Story: Major Crimes: Nightmares

Characters: Sharon & Rusty

Rating: K+ for angst/comfort

Summary: Rusty's sleep turns sour after facing his father and Sharon is awakened one night by his nightmares. Reminded of her own two sons, Sharon's compassion for Rusty's predicament grows, her mothering instinct resurfacing.

Moi: I love Major Crimes and I love the character of Rusty which puts me in very much the minority. I grieve for him, for the life he's had to lead, and I'm so happy that Sharon's heart is open to such compassion. This takes place after 1.7 and depending on what happens with Rusty's dad in the next episode, may or may not apply to tv-verse. Also, yes, I know I made Sharon Catholic. But why else would she send him to a Catholic school is my argument? So there. I hope you enjoy.

It is just a one-shot and if it goes over well I might consider writing more. I'd like to see Rusty deliberately pushing Buzz's buttons, something he loves to do and something I find amusing.

The first time it happened Sharon wasn't sure even sure what had happened, half roused between sleep and wakefulness that it could have been the result of a dream. The sound was so pitiable and terrified. It couldn't have come from Rusty's room. Still, after tugging on a raggedy bathrobe over a pristine pair of silk pajamas and grappling for her glasses, she trudged down the hall, stepping lightly. The nightlight was on in the bathroom, casting a circular glow of comfort that bled out into the hallway.

Knowing it to be a great invasion of Rusty's privacy Sharon hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. They were doing better, the two of them. He was starting to act less like a foster child and more like her child. Oh, the bickering was still there but an undercurrent of humor usually colored his words now. Not that she would ever tell him, but it warmed her heart, knowing he was comfortable enough to treat her, well, like a mom.

The door creaked as she pushed and Sharon winced, silently reminding herself to get it oiled. Rusty's blinds were open enough to let in a bit of moonlight. He had the covers shoved almost all the way down to his feet and for a moment Sharon feared he was actually awake, the way he faced the door. But after a small shudder and an attempt to bat at an invisible assailant, Rusty flopped over onto his other side, curling tightly into himself.

Sharon froze with her hand still on the knob. Even from her position several feet away she could see the droplets of sweat beading in Rusty's hair, drenching his pajama top. She could see the taut muscles of his shoulders, as if he were mentally preparing himself for something . . . something she preferred not to consider.

There was that noise again, low and keening and so very, very alone.

Sharon's heart broke at the sound and she crossed the threshold into his room. With the most careful of footsteps she approached his bed, hesitating before situating herself on the edge. It was an expensive mattress so it barely gave under her weight and Rusty didn't stir. Sitting there, looking at him, Sharon felt the familiar compassion she had always experienced whenever her two boys went through troubles at school or with friends. They never knew she would step into their rooms at night and, due to her good Catholic upbringing, say a few prayers over them.

Rusty would scoff at her faith, she knew, and so with eyes fixed on the back of his head she prayed silently. Losing track of time, Sharon stayed until Rusty's body started to relax. Finally he settled back into a peaceful sleep. Standing, she reached for the covers at the foot of the bed, carefully drawing them up the length, hoping his sleep was as sound as it seemed. He didn't stir and once the covers were tucked securely around him, Sharon tiptoed from the room, pulling the door closed behind her, managing to avoid any creaking this time.

It happened two or three times a week now. Sharon's only rationalization of it was Rusty's encounter with his father. He had so bravely faced his fears and looked the man in the eye, just as she'd hoped he would. But he'd also run and Sharon knew why he'd done that too. It wasn't easy. The notion of living with a man the same age as those who'd molested him, the very concept wasn't easy for Rusty and Sharon knew it.

So every time those nightmares and memories raised their hideous heads, Sharon would leave her bed and sit beside him, quietly praying for him to find peace. Sometimes, the dreams were particularly vicious. His trembling just wouldn't stop and he whimpered in his sleep, rooting around just a little in an attempt to find release from his terror. That was when she'd first broken the barrier and touched him.

Pausing for a moment to consider possible repercussions, Sharon finally stretched out her hand. She had never touched Rusty before, not when his eyes begged for a hug while his stance remained off-putting. Now he was so helpless. Just as with her boys Sharon let her hand rest oh, so lightly on Rusty's head. His hair, though soft, was lightly tacky with the gel he used. But she stroked her fingers through it anyway. A lullaby came to mind and she hummed, just softly, not loud enough to awaken him. Rusty's reaction was so immediate it was as if he melted into the mattress. The hyperventilating breaths slowed, body uncurling from itself, mind letting go of whatever monsters plagued him.

Sharon had never once envisioned herself playing mother again. But it was a role she found she had missed. Despite the heartaches and the little annoyances, Rusty had proven a blessing to her. So, for as long as he needed she would sit by him silently in the night, keeping watchcare over him. As a mother.

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