A/N: This is a repost of one of my stories from Ao3. I'm going to move them all over here eventually, I'm just spacing them out. Apologies if you're hankering for something new from me...I promise I haven't forgotten about the next chapter of "Resilient," it's in progress.
This was the very first Major Crimes story I actually posted. It wasn't the first I'd written, but it was the first I felt good enough about to put out there. It's firmly AU now, you'll notice references to things that never happened and things that eventually did happen that seemed fairly unlikely at the time. I think I wrote this during season 4, in the hiatus before "Hindsight." So consider it a stroll down memory lane, back to a time when we were all less cynical and salt-shriveled.
Stuck in traffic with Sharon one evening, Andy spins the ongoing saga of Provenza and Patrice and the Perfect Wedding Venue that Doesn't Exist. Over the last four months, he's had to hear complaint upon complaint, piled on every time he was in a car with Provenza. He's obliged to pass it on in a more entertaining way.
"So," Andy winds up the story, "it's this massive disaster waiting to happen. I'm not sure why they're letting themselves be driven crazy with all this"
We wouldn't be like that . The idea is both unwelcome and true. He has resolved not to draw these parallels until Provenza is hitched and other undetermined criteria have been met.
"Speaking of 'all that' and being driven crazy," Sharon says, frowning at a hatchback trying to wedge itself in front of her Charger, "have you thought about what you'll say in your speech at the reception?"
"What speech?" He blinks at her. "I have to give a speech?"
She holds the brake, letting the other car into the flow of traffic. "You're the best man. That's how it works." She glances at him from the corner of her eye, conveying her disbelief. "Haven't you ever noticed that?"
How the hell had Provenza not mentioned that this best man gig required a speech? "I can't say I've been to a lot of weddings," he mumbles, "or ever paid much attention to the ones I went to."
At the last one, for example, this very woman blindsided him with the amount of charm she conceals like a secret. The spatter of freckles across her shoulders and the warmth of her smile distracted him. He became a little too invested in making her laugh, something he still hasn't found his way out of . The quandary of asking her to dance consumed his attention. Once he'd figured that part out, he puzzled over how best to phrase it , wanting to avoid making the whole thing weird.
Near the end of the evening she'd rendered his worrying moot by grasping his wrist and towing him out to the dance floor.
Sharon has a knack for knowing when to act. She also has a knack for reading people. He's been at her side for enough interrogations to recognize when she's locked in. "Andy, it isn't as if you're afraid of public speaking."
He slumps further into his seat. "Depends on the topic."
"Ah, I see," she says, her voice tinged with recognition.
The traffic inches ahead in its neverending way. Andy pulls his phone from his jacket, mimicking Rusty's method for answering difficult questions. "Siri, how do I give a best man speech?"
He grins as the wonders of technology fill his screen with results. From the driver's seat comes an incredulous, "Oh my God."
"Don't judge, Sharon. There are thousands of hits."
"Oh I'm sure there are," she smiles, sly, "given the best man is usually a man ."
"Oof. I'd take offense if you didn't have a point." He holds up his phone. "Hey, there's even pre-written speeches here!"
She peeks at the screen. "Do you really want to give a canned speech?"
Seems like a no-brainer. "If it'll do the trick, yeah." She shakes her head in response, eyes fixed forward.
He scrolls through the results, tapping through several options and scanning them for promise. "Oh, here we go. Okay: 'Firstly I'd just like to say I'm very nervous about making this speech. In fact this must be the third time today I've stood up from a warm seat with pieces of paper in my hand.'" He chuckles. "That's pretty good."
In one swift movement, she yanks the phone out of his grip and tosses it on the backseat. Her eyes never leave the traffic surrounding them. But she smirks, so it can't be too bad. He captures her hand on its way back to the steering wheel.
"So that's a 'no,' then?"
"You'll need to come up with something for grown-ups."
He lolls his head against the seat. "How am I supposed to do that?"
"How, indeed," she says, squeezing his hand.
"So," Andy says, leaning over a yellow legal pad on the kitchen island, "I've been working on my speech."
The spring lull gifts them with a work-free weekend. They spend it catching up on neglected chores and making time for the small luxuries of normal people. Time stretches with a morning wandering the farmers' market, a hike up to the Observatory, lunch at one of those pretentious outdoor cafes in Silver Lake. On Sunday evening, they putter around the kitchen, preparing pasta and salad and waiting for Rusty to show up for dinner.
At the stove, Sharon's mouth quirks into a knowing grin. She lifts the lid off a simmering pot. "Hmm. How's it going?"
"I think I have some good stuff. It's a start, anyway."
She stirs the sauce and returns the spoon to its rest, then turns and leans back into the counter. "Okay, let's hear it."
"Well I," he fumbles for an excuse, but has to settle for a lowering of expectation. "It's a rough draft."
She gives him a long nod, her eyes sparkling. "I understand."
"Okay." Andy clears his throat and holds up the notepad. "I've known Provenza for fifteen years, and in this time he's had plenty of goals . Going to a Dodgers World Series game, outlasting his entire Academy class, avoiding desk duty, avoiding working too hard in general."
The last line earns a laugh, so he continues, "And in that time, I've known him to complain, with truly impressive breadth, about his five other marriages. Hardly a case goes by without hearing something new about one of his ex-wives."
He glances up to find Sharon's eyes narrowed just enough to give him pause. "And, uh, everyone who knows him knows that he's not hurting for material. For all his ambitions, I've never known them to include getting re-married - What?"
As he read the last few sentences, Sharon lowered her head incrementally until she was staring at him over the frames of her glasses. Now she closes her eyes for a long moment and restores her posture with a few slow shakes of her head, as if she's trying to wipe his words from her memory. Her expression softens, verging on pity.
"Honey, you can't say that," she waves her hand toward his legal pad, "about the marriages. At all."
"Why not?"
"Because the goal here isn't to embarrass your partner."
"You'd be embarrassed if I said this?"
"No," Sharon glances downward, her cheeks pinkening, "Provenza."
"Oh. That partner."
She taps her fingernails on the island countertop on her way to the fridge. "This is supposed to be a toast, not a roast."
"It can't be a little of both?"
"It can be…" she trails off, distracted by the contents of the crisper drawer. Her tone indicates a marked preference for the 'toast' side of the equation.
"But it shouldn't be, that's what you're saying."
"This might not be the right audience for the humor you usually dish out, that's all."
"What if I don't have the words for that kind of audience?"
"Are you telling me you don't know what to say?" She pauses in opening a bag of carrots, fixing him with a curious look. "Has that ever happened before?"
Almost a month later, Andy sits at the dining room table, head in hands, staring down at lined yellow paper. Eight crossed-out sentences and an uncapped pen mock him from below. He's been at it for too long, staring, writing, scratching out, starting over. Sharon spends the evening at her desk, wrapping up paperwork and pretending not to be amused by his struggle.
Eventually her footsteps trail across the living room. The kitchen faucet swishes on, then off again; the ignition on the stove clicks five times and lights with a faint puff. Sounds of an evening ritual, the end of another day when he couldn't string together a few decent words to say.
Since he has an audience, he drops his right hand and picks up the pen. A helping of platitude bullshit travels from his brain to his hand to ink on the page: Companionship is an important part of life .
He pauses, reads, considers where the words flow from here, finds nothing but a brick wall. He pulls the pen across the page twice, with a heavy hand, obscuring the words.
From across the table, Sharon half-sighs, half laughs his name. He doesn't need to see her to know that she's rolling her eyes, exasperated. He does, though, just time to to catch the end of the gesture and the deliberate way she crosses her arms when she's loaded down with things to say.
"This is impossible."
She tilts her head, an indulgent grin quirking her lips. "It's not. You're just making it that way."
He picks up the pad only to toss it back onto the table, letting it slide to the center of the polished surface. "A week left. I have nothing."
He has nothing but a pad of paper with most of its pages folded back. It's filled with half-thoughts too flippant or too saccharine to get his point across without making everyone wonder whether he's been possessed. A week left and he's sifted through every idea rattling around in his head, finding himself left with not much beyond a pile of dirt.
He pokes at his most recent attempt. "I don't even have a first line."
"Well," she draws the word out, placating, "you don't need to start with the first line."
"How am I gonna put together an entire speech if I can't get the first line?" It's less a question than a summary of the past month.
"It's not the State of the Union, Andy-"
"Well, it is kind of the state of a union…"
She fights the smile, twisting her mouth against it. But it breaks through anyway, her eyes flitting upward as it does. Victory. "Regardless. You're overthinking it."
"I'm not cut out for this. He should've had Mike do it-"
She scoffs. "As if you wouldn't have been upset if he'd chosen Mike."
"Well I would've understood the practical value of that choice." Her eyes narrow at this, so he amends, "Eventually. I would've understood eventually."
The kettle whistles. Sharon tosses a skeptical, "Mhmm," over her shoulder as she goes back into the kitchen.
He pulls the pad back into place, the short side of it aligned with the edge of the table. The long lines of ink taunt him again. He flips to another fresh page. He takes in its blankness. He rests his forehead on it.
"Maybe you should just-" she bites off the rest of the sentence. When he looks up, she's holding the kettle and frowning into middle distance.
"Wing it?" He asks, incredulous.
"Never mind." She shakes her head. "That's a terrible idea."
He groans and rests his head back against the paper.
"You just need to do it, Andy."
"I know." His voice is muted by the pad, and he can't bring himself to care. This situation has forced pride to leave him behind.
"It's an honor." Her voice draws closer, back to the table.
"I know."
"And Provenza is counting on you."
"Ugh, fine." He sits up, grabs the pen again.
She stands next to him, cupping her mug in both hands. "You can do it. You're the only one who can."
For a pep talk, it's not doing much to calm the tension in his gut. "I get it-" She silences him with a hand on his shoulder and an odd look. "What?"
"One might say," she breaks with a premature giggle and has to regroup before finishing. "That you're the best man for the job." She gets that particularly wide, self-satisfied smile, the one that hints at the havoc she can inflict.
He chuckles. "Wow, Sharon."
"I've been saving that one."
"I can tell."
"Desperate times…" she says, mocking solemn. She holds her mug to the side as she leans in - as if her movements aren't well-balanced enough to avoid spilling - and brings her lips to his. He's gaining a new appreciation for chamomile, ending his days like this.
She pulls away and straightens, her eyes flitting from the blank page to his face. She sighs. He could improvise ten toasts about the things she doesn't say but carries on her back. She worries too much, about everything. Most people will never know. He might be the only person who's eased away the knots twisted into the muscles along her shoulders.
Hypothetical toasts aside, it's better that way.
"Do you think it's too early to fake laryngitis?" She fixes him with a level stare, then squeezes his shoulder and releases it. As she pads toward the hallway, he adds, "Or too late to find a dog that will eat my notes?"
"Don't come in in the middle of the night and wake me up," she says from the bedroom door, that singular mix of sweet and stern.
"What if I come in and don't wake you up?"
"You won't."
She's right. Given the hour and his lack of progress, he isn't going to finish the damn thing tonight anyway. Best to get some sleep and start fresh tomorrow…
(As long as he isn't rousted out of bed at three to head to a crime scene.)
(As long as he's somehow able to pull it together once the sun rises.)
"I'll be right there."
Two days before the Big Event, Taylor re-opens an old case and sends everyone scrambling. No one is happy about it. Andy is on the elevator up from the archives when his phone rings for the third time in an hour. Balancing two evidence boxes and a clipboard piled with paperwork, he maneuvers against the wall to dig it out of his pocket.
"What?" The elevator picks this point to ding its arrival on the ninth floor. "Sonofa...hang on." He pockets the phone and gets his arm around the larger box, backing into the hallway. He takes careful steps, trying to keep it all balanced.
A tinny voice sounds from his jacket. "Flynn? Flynn! I'm calling you for a reason!"
Andy rolls his eyes and fishes the phone from his pocket with his free hand. "What do you want, Provenza?"
"You can't pick up when I call?"
"We caught a murder. And you might remember that we're short-handed."
"As if that's never happened before."
"I can't take the time to chit-chat with you every half-hour and still plan to have this wrapped up by tomorrow night."
"Good thing there are still four other cops there to move things along. Which means you should be able to take five minutes and give me a preview of your speech."
Andy jostles the office door open with his knee and elbow. "A preview? Why do you need a preview?" His voice echoes down the short hallway. In the office, everyone is gathered near the whiteboard, poring over documents from the previous investigators.
"Because I'm trying to make sure this thing goes off without a hitch, and your speech is part of that."
"Oh jeez. Get a grip, Groomzilla." Mike hacks out a laugh. Sharon bows her head, trying to hide her smile.
"It is very important to me that this go well." In a restaurant on the other side of the city, Provenza is prodding at some nearby surface with his index finger as he says this. "You should remember these words of wisdom: happy wife, happy life."
"I get it." In fact, Andy doesn't 'get it'. But he has work to do, he has Provenza's work to do. He has the damned speech to write, and his arm is tingling from carrying the evidence boxes at an awkward angle against his ribs.
"So…"
"So?"
"What are you going to say?"
"I, uh," He pins the phone against his ear with his shoulder, shifting the evidence enough to hand Sharon the clipboard while rummaging for an alternative. "I can't tell you that."
"And why the hell not?"
"Well, I'm in the middle of the Murder Room, for one…"
Silence stretches over the line after he trails off. Andy can't decide if he's more annoyed or nauseous about reciting his nonexistent toast in front of the guys and Amy. Nausea wins out once he remembers that he'll have to do that on Saturday, regardless.
"You haven't even written it yet, have you?"
"What?" He works an edge of indignation into his voice. "Of course I've written it. I've been working on it for a month." Sharon hands the clipboard back to him with a tilt of her head, a quirked eyebrow, an unspoken 'Oh, really?'
Andy steps past her, distancing her skepticism from his last-ditch excuse. "I can't tell you because it's supposed to be a big reveal."
"Sure." Provenza sighs. "Look, make it nice and I'll return the favor. Screw it up...well, I'll also return the favor."
"What do you mean, return the favor?"
Andy passes the smaller box to Mike, who lays it on his desk and rubs his hands together like he's been served a steak dinner. "Ahh, my bullets."
On the phone, Provenza's voice lowers into a threat. "I mean, picture the Captain, her big happy day turning uncomfortable thanks to a lowbrow, bumbling toast."
Andy frowns, glancing around as if everyone can hear Provenza and his nonsense. They're all busy, though, digging through financial statements and forensic reports. Even so, his response is quieter. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about your wedding. That is, if you ever get the cajones to ask her-"
"Will you shut the f…" Julio looks up from his computer, eyebrows raised, sniffing out conflict like a bloodhound. Andy turns away from him and crosses the rest of the distance to his desk. He drops the last box next to the empty legal pad, the ever-present physical monument to his lack of progress. "You're making a lot of assumptions, you know."
"Oh, come on," the words travel on a smug, condescending chuckle. "I was right about the two of you being more than 'just friends,' I was right about you dating, I was right about you living together, and I'm right about this."
"Whatever." It isn't worth arguing the point with him, given the nuance of the situation, and given that Andy himself isn't even sure about the positions of the pieces on that particular chessboard. "As if you would have the hypothetical cajones to screw that up."
"I've faced the wrath of Sharon Raydor before, and it wasn't fun. But I'll be willing to do it again, if it means getting my sweet revenge."
"Then maybe I won't pick you-"
"Hypothetically, you mean."
"Yes," Andy grits, "hypothetically."
"Who else would you pick?" That smug laugh again. "Now, what I was thinking is that if you could start by talking about my-"
Disgusted, Andy pulls the phone away from his ear and jabs the red icon. He'll be damned if he lets Provenza dictate a glowing speech about his own romantic prowess, or wherever the hell that was going. He clicks the nearest pen open with force and turns to the legal pad, scrawls, " We're all here to celebrate the marriage of the biggest ASSHOLE this city has ever seen. Patrice, I hope you have better luck with him than every other person he's known. Lord knows you're going to need that, a lot of patience, and probably a good lawyer waiting in the wings. Godspeed." With that, he lifts the pen and drops it onto the paper, where it lands with a satisfying thud.
Andy rocks back into his chair, switching his focus to Mike's spiel on the ballistics report. He ignores his phone, which vibrates periodically with incoming messages. Sharon meets his eyes from near the note-covered whiteboard, the corner of her mouth upturned. He has a moment of guilt over her believing that he's caught a whiff of inspiration on the speech front. He shakes his head once, don't get too excited, and reaches over to slide the pad to the side, out of the way. Out of mind, for another few hours at least.
Until he goes to pick up his tuxedo this evening. Until the rehearsal tomorrow night. Until he's standing at the front of the reception on Saturday with nothing to say.
Mike drones on about the bullets for about five minutes too long, as he does. Sharon doles out assignments, gesturing toward each person as she sends them off, making her way to her office. After sending Julio and Amy after some surveillance footage, she feints toward her door. But, with an extra helping of nonchalance, she backs up a few steps and swipes the pad from the corner of Andy's desk.
"I think I found my angle," he mutters, not bothering to spin around to watch her reaction.
After a few seconds, her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth. She tears the page out and crumples it one-handed. With her other hand, she raps the pad on his head once and returns it, fresh sheet up, to his desk. Her voice is even when she says, "Could you get a warrant for the father's house?"
The message is clear: I won't even dignify that with a response.
"Sure thing."
It's nearly midnight when the deadbolt clicks open and the front door follows suit, its handle turning nearly silent into the quiet condo. In the several hours since the rehearsal ended, Andy did little more than shoot the breeze with Rusty, watch the last two innings of the Dodgers game, and stare at a blank page where he should have written a speech by now. He sets the legal pad aside, wanting it to avoid it as a topic of conversation.
Sharon steps inside with care, re-locking the door behind her and discarding her heels and holster in the entryway. She rolls her shoulders in a few slow circles, betraying the strain there. But her lips quirk upward when she turns to find him on the couch.
"I figured you'd be asleep by now."
"Nope. The kid abandoned me out here about an hour ago, but I was so keyed up by the excitement of that rehearsal. I couldn't sleep if I wanted to." She lets out a soft chuff of laughter and rolls her eyes, slowing long enough for a kiss on her way to the kitchen. He cranes his neck, watching her path. "I thought I'd wait up."
"You didn't need to," she says, peering into the fridge.
"I know."
She smiles at this, headed back to the couch with a sparkling water. "Big day tomorrow."
"Ugh, don't remind me." He rests his head back against the cushion as she settles in beside him. "So everything's taken care of?"
They'd exchanged messages during the evening, once it became clear that she'd be stuck at work for the night. They consisted mostly of his questions about the case and her admonitions to pay attention to the rehearsal.
"We finally got Ryan to sign a deal. Andrea wasn't pleased to be there so late, but…"
"Gotta do what you gotta do."
Sharon nods. "Funny enough, Mr. Ryan said that more than once, regarding his motivations for strangling his son."
"And why he hid the body?"
"Mhmm. And why he let someone else go to jail for it." She takes a sip of water, frowning as she reflects. "The man certainly has an inflated impression of himself."
"How'd you get him to admit it?"
"Well, we appealed to his sense of ego. I had the reporter who wrote the original expose come into the interview. He wrote plenty of notes while Ryan confessed." She grins, wry. "It only took so long because he wanted to be certain that we recorded his every thought before the murder, for posterity."
"I'm sure the judge will look kindly on that."
"Not our problem!" Sharon slides a coaster nearer to her on the coffee table and sets her water on it. She turns toward him, tucking her feet onto the couch. "RHD is covering us all weekend." She makes this sound downright luxurious, brightening Andy's outlook on the coming days. This lasts all of two seconds, until she asks, "So… how did it go?"
"Well," he draws the word out, gauging how much she should know before walking into the church tomorrow.
He deliberates too long, provoking a raised eyebrow and a pointed comment. "Oh, this seems promising."
"It was fine, I guess." And it was. But there'd been a reason he hadn't wanted to go alone. Dinner was both bland as hell and the highlight of the evening. He'd spent the rest of it checking his phone every five minutes, hoping that it would bring him an excuse to leave.
"No fistfights, at least?" She leans into the couch back, getting comfortable.
"Give me some credit."
She grins. "No bickering with the groom?"
"Bickering? Really?" She shrugs, daring him to challenge the odds of that, so he clarifies. "The pasta was dry. Provenza is neurotic. And I had to witness Rusty explaining to an 80-year-old Southern Baptist woman why he won't be bringing his girlfriend to the wedding."
She brings her hand to her mouth. "Oh no."
"The kid did a good job, all things considered. But I think the bride's side is giving both of us the cold shoulder."
"Both of you?" She pokes at his chest. "What did you do?"
"Nothing!" It comes out a little whinier than he'd intended, and she tilts her head to stare at him over the frames of her glasses. "Not everyone likes my sense of humor, that's all."
"Imagine that." She pats his knee, stifling a yawn with her other hand.
"The good news is that I rescued your cheesecake."
"My hero."
"And the rest of your dinner."
"Smart to lead with the cheesecake." She rests her forehead on his shoulder. "I might be too tired to enjoy it, though."
"How is that possible?"
"Three hours in an interview. That's how." Her voice muffled into his t-shirt has become one of his favorite sounds.
"Fair enough." He threads his fingers into her hair. "It's been a long day all around. Though I get to do it all again in about eight hours."
"One more day and then you won't have to worry about it anymore."
"One more early day. I'm supposed to teach your son to tie a bowtie beforehand." At the fitting, Rusty had held the length of evergreen silk between his hands with a look of equal parts confusion and distaste. Andy couldn't disagree with the silent judgment. But he can help get it on correctly. "I told him not to bother asking Siri, it's a skill best learned in person."
"This is probably his first experience with one."
Weddings, dances - senior prom, even - the bigger church-based events; all the milestones the kid has had to skip. All the small miracles of normalcy that have gotten Rusty to this point, all the ways life somehow ends up okay. "God."
She hums in agreement, her words lagging in a drowsy rhythm. "I know. These days it's easier to forget all the little things he's missed out on."
"Not little things."
"Those too."
"And yet, here he is…" The sentiment fades, unspoken, into the other two thirds of the balance that has become their existence, here you are, here I am. Just a few hours ago, the kid had been sitting on this couch, asking a string of questions about the rehearsal in a hint toward his excitement over being involved. It ended up being almost as contagious as Sharon's general enthusiasm about weddings.
How many small choices brought them to this point? How many bad, even horrible, things happened along the way to bring them to this condo? All of it leading to this, here, now. All building to the point where there is nowhere else Andy would want to be. Awe and certainty click into place, the missing pieces of a puzzle he's been staring at for weeks.
From the vicinity of his shoulder, Sharon's breath has slowed and evened out. He should wake her, shuffle her toward bed. She'd be more comfortable there. But her presence reinforces his will, helps to solidify the notions pooling together. He brings his lips to the crown of her head and lends the barest amount of voice to his realization, "I think I got it."
With small movements, he arranges a pillow into his lap and moves the legal pad into place atop it, at comfortable writing height. He's worked the book down to its last three yellow pages. But now he approaches the first line with a fresh sense of clarity.
Life can be as strange as it is tough. But, in the end, we end up where we belong, with the people we need.