seem so easy.

She made a lot of things seem easy. She made the notion of love seem easy. With a simple touch or a simple word she could make it seem easy to love him. It astounded him, still.

Ricky quietened down, satisfied when his mother pulled him close with one arm, her hand running through the boy's tresses. Nicole leaned closer, uncertainty disappearing when Sharon started recounting the fairy tale, book open in her lap. If only life was as easy as telling a story, he thought.

It was a lot easier to leave the three captivated by the story on the sofa, the little baby boy in his arms that definitely needed a change of diapers, squealing and wriggling in his arms. The little one quieted down when Andy laid him on the changing table. He ended up chuckling because that was a lot of goo for such a tiny creature.

Sharon eased his fears easily. Residual fragments of guilt she blew away the same way she would blow him a teasing kiss over breakfast, two kids and an infant capable of making quite a mess in the kitchen.

She made it possible to connect with his little girl.

The ability to have such an open heart was a striking feature to her – it was a powerful engine and he told her this, the low light of one nightstand lamp turning shadows soft in the bedroom. His voice flowed soft in much the same way her touch was soft. He confided quite a lot to her in the warm comfort of their bedroom, enlightened in what it meant to share. To share touch, to share kisses, to share thoughts that wandered and came back again.

She whispered endearments back, the warmth and confidence of her voice a heavy anchor.

He was anchored to life.

…

The first time Jackson Raydor returned from the land of the lost, it created quite the stir in the household. Too much time had passed and where Ricky barely remembered his father, not enough time had passed for Sharon. Andy was able to impart a bit of calmness into the storm.

"Go ahead, kiddo," he reassured Ricky, his smile warm as he looked at the gangly teenager and ushered him inside the restaurant. The boy was uncertain, and it was something that Andy only understood too well. He was a bit apprehensive himself. He did not want his boy to get hurt.

"We can go home if I want to, right?" Ricky asked him again.

"It's your show," Andy nodded, his hand out to the boy's shoulders. His eyes however, landed on Jack.

He could not deny the man a chance at reconnecting; that would be sheer hypocrisy. That did not mean Andy was ready to welcome the man into his son's life with open arms.

"Hey Richard," Jack said his smile ever wide as if it hadn't been nearly a decade since he had seen his own son. The smile covered nervousness well. It covered a multitude of things, all of which Andy easily depicted.

The man had changed and then not.

"Hello," Ricky said, polite as he scurried a bit closer to Andy.

"Jack."

"Andy."

The atmosphere wasn't tense. It was awkward and vulnerable.

Andy scrutinized the man from top to toe, mindful of every little sign that betrayed what went on in the life of Jack. The man had gained weight around the midsection, quite a lot of it, and yet limbs were narrow. The red color of his skin looked overwhelmed, the cheeks pudgy. The man's hands shook but Andy contributed that to the fact that the man was afraid of rejection and not showing signs of withdrawal. It was the one condition that made a meeting possible; sobriety.

Andy directed them to a table, his hand once again guiding Ricky.

They spent a long time perusing menu cards, inordinately long.

Conversation flowed but it was with poignant pauses here and there, the lulls easier to ignore once they could ascribe silence to consuming lunch.

Jack asked Ricky a lot of questions, rearranging utensils as he waited for answers. How's school? What grade are you in? You play football? No. Any sport? The simplest little questions; it put Ricky somewhat at ease and the boy answered, a smile in between.

Andy nodded along, happy the man had listened. Just keep it easy and not too complicated. Ask easy questions, the simple stuff. What's your favorite subject in school? Things like that. There was no need to blindside the boy with the past and the truth of alcoholics at the very first meeting. They were not going to rush into it.

No, Jack kept it simple and somewhat jovial.

It ended with a handshake and the promise of a next time.

Ricky was silent on the drive home, fiddling with his seat belt in such a way that Andy couldn't help but smile fondly. It was the same thing Sharon had done when he had driven her to work this very morning, fiddling and silent to the point of deafening.

"So, what do you think?" he asked the boy.

Ricky shrugged, and then passively reflected the question back, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think," Andy started, careful to not say too much, "I think it went well – considering everything."

Ricky looked out the window, his face being hidden.

"I guess so," the kid breathed.

It was a fragile ground to walk on.

"Listen, Ricky," Andy said, slowing the car down so he had more freedom to talk, "Meeting your father was up to you, and meeting him again is still up to you. There is no pressure from me or your mother," he paused, his hand briefly out to squeeze the kids knee, "The only thing I want for you is to know I love you, very much, no matter what."

"I know, dad," the kid looked over his shoulder, an embarrassed smile that wasn't really embarrassed.

"Good," Andy smiled.

"I barely remember the man," Ricky confided.

Which was probably a good thing, Andy thought. Instead he nodded, "How about taking it one step at a time, see how it goes. You know, sometime forgiveness is a good thing."

"Yeah," the kid replied.

After a beat of silence, the kid piped up, "I love you too."

…

It was hardly the first time internal affairs caused problems.

It was hardly the first time or the last time people would assume Andy could do something about.

Andy just crossed his arms and listened patiently, his back against the white board and his view out over the squad room of what was now Priority Homicide. It never stopped to amuse him the talent Sharon had for pissing off more than her fair share of detectives. Internal affairs were never that well-liked whether you asked people in LA or New York; it was the nature of their division. What most never bothered to get to know however, was the person behind the job.

"Well Flynn, you are practically married to her," lieutenant Provenza, newly appointed to Priority Homicide, told him with a scowl, "can't you tell her to butt out. What's the purpose of sleeping with internal affairs if you can't get her off our backs? Huh."

Andy rolled his eyes at the old geezer and the comment.

It wasn't a secret but then again it wasn't something everyone was aware of. Sharon flourished in internal affairs with natural flair, like the fiery life of a flower in ripe blossom. She enjoyed her work, and Andy enjoyed the fact that she was happy.

Andy had his own disagreements with the head of F.I.D, an inordinate amount of them in private. They rarely took their disagreements into the public but it happened that every other blue moon would see them in the corridor or a squad room, or behind the covers of an office, raising their voices to the point where it was classified as yelling.

The few times it happened he always ended up sleeping on the couch. A couple of days on a lumpy couch, his back groaning, Sharon faring no better with sleeping by herself, the issues somehow always resolved themselves.

No, in public he made damn sure he had her back, no matter what. It wasn't easy being responsible for policing the police, he knew that and tried to keep it in mind when she stepped on his toes professionally.

Apparently the younger ones, and the newcomers, hadn't a clue about his relationship with internal affairs. The new deputy chief, the blonde one from Atlanta, gave him a scrutinizing look.

Andy smiled, "We live together, yes. We have three children. But no, we're not married and for the life of me, I wouldn't be able to get the Commander off my back if I tried. And if you think I would go behind her back to get you guys out of a simple OIS, then you are seriously a lot thicker than I thought. When it comes to internal affairs and the jurisdiction of an OIS, you're on your own, Provenza. Sorry, boys -," he saluted the deputy chief, "Ma'am."

"Well, thank yew," she threw back at him, a lifted eyebrow, "Thank yew, anyway Captain Flynn."

Andy stalked back to robbery/homicide.

At least he did not have to deal with this new squad all the time. At least he could vent to Sharon about this brand new squad commandeering all his cases and walking on everyone's toes, expecting him to clear up their mess when other divisions complained.

He had enough to do on his own.

…

"Will you please stop fretting?"

"I can't help it."

It was the first time he was walking his little girl down the aisle to her would-be husband. The notion was absurd to him.

Sharon stood before him, her hands on his tie. She righted it for the fifteenth time. He was not the only one in a state of needless fretting. She stood up on tiptoe and gave his cheek a quick kiss, "It's going to be beautiful. There's nothing to worry about. Once the whole thing gets started, you will see."

"I guess," he breathed.

She raised an eyebrow, "You are fishing rather spectacularly."

He pretended not to know what she talked about.

It was an old game.

Somehow they never got bored of it.

She rested her hand on his cheek, her palm warm and her eyes persuasive. "You went through this whole fretting phase every time one of our children flew from the nest. Unnecessary you see, they still talk to you."

He shook his head with a laugh but let her continue,

"You fretted unnecessarily when I got promoted to Major Crimes."

"Only because I know how utter moronic that division is."

"Shush, they are more than competent, Captain."

"Whatever you say, Commander."

"There's no need to be nervous about today. At all."

It was as easy as that, his smile a bit more wide and his eyes exclusively on her. She was beautiful – stunning in every aspect.

Andy leaned down, captured her lips in a slow kiss. Too slow for church definitely. Too slow for anywhere but a bedroom he reckoned. It didn't change the fact; he wanted to kiss her senseless.

She hummed and laughed when they finally broke apart.

"Do you ever regret -," he stopped the question as rapidly as he had asked it. It startled him. It was unexpected, and it was not what he had meant to say to her.

"Do I ever regret what?" she asked softly, patting the front of his chest, looking up at him with a warm look.

"You know," he chuckled nervously, "us two not getting hitched."

She laughed, "Heavens no." She instantly looked somber, "Do you?"

"Not in the least," he smiled, and caught her by the waist, "It wouldn't change a thing. I enjoy being unlawful with you, here in a church nonetheless."

She playfully slapped his chest before her lips protruded into a request for another kiss.

This time it was soft and he could tell she was fretting about the ceremony as well, her hands smoothing down over the labels of his suit jacket for the twentieth time now.

"Damn, I can't be a grandfather already," Andy mock-belabored when they broke apart, "I'm too young."

She laughed, "Oh, honey. That's a fixed deal."

He grinned and brought her closer to him, sneaking his hands down to the small of her spine.

She only raised her eyebrow when he grabbed her ass.

"Ewww."

"Seriously."

"C'mon."

There was a lot to be said for a unison of feigned disgust from two grown sons and a teenaged foster kid.

Andy grimaced, his eyes on the three boys in the doorway that led into the church and the rows of benches, the altar at the end.

Sharon tugged at his tie one last time, an absent but warm kiss to the corner of his mouth and then she herded her boys out, shaking her head and telling them in a no nonsense voice how impolite it was to express their aversion to shows of affections – not to mention interrupting an adult conversation.

Her hand lingered briefly near the shoulder of their foster kid, the lightest of touches. Rusty kept more to her side than usually. It was a big spectacle to be drawn into Andy agreed with the boy, a lot of people the kid didn't know.

Thankfully, Sharon eased the boy's anxieties with a simple smile.

The same way she eased his.

…

Finito.