A/N: Spoilers for 8x15 in case you haven't seen it yet. So after the episode ended last night, I just started typing and that resulted in this little one shot that takes place after Brett went to her birth mother's house and got the door slammed in her face. This is Brett and Casey on their way back to Chicago.

Happy reading!

Angellwings

Reach Out

by angellwings

"You pull the stars down,

I just have to reach out,

And you make the mountains,

Easier to get around."

-"Pull the Stars Down" by Lucie Silvas

He's been thinking too much about Brett lately.

Okay, for longer than just 'lately' but that's besides the point. The point is, she takes up more and more of his head every week. He's always known her to be brave and good hearted — always admired that actually — but before it was a fleeting acknowledgement. Now, it's...repetitive.

And detailed. It's no longer thoughts in broad strokes like 'Sylvie Brett is a good paramedic' or 'Sylvie Brett is a good person'. No, it's more like 'how is it possible for someone's smile to be that powerfully sunny?', 'why does she fiddle with her watchband when she's nervous?', or 'when exactly did he learn to read her face like an open book?'

That last one, by the way, is going to be the death of him. Something in his chest (his heart, possibly?) squeezes when her eyes go distant and that tiny crinkle forms between her brows. He's fairly certain if he ever ignores it he'll experience rapid heart failure. For the sake of his physical health and her emotional well being, he cannot walk away from her when she looks that way. She looks haunted and Sylvie Brett, of all people, doesn't deserve to be haunted.

Not that he can put a stop to that even when he tries. The road trip to see her birth mother has turned out to be a disaster. She's been staring out the window with a dejected face for at least twenty five minutes and he has no idea what to say or do to help.

He spots a sign on the side of the road. The bright colors catch his eye first and then the images those colors frame come into focus. He debates his options for a split second before impulsively taking the exit.

Sylvie sits up and gives him a curious glance. "Where are we going?"

"Lunch," he replies simply.

"I'm not really very hungry," she informs him with a glum expression. "What I want is to go home and forget this ever happened."

"Come on, we've gotta eat," he says with a small pleading smile. "We can get it to go and eat it in the truck if you want."

The corner of her mouth pulls upward and she gives him a fond glance, as if she's fighting off a smile. "I'm not gonna make you eat in the truck," she tells him with a sound that's equal parts chuckle and scoff. "I appreciate the offer, but we can go inside."

He parks the truck outside of a small roadside diner.

Sylvie heaves a tired sigh as he cute the engine. Her eyes flick to him and then down to the seatbelt release. She speaks as she reaches to unbuckle herself.

"Thank you for coming all the way out here with me, Casey. Even if it turned out to be a huge waste of time."

His brow furrows and his lips press together in a tense line. He rubs a hand across his jaw and debates how to reply. He hates that today turned out the way it did. He knows she got her hopes up and, to be honest, he's more than a little pissed at this woman who came out of nowhere and messed with Brett's head like this. What was the point of searching her out if this is how it was going to go? Could the woman have written down the wrong address? And why just a name and address? He's confused and frustrated enough on her behalf. He can't imagine how this all must be affecting her.

"Not a waste of time," he states firmly. "You don't have to sit around and worry about what might have happened anymore. As much as it sucks, at least now you know."

She bites her bottom lip and considers his words. Eventually, she huffs and rolls her eyes. "I guess. But I don't understand why she even bothered after all this time—No, you know what? I'm done. I'm not gonna think about this anymore. Let's just get lunch and go."

He motions toward the restaurant as his concerned eyes focus on her. "I know we're already here but we really don't have to—"

"No, you're right. We should eat. I—" she pauses a beat and takes a deep breath before aiming a weak attempt at a smile at him. "I was too nervous to eat breakfast and a girl can't live off of coffee alone, right?"

He nods as she reaches for the door handle and then follows her out of the truck. The small restaurant has a sign that tells them to seat themselves. Sylvie picks a booth in the back and once they're seated he sees a small stand up menu on the table full of the items that caught his attention on the road.

He smirks and slides the menu over to her. She gives him a curious look before picking it up and then grins at the list.

"So, that's why you wanted to stop here?" She asks, finally flashing him that powerful sunny smile he can't stop thinking about.

It reaches her eyes and causes the blue in her irises to lighten a shade or two. He unwillingly finds himself filing that fascinating phenomenon away for the future.

Her glance turns amused and grateful as she continues. "You brought me here for ice cream?"

"It was ice cream or alcohol and we're a little far away from Molly's so…" his sentence trails off and he shrugs modestly.

She laughs quietly and nods. "Thank you. Ice cream will definitely help. That was a good call."

He leans back in the booth and watches her for a moment. He thinks about that story she told him on the drive over — about imagining her birth parents were royalty. It was a sweet story and picturing a young Sylvie Brett with a princess crown and a toothy grin is one of the easiest things he's ever done. It just makes sense. He can tell she feels his eyes on her as she looks over the menu. She fidgets nervously, bringing her fingers to her watch band. He drags his eyes away and down, to his own menu. He's not sure what thought inspires his next words but the image of a tiny Sylvie somehow lures the words right off his tongue.

"My mom used to take me out for ice cream after any mildly disappointing event as a kid," he tells her. "Got beaned with a baseball once at a little league game, right in the eye, and we lost. And I remember the game, sure. The ice cream didn't heal the black eye or erase the fact that I couldn't hit a ball to save my life that day. But...it's not the first thing that comes to mind when I think about that day. The first thing I remember is my mom. Joking around, breaking the ice. Doing her best to cheer me up." He looks up again and meets Sylvie's eyes with a look that he's sure reflects the nostalgia that he feels. He's never been good at hiding how his childhood affects him. It's why he never talks about it. "It turned a horrible day into a fond memory. So, I don't know, I thought…I mean I know this isn't the same as a little league game, but…"

She picks up his thought where he left off without missing a beat. "You thought it might help me too."

He carelessly lifts one shoulder, even if the gesture doesn't feel careless, and grins softly at her. "Worth a shot, right?"

Her expression tells him she knows exactly how uncommon that moment was for him. It also assured him that she understands what that means for how much he trusts her. It's implicit in every word of that story and every ghost of his childhood on his face. He doesn't talk about his parents to just anyone.

"Well," she begins with a look of sincere gratitude. "If the ice cream doesn't lift my spirits then the picture in my head of a young Matt Casey decked out for a little league game certainly will. Really and truly, Casey. Thank you. For coming today and for bringing me here. I appreciate it more than you know."

He waves off her thanks with a dismissive hand. "You could have handled all of this without me. I feel honored you let me come."

"True," she agrees. "I could have handled it alone, but…" She sucks in a shaky breath and blinks rapidly. Likely blinking away tears, he thinks. His heart lurches in his chest. "I'm glad I didn't have to."

His eyes fall to her hands as they rest on the table in front of her. He debates whether or not to listen to his instincts but quickly decides to go with it. They've rarely steered him wrong.

He reaches across the table and covers her hand with his, squeezing gently, as he makes a solemn promise — to himself and to her. "Anytime, Sylvie. Really. If you need someone, I'm there."