Two Worlds

by Isolith

Back in 1978 Sharon is studying the law; meanwhile Andy is skirting the law. Two worlds collide, in the past and in the present. AU-fic.

Disclaimer: Major Crimes and the lovely characters belong to James Duff.

Summary: Back in 1978 Sharon is studying the law; meanwhile Andy is skirting the law. Two worlds collide, in the past and in the present. AU-fic.

A/N: This was heavily inspired by 2x16 of MC and the small tidbits of backstory we got in that episode. Thank you Rusty ;) I'm kinda hooked on AU plotlines at the moment, so this came out of an exploration of what if Sharon had actually gone to law school like she had planned and what if Andy had continued down the road he was on before he joined the police force. Oh, and yeah, gave Sharon a much-needed new surname =)

This fic turned out to be way longer than I had anticipated in the beginning but I feel bad about dividing the story into pieces; so there you go, all in one go. Hope you all enjoy. =)

/TWO WORLDS/

…

2011

…

Andy Flynn observes the Los Feliz condominium with an erratic blend of anxiety and dizziness, dread the more pronounced and apt emotion the longer his eyes rest on the monstrosity of a building, well aware deep down that it is not the structure of the building or its location but more what it houses that throws him into indecision. The feeling only seems to be spreading the longer he stares at the building complex, the longer he hesitates.

She lives there.

The lawyer.

The spitfire.

His girl.

Well, he quickly amends; she is not his girl anymore – she is not even a girl; all grown up and old just like him. It is a notion that seems absurd to him.

Three decades – thirty-one years to be exact – is a dreadfully long time. It is a life time, really more like half a life time, and it is more than likely she has changed to the point of unrecognizability; he imagines her hair is grey like his, and not the burning auburn he remembers dearly; maybe she is thicker around the middle, has health issues like high blood pressure just like him, and not the healthy, slim body he remembers distinctly.

Andy knows only too well how much he has aged himself and he cannot even imagine what she looks like now without seeing her as the girl he remembers, like the last time he saw her; young and pretty, heartbroken and distant. Maybe she won't even recognize him.

Maybe she will slap him with a restraining order.

She is a deputy district attorney after all; she's gotta be well-connected.

Maybe she will haul his ass back to prison.

It is not the first time he contemplates paying her a visit.

It is also not the first time he goes home empty-handed, too intimidated to do anything and lacking courage to seek her out.

…

1978

…

Sharon Thompson laughs half-heatedly at the jokes surrounding the round bar table, dominated by her male classmates, clean-shaven and neat in their dark clothing. The misogyny is like a vivid, colorful thread in an otherwise muted and pale tapestry, and thus her smile throughout the night wavers. The act of smiling and engaging in semi inebriated conversations is less awkward with a couple of drinks under her belt, and even better, the distraction of sipping alcohol is welcome as it brings along a sizzling sensation of freedom.

With a tipsy-tinted view, even her classmates appear malleable and good-natured.

The bar is raucous in a suitable fashion for university students; that is to say, the bar is stocked full with cheap liquor, the dance floor is sweltering with movement and close contact that deems no beforehand interaction necessary. The throng of people, law students intermingling in the scene, paints the establishment in a joyous color and she is barely able to hear what is said around the table from the beat of underground music, rhythmic in the way it flares under her skin, urging her to move as well.

Her classmates, male every last one of them, are locked in their positions and not likely to leave the comfort of their prized table for a sweaty dance, their positions only ever changing when one lanky guy rotates between the restrooms and the bar counter, refreshments always available on the table they have commandeered for the night. The guys drink whiskey and dry vermouth, the tumblers in their hands baring an uncanny resemblance to their parents drinking habits. They bring her one colorful cocktail after another, wide easy-going smiles in her direction. On the surface they are a likable bunch though on a deeper level Sharon is wary of them.

Almost a year on and still she fits like a sore thumb. Well, she silently bites out acerbically at herself; naturally she is an outsider when there is no goddamn penis between her legs. Naturally she is excluded on the basis of her larger breasts, and yet, those very attributes is also what somehow includes her. It is confusing at the best of times and even more so when she is half drunk.

Sharon is on her third cocktail when that sandy-haired, freckled third year gropes her knee for the second time in a span of two minutes, purposefully under the table and out of sight. The fool probably thinks it is a discreet pat, probably thinks it is a great compliment he is bestowing on her.

The guy gives her a smile that on some level seems disarming, which Sharon factors has more to do with her own urge to be touched by another human being than the nature of the smile in itself. The smile in itself only reminds her of the week before, another bar and another student likewise groping her knee under the table; the same arrogant, inebriated smile on display.

Nevertheless, the hand on her knee feels softer than the one from a week ago. The smile seems a bit lighter, more humorous and contagious when she squints her eyes and takes another sip from her drink.

Sharon smiles back.

To put it bluntly, she is missing sex and if she has to be even blunter, then she is missing it desperately.

Her parents would disagree; she is missing a husband, or a steady boyfriend at the very least. Well, her life is missing pretty much everything from decorum to purpose, if her parents had any say in it.

The guy, Mitchel something the third she recalls, leans in,

"You know, babe, you should have another."

He points at her half-finished drink, his eyes lingering on her cleavage in a way that is less than subtle.

Oh, the misogyny is so fucking thick she could suffocate on it. Problematic when she has to work with it on a daily basis.

She plasters on a smile anyway, mindful of come Monday morning where it is a race to succeed; success is easier when your opponents have you pegged as underrated. They are never spiteful towards her; they never see her as a rival. Somehow, she thinks it is to her advantage. She can play the little sister, the secretary and the flirt all in one.

"I should?" she giggles and tilts her head in a fashion most would pin down as demure, "Why? Are you offering?"

The guy nods eagerly, his smile almost genuine for the first time.

Sharon watches him leave the table, his hand briefly around her shoulder before he moves on.

She watches him inconspicuously.

He is well fit for one.

Does not look too inebriated.

Would most likely be okay to fuck.

Her eyes land on her classmates around the table, and immediately she rethinks the notion of having any kind of relationship with any of them. It is just inviting trouble.

Nonetheless she lightly flirts with the third-year when he gets back from the bar with a large glass for her, the pinkish tinge to the drink nicely coordinated with a blue umbrella.

She plays with the umbrella, once again sipping her drink and only half-heartedly listening to the story Mitchel something the third is trying to entertain the table with; the gist of it lost in the thrum of music and voices.

Later on as the bar closes down, everyone leaves and she stays close to the third-year in the crowd. They are halfway down the main street, laughing and half staggering in a group when Sharon suddenly stops, instantly sober as she remembers the black backpack she has inadvertently left back at the bar. Her most prized possession under a table in a sleazy nightclub, in full display for anyone to grab.

Her black backpack with her too expensive law-book volume one and a half hundred pages of notes because she had just come from the library and a self-imposed study session, and in a fit of stupidity – what she at the time had thought was ingenious – she had taken her gear with her to the bar simply because going home beforehand would take too much time.

The book she worked through double shifts to buy, to show she could live on her own, to show her parents she knew what she was doing.

The notes she stayed up through the night for weeks to write down because she had to work in between lectures to pay off the loan for her apartment.

The third-year, ever charming she thinks sarcastically, has eyes on someone else, already two steps ahead when she brings up her forgotten backpack.

Good riddance. The guys are too drunk, too uncaring really, to go back with her.

She smiles nevertheless, and then waves them on cheerfully.

It is better this way.

She would rather be alone.

…

Andy Flynn is wiping off the bar counter in a lazy, unhurried tempo as he takes another slurp of beer from the second can since he locked the bar down. The lights are on in a full glare, the bulbs too bright to look at directly. The brightness throws an unpleasing tint to the whole room. It is easier to hide the state of the bar in the darkness, easier to pretend it is somewhere otherworldly in the dark.

Andy drinks half the can in one go and then he simply stares into space for a moment, eyes unblinking and his thoughts far away. The cool liquid and the silence after a whole night of constant music is a blessing, not that he abhors working here; it is better than so many other places he has worked at and Jimmy's garage only has that much work for him. Money is always tight and doing a little extra on the side never hurt anyone.

The silence is a blessing until some drunken girl tumbles through the front door with a loud bang, the door screeching on its hinges. For a moment he is stunned – did he forget to lock the fucking door again? – and he watches the dark clothed girl make her way inside the bar, no eyes for anything but a table in the back.

She crouches by the table and looks around, somewhat wild-eyed.

Putting on a warm voice, Andy pipes up, "Hey, lady – we're closed."

The girl turns around in surprise and her smile is elegant even if it is a bit forced. Poised, Andy thinks, the posture of the girl immediately changing.

"I left my backpack here," the girl says with another dignified smile, appearing even more demure than before. Her eyes go behind her for a split second to the table and the empty space beneath it, a look of annoyance quickly flittering away before she gives him another self-aware smile.

She looks too shy, Andy thinks.

She looks pretty nice though.

Andy throws the half wet, dirty rag on the counter and then saunters across the bar, "What kinda backpack?"

"Oh, just an old black one," she waves her hand dismissively, "Ratty really."

"A ratty backpack? " Andy chuckles at her demeanor, "You sure you didn't leave it here on purpose then."

She smiles again, "It's the contents that are important to me."

"Cash, huh?" he shakes his head; when will the rich kids learn not to bring their entire bank account to a nightclub?

She shakes her head in the negative, a small tug at the corner of her mouth that seems to convey something besides a simple smile, "No, no. No money. Just a stupid book and some paper."

"Sounds drab," Andy shrugs.

"It is," she laughs genuinely and he finds he likes the sound, "It is a very boring book indeed. In fact, it has put me to sleep on numerous occasions."

"Well, I guess it's your luck you're rid of it then," he grins but her smile falters.

"Just kidding," he adds, and after looking through the entire room, behind the bar even, all to no avail, Andy points at the backroom and the toilets, "Maybe it's in the lost and found, out back?"

The girl follows him out to the back room and he watches her go through the two cardboard boxes with forgotten items, her complexion paling the further she goes through the contents.

Up close she looks even prettier.

"Damn," she breathes out in exasperation and then looks up with a disparaged look.

Andy rubs his neck, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be. It's my own damn fault."

"Maybe it will show up eventually, you know."

She nods but it is only half-heartedly. No, she looks beyond devastated. Andy shakes his head at himself and what he is about to do – but really there is something about her distraught look that tugs at him.

"Can I give you a ride home? I just need a couple of minutes to close the place down, and then we can go. Hmm?"

"You own a car?" she seems surprised.

"Nah, nothing that fancy," Andy grins, "I've got a Harley."

"A motorcycle?" she articulates with a raised eyebrow and he glimpses the mischief that suddenly lights her eyes up. He amends his notion of her yet again; she's a goddamn beauty.

…

This is not how she imagined her night ending; it is not even in the remote vicinity of how she imagined her night turning out.

The streets are empty and the traffic lights lonely, the glare of a red light at an intersectio somewhat soothing as she breathes in the distinct scent of aftershave. Darkness is still prominent in the skies, on the horizon a hue of turquoise starting to creep upwards. The motorcycle thrums under her thighs like a big black monster, exhilarating in the same way she feels it is exhilarating to jump off a cliff into the dark, unseen ocean; slightly intimidating, slightly exciting.

She is wearing the bartender's helmet, her face free and her arms slung around this stranger's middle, his torso feeling broad and muscled.

The light changes and the sound of the engine mixed with the wind sweeping past her as they run through a neighborhood she recognizes, faster than the speed limit permits; it elates her. She quickly forgets the speed however, the smell of leather heavy; firm in her nostrils the closer she brings herself to the sturdy back of the stranger.

A bartender, she thinks with a smile.

The machine roars and it is easy to imagine a winged beast somehow, flying her home. The handsome bartender she amends with a subdued giggle, tall and dark-haired, better muscled than any of her lanky, gangly classmates. Better mannered as well, she thinks with a more sober thought.

Who knew she would enjoy riding a Harley like this?

Later on, the familiar street light of her own neighborhood blinking out of existence as darkness disappears altogether, she feels self-conscious in a novel fashion. She points at the top floor of the compartment complex, the narrow window up top where she has too many plants and the porch where one step is missing; it's not in the best condition the complex and even if the rent is steeper than should be allowed for such a small place, it is her home.

The stranger looks up, his eyes on the top. When he looks at her, she is greeted by an ear-splitting grin and nice brown eyes.

"Do you drink coffee?" Sharon asks him, feeling giddy in a manner she thinks is too noticeable, "I mean, do you want to come up for a cup of coffee? I mean, as a thank you."

He grins in a self-assured fashion that makes her nervous, "Coffee at five in the morning?"

"Well," she hesitates.

"I'd love coffee," the guy says, his eyes twinkling with some sort of understanding.

Sharon tugs her lower lip under teeth, "Unless you got somewhere to be?"

"Nah," he pats his Harley in a strangely affectionate way, "it's my day off. Sunday, I mean. I don't work on Sunday – not at the bar anyhow."

…

"Here you go," the girl offers him a cup of steaming coffee, her smile secretive as she leans back against the small kitchenette counter, her own cup of coffee between her palms.

She no longer seems demure or shy, Andy amends. No, her smiles have turned secretive and endearing. The way she has of briefly looking away only seems enhanced, and he really is wholly surprised to find himself with a cup of coffee in his hands, standing in a narrow kitchen that is too small to allow much more than one person to pass at a time.

A real cup of coffee in his hands, warm against his skin and the scent heavenly after a long night of drinking alcohol and listening to drunken people, and yet Andy would have wagered his Harley and his grandmother's herb garden that 'coffee' had been a metaphor and not a literal invitation.

The girl seems to be waiting for something, studying him from under her lashes along with more secretive smiles that confuse him more than they explain her motives.

So he decides to fill the silence, "So, what do you do? You study?"

She nods slowly, once again appearing demure. "Yes, law student, first year."

"Oh," he nods, a bit slowly as well. It does not take a genius to figure out she comes from money – or that she is out of his league.

The one-room apartment is small but cozy, in a pricy neighborhood even if it's not in the best condition. Her clothes are nondescript and dark but somehow there is elegance to her movements and her articulation. She sounds well-educated. Even her fucking coffee maker is out of his league. It is a strange thing because everything stands in contrast with the worn down nature of the cupboards in the kitchen, in contrast to the shabby isolation of her windows and the wooden floor has seen better days. Maybe she has money but not in inexplicable amounts; maybe her rich parents cut her off.

"And you?" she takes a sip of coffee, her eyes momentarily closed in enjoyment.

"Oh, a little of this and a little of that," he answers vaguely, amused when her eyebrow quirks high at the flippancy.

Andy grins, "I work for my cousin in his garage. A bit of fixing this and a bit of fixing that."

She smiles sweetly, "Sounds ominous when you say it like that."

He smiles back, feeling peculiarly playful, "Yeah, you got no idea."

"So, you're a mechanic by day and a bartender by night," she wets her lower lip and somehow her eyes seem bigger and brighter, her voice breathy as if she is once again waiting for something.

Andy nods as he moves an inch closer to her, "Yeah, that's the gist of it."

She takes another sip of her coffee, her expression once again hidden from him.

There it is again; the secretive smile.

Well, he smiles inwardly; he knows what to do with it now.

When she looks up again, he leans down to capture her mouth in a tentative kiss, her lips soft against his, slightly sticky from lipstick. He can practically hear her chest expand with air as she holds her breath and he imagines it is a state of frozen anticipation. It only lasts for a short second and then she answers back in the same kind, lips moving against his. He takes the coffee cup from her hands and places it next to his own half-full cup on the counter.

Her mouth is small, just like her hands suddenly around his neck; small slender fingers sliding through the hair at his neck, bringing him closer.

Her waist is even smaller, he notices when he joins her hips with his.

Her kiss, eager and sweet now, devours him.

This is more like the coffee he had imagined.

He groans when he feels her palm his erection through his jeans, the flat of her palm insistent against his bulge and her lips hard against his now.

Yet again he rectifies his opinion of her; she is a sure little spitfire.

…

She has never had a stranger go down on her the very first time.

It feels strangely intimidating and exciting all in one breath, similar to riding behind him on his Harley only more enhanced and more intense. His large hands are on her inner thighs and up along her lower stomach, warm touches as the pad of his fingers run across her skin. When his tongue dips out and runs down over her clit and her folds before it dips into her entrance, she feels ready to melt into her mattress.

It feels deliberate and attentive, and he has her coming in an embarrassingly short time, her breath so erratically hitched from the turmoil of it she can barely think. His heavy body crawls atop hers before she can climb down from the ecstatic feeling of climax, his penis hard and big against her entrance, his hands warm and slightly scratchy against the skin of her thighs, against her shoulders and her breasts. His lips are warm and wet when they trail over her mouth before they bring her into a heavy kiss. She thinks his hands are callused.

She shudders from a mixture of pain and pleasure when he slides inside her, moisture making the motion effortless and yet, she can feel the thickness of him. Delirious in the way he fills her out. She flexes her legs around his middle, bringing him closer as she closes them, ankles crossed at his spine.

Damn.

This is exactly what she has missed.

Afterward, she sleepily and contently contemplates the dark hair on his chest, wondering how he can look so at peace on her lumpy mattress on the floor, in a strange home. It was not the longest ordeal of sex she has ever experienced but somehow it feels like a remarked improvement on her last lover. Two orgasms heavy in her body and she is ready to peacefully fall asleep; much better than she had imagined.

She alternates between staring at her ceiling and then at him, giddy when he bestows another one of those ear-splitting grins at her.

"I never got your name," he smiles invitingly, his head in his hand as he studies her with something akin to curiosity.

The comment hits her, cold like icy water and she can feel her cheeks warm up at the notion; she never got his name either. The mortification must be written on her face, bold and vivid. The guy – stranger, really – only smiles wider as if he finds it amusing.

"Oh," she laughs a bit high, "It's Sharon. I usually never, you know, I mean," she rambles feeling suddenly embarrassed at the aspect, her eyes on his chest again.

"Sharon," the guy repeats, his smile teasing when she looks up, "that's a pretty name."

She breathes in deeply, already feeling at ease once again. It is a simple compliment, and from anyone else it would feel condescending. There is something about this stranger however, something genuine.

"I'm Andrew. You can call me Andy though; everyone does."

She giggles into his shoulder, the whole situation too much for her.

The guy – Andrew, Andy, whatever, – chuckles with her, and then his hands are on her again, the intention not to miss. His fingers are soft and yet they touch her with purpose as they slide down over the back of her spine.

It is with a breathless sensation she invites him in again, her lips on fire as he kisses her with something akin to wildness.

She comes a third time, unabashedly loud.

…

The ratty backpack turns out to be remarkably less ratty than Andy imagined when the girl had described it. The material is expensive and sturdy, the feel of it in his hands soft against his skin and the little brand name on the tag inside too complicated to pronounce.

It is a notion that makes him smile. The rich lawyer student – probably a trust-fund baby, he figures – lost her designer bag and conveniently called it ratty. Most of the students here are rich in one fashion or the other; he knows the type from too many stints in the bar, the place situated too close to campus.

Thankfully one of the students is well-mannered enough to actually point him in the right direction; the lecture hall seems intimidating from the outside and nothing short of a tropical storm is going to make him step inside the marble halls; no, he patiently waits for the girl outside the hall, studying the heavy oak in the wooden doors, ornate and finely crafted.

The place thrums with life, students and teachers coming and going, books and backpacks in their arms and an air of academia around them that Andy only snorts at. The bunch can surely make you feel like an outsider here, the wary looks that get thrown his way and the scowls that accompany. Well, yes, it's his Harley out front – and yes, he's got his bad boy attire down to a tee.

It does not bother him – if anything it amuses him. He must look like some sort of deviant, Andy thinks with a crooked smile, only taking comfort from the fact.

The students who give him dark glowers he deliberately sends on their way with a cheerful wave and a quirked eyebrow, entertained when they hurry past him with sideways glances. If they scowl back he shows his teeth which has them definitively hurrying past him, eyes downcast. An amusing pastime while he waits for the girl. Sharon, he reminds himself.

Andy spots her immediately.

She is hard to miss in a crowd of mainly male students, and if she had been in a crowd of female students, he is certain she would be easy to point out as well. For a short moment he simply studies her, the fact that she is unaware of his presence exciting.

She looks beautiful – but in another fashion than on the night he met her. Her make-up is less stated and her clothes look more professional and less revealing. Her hair remains the same, full and flowing. He likens it to a blossoming spring, too fascinated by its color and waves. There is something even regal in her stride. She belongs here, he thinks, but whereas the others look dull and identical, he likens her to a fresh breeze; or maybe he is entirely too biased seeing he would like to fuck her again; maybe date her. Who knows – there is something exciting about her.

The instant she notices him, her features turn sharper and the slight red hue to her cheeks he imagines has everything to do with him.

She breaks away from the small group that follows her out the heavy oak doors.

Andy holds up her lost backpack, "Look what I found."

Her expression instantly lights up in an almost childlike manner and if she was anywhere else Andy is pretty certain she would give a little jump of excitement; he enjoys the pleasing and satisfied smile she directs at him instead.

"So, do I get a finder's fee?" he quickly holds the bag out of her reach, enjoying the way she purses her mouth at him momentarily.

When she realizes she can't reach the bag as he holds it up, she laughs at his antics instead, the volume somehow subdued, "Oh, yes. You can collect your finder's fee – once you give my bag to me."

"I can?" he teases and bumps his shoulder against hers, happy to deliver the bag to her outstretched arms.

"I'll buy you a cup of coffee, as a heartfelt thank you," she says distractedly as she zips her bag open and looks through the contents with a happy expression, "or something else. Whatever you feel like."

When she looks up, he gives her a raised look and then drawls, "Coffee – you mean like the last time you offered me coffee?"

She blushes and sneaks a look out of the corner of her eyes toward her surroundings. She is mindful of her appearance, he thinks. Probably an engrained habit when she has to engage with all these idiots on a daily basis.

"I would love a real cup of coffee though," he briefly touches her arm, to let her know it is all in good fun, "you know a good place?"

She nods, and with a look at her wristwatch she bites her lip, "There's a place just a couple of blocks away – if you have time?"

"Got all the time for you," he tells her, and yet again she looks away, hiding her expression. He glimpses the smile through the tresses of hair though, the remnant still present when she looks at him again.

The coffee bar she has in mind turns out to be a secluded place and she seems to both soften and perk up in the quiet setting. He watches her flip through her book on the round glass table, her eyes on the pages with a gleam he likens to again seeming somewhat secretive.

"You really love that book, huh," he teases her as he sits down with the two filter coffees he just picked up at the counter, happy she let him pay after all.

She smiles self-consciously, "Oh, you have no idea."

"I'm starting to," he shakes his head but leans closer to her conspiratorially; "I guess that's a good thing."

"It is," she nods, and then as if she has weighed upon it for some time, she speaks again, eyes clear and bright up close, "I was thinking – if you want to, I mean – do you, maybe, want to, hmm, meet up again? Sometime?"

Andy leans closer, captivated by her sudden display of shyness and the endearing look in her eyes.

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing," he says and enjoys the way she shrugs the shyness off at his comment, a flirtatious smile adorning her lips instead. He continues, "I was sorta hoping to find your backpack, real bad. Gave me an excuse to see you again."

"Imagine my surprise when the manager of the bar dumps your precious bag into my lap. Someone found it out back, behind some trash."

Her smile, he decides, is radiant.

"So, are you available? You know, single?" he asks her, feeling sure of himself.

She nods.

He decides he likes kissing her in secluded coffee bars.

…

The garage is farther out than she had imagined, on the outskirts of where she normally wanders, past the line where she feels safe. Most buildings look run down and for a short moment she fears she is lost. But Andy's directions are flawless and when she turns the right corner, the sign up front looks flashy and gritty but it is corresponds with the name on the paper in her hands.

For a brief moment she wonders if he grew up in this neighborhood.

The doorbell rings when she goes through the door into the front office, the window tinted by dust. She gives the front office a quick look around and wonders if she should have slipped under the half-open garage door instead. The clanging sounds from the garage, however, had been too foreign to her and she felt it was more polite to go through the front entrance – like a customer.

When she starts to feel suitably out of her element, Andy finally comes out from the back with a dirty rag in his hands, faded jeans that have seen better days and a grey t-shirt she thinks looks comfortable on him even if it appears he has been using it as a napkin for his dirty hands.

His smile turns boyish when he notices her.

"Oh boy," he comments, a cheeky look that has her blushing, "you look beautiful."

She smiles warmly, instantly feeling more at ease.

"You look," she grins and tilts her head to the side, "grimy."

He approaches her at an alarming fast rate and pokes her nose, his fingers stained with oil and grime, "You better watch it, lady."

She shakes her head, amused, "Don't get me all dirty."

His hand lands on her neck and he brings her in for a warm, greeting kiss.

It blows though her all the way to her toes, curling in humid pleasure.

His other hand, just as dirty, land on her hip and she doesn't even care about the oil stains she will never get out of her jeans.

It seems inconsequential to her.

Sharon kisses him back in the same fashion; the novel, excited and glorious feeling expanding throughout her entire being. He is nothing like her last boyfriend. Good riddance she got rid of Jackson.

"I'm fixing an old Cadillac for a client," he tells her between breathless kisses and she simply nods.

He recognizes her blank look and with a chuckle he brings her closer, "Oh hot damn. You are clueless, aren't you?"

Sharon smiles affectionately, "Yes. I am. So clueless."

"C'mon, I'll show you the ropes."

"Are you going to get me dirty too?" she teases.

"You count on it."

He pats her behind, the big imprint of his hand only arousing.

They end up on the hood of the Cadillac instead, her legs around his middle, her center unashamedly against the bulge in his jeans and entirely too lost in the bliss of simply kissing.

Maybe next time he can show her how to fix an engine or change a tire.

She has always wanted to learn how to change a tire; it seems like such a sensible and practical skill to acquire.

He laughs when she tells him.

It is a happy laugh, and she knows he will indeed teach her whatever she wants to learn.

…

2012

…

"Maybe that is why you live alone."

What a loaded insult, sprung on her without any forewarning. She deflected it, nicely and politely, and somehow she thinks the boy will not point it out again; not snidely and meant as an insult anyway. They have moved past 'snide' in their relationship. On afterthought however, the remark bothers her.

She lives alone because she is alone. That is not much of an explanation. She prefers being alone, is another variation on the theme. In some ways she does prefer being alone. She isn't celibate, she isn't a recluse; she just prefers her privacy.

Half a year after that snide remark, Rusty slowly settling in and her home suddenly starting to feel normal with a teenager in the house, another surprise is sprung on her.

"Who's Andrew Flynn?" Rusty speaks carelessly from the couch, speaking in between munching on a chocolate chip cookie, the boy somehow always managing to spring uncomfortable questions on her out of the blue and with a certain nonchalance that has her wavering in her composition. If her adversaries knew it would only take a teenage boy to rattle her, then surely she would never once again win a case in court. The notion amuses her.

Sharon studies the boy, her mouth parting and then forcibly closing.

Instead of answering, she smiles politely and asks the boy in a calm voice, "Why do you ask?"

Decades of staying atop in the courtroom have engrained itself in her, and she knows that the boy is not overly fond of when she goes into 'lawyer-mode' as he will put it but it is her fallback.

Indeed, Rusty rolls his eyes, "Don't answer a question with a question, Counselor."

Sharon replies back in the same tone, "I'm asking since you asked first, Mr Beck, and my question pertains to your question. Actually, it hinges on it."

If the boy had been in her care for longer than half a year, she is sure he would have stuck his tongue out at her in mock annoyance. However, Rusty's circumstances make their relationship tentative and fragile. They have their moments of closeness and fondness; always proceeded with an awkward period of denial and aloofness.

Sharon gives the boy a probing look.

He finally answers then, "There was a guy asking about you."

"Who? Andrew Flynn was asking about me?" She would congratulate herself on hiding her panic but somehow the boy sees through her, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, fine," she waves his concern away, "Now, do go on, please."

The boy huffs in a way that is too reminiscent of herself, "Some old guy, Andrew Flynn he said, asked about you yesterday. He was waiting outside the downstairs entrance, looking as if he wanted to go inside the lobby. You know, in a creepy sort of way. He wanted to know if you lived here."

Her stomach feels like it is trying to crawl out of her throat.

Rusty rolls his eyes again but the act cannot conceal his concern, "Don't worry, Sharon. I told him nothing. I told the creep if I ever saw him again, I would psych the building manager on him, if not the police".

Sharon nods and then tries to breathe. She gives the boy a weak smile, finding his protective side surprisingly sweet. "That's fine, Rusty. It's nothing."

That seems to appease the boy and he goes back to watching television.

The next evening after dinner, Rusty surprises her yet again.

"The old creepy guy is here again, Sharon," the boy yells from the front door and when she comes to have a look she sees the teenager peeping though the peep-hole, standing on the top of his toes, "It's him," Rusty turns around and stares back at her with a weird expression, "He's right out there," he points and then suddenly turns his voice down in a hushed whisper, "Should we call the police?"

Sharon almost laughs at the notion. Oh, she can just imagine the uproar that would cause at LAPD central not to mention the DA's office if she called in to explain that her ex-boyfriend – who happened to have been in prison for decades – was politely knocking on her front door.

She shakes her head, "No, no, honey; it's fine. He's not dangerous."

In her head she amends; he's not dangerous to me and he won't be dangerous to you.

Sharon gently lays a hand on the boy's shoulder, half-amazed when he doesn't shrug it off like he usually does. Instead he looks up at her and for a split second she thinks he looks even younger than sixteen. He is practically just a child. The notion almost brings tears to her eyes.

"You have the police on speed dial, right?" the boy asks her as he steps away and she is getting ready to open the door, the knock from the other side this time more noticeable, "Or at least get something heavy and blunt to knock him over the head with."

Sharon smiles warmly at Rusty, trying to allay his fears, "Yes, I do. More importantly, I used to take self-defensive lessons, so if he tries any funny business I will kick him in the groin, okay?"

Rusty briefly smiles at the image and then nods, wary when Sharon turns the lock.

"Andy," she greets the man.

He looks just like she remembers; only his dark hair has turned completely grey and his smile is nervous instead of cheeky.

Even his gruff voice tremble with some sort of anxiety, "Sharon," he greets her back, looking uncomfortable.

…

She looks even more beautiful than Andy remembers; an impossibility that he attributes to her existence in general.

"Out on parole, I'd imagine," his Sharon comments in an insolent way that has him clenching his jaw momentarily. He quickly lets go of the impulse so reply back in the same tone.

"Nah," he shrugs, "I've been out for almost a year now. Good behavior, would you imagine," he smiles to alleviate the tension; joking about it is always easier to him.

His comment seems to stupefy her.

"You've been out for a year," she repeats in a hitched voice.

Yes, he has managed to surprise her.

He nods, and then the conversation stills, silence awkward.

It is then that he notices the boy from yesterday standing behind her shoulder; the little psycho who wanted to push the cops on him.

Andy gives a nod toward the scowling kid, "That little psycho yours?"

Her green eyes study him, impenetrable and her voice is uninflected when she answers, "Sort of."

"She is my guardian," the kid pipes up as he inches closer to the door opening, those narrowed eyes only hardening at Andy, "What's it to you, huh. And who are you? Some creep who lurks around other people's homes? Cause Mister, we got the police in our back pocket."

The boy's antics only make his Sharon smile; a notion that he finds both endearing and annoying. She is different, oh so different, he thinks, and yet it is the same Sharon from way back.

"Rusty," she addresses the boy in the softest voice – soft like the way she used to tell Andy she loved him with all her heart, "This is an old friend of mine. He's harmless, okay?"

Harmless? Well, that's a new adjective that he's never been called before.

He waves at the boy, "Hey there."

The boy purses his lips in spotless imitation of Sharon.

Damn, the boy has her mannerisms pegged down without fault.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Sharon asks him in a polite voice.

Andy can't help himself; he grins wide – genuinely and for the first time in a long time – and then cheekily replies, "What – are you out of coffee?"

Sharon snorts with laughter and the psycho kid looks suspiciously at Andy.

Once she is composed again, she gives him a look; a remnant of those secretive looks she used to give him whenever she saw fit to it. "Yes, I'm all out of coffee. You can have tea, a beer or a glass of wine – or maybe just water."

She opens her door for him and takes a step back, her hand out for the kid who follows her gesture.

Andy goes inside so relieved it feels like being drunk.

Never in the entirety of the year he spent working himself up to visiting her, had he imagined she would invite him in, let alone talk with him.

"Water or tea is fine; I don't drink," he tells her honestly. It is almost bursting forth, all the things he wants to tell her. I'm sober ten years, he wants to tell her. I have an honest job now, a regular paycheck, my own place – he desperately wants her to know he has changed. That he is not a criminal any longer.

"Oh," she gives him a backward glance, the boy in front of her – as if she is protecting the kid. She probably is in some fashion.

"Prison really has the knack for sobering a guy up," he jokes.

The kid glares, "You were in jail?"

Andy shrugs.

The kid looks to his guardian but Sharon has turned to the kettle and fixing tea.

Her look and demeanor says 'sit down' and Andy notices how both he and the kid quickly sit down at the dining room table, the kid taking a chair and scooting it a few inches away from Andy.

"So – are you like a psycho killer?" the kid asks him, and then with a cheeky smile the kid looks at Sharon, "Interesting friends you have, Sharon."

"Oh Rusty, we talked about this," Sharon starts in a voice Andy recognizes too well. The look she gives the boy is encompassed by sheer fondness and Andy is surprised the boy doesn't immediately melt upon contact. "Civility and good manners," she ends with a smile.

The boy pretends to look chastised but then he gives Andy an eye roll when Sharon turns her back.

…

1980

…

Sharon loves lying in bed with him in the early hours of the morning, darkness breaking away and dawn sneaking a peak through her narrow window. The mattress has moved a considerably amount during the night and she thinks there is a reason for him settling them closer to the window and the view outside. That reason is however not one he shares with her and even if she vaguely remembers him slipping under the covers in the middle of the night, she was too far away in sleep to question the act of pushing the mattress to another corner of her one-room apartment.

Andy is a night raven and she is more of a morning person.

Sharon reads by the morning light, a book propped up with a pillow as she rests on her stomach and elbows, feet dangling in the air as she moves her legs back and forth in a soft, slow pendulum swing.

He smells like a concoction of chaos; sweat and aftershave, stale alcohol and fresh mint. Underneath there is that distinct scent she associates with him when she is alone under covers caught in a fantasy. It makes her smile; she imagines he stands outside her apartment vigorously chewing gum so he won't have to brush his teeth, trying to wring off the oil stains that seem to be permanently engrained into his skin.

She sneaks a kiss to his temple before she goes to make coffee.

A big pot steaming hot; bitter enough to strike life into the dead he will tell her in a matter of minutes.

Sure enough, the moment she places the coffee pot and two cups on the wooden floor, in front of the mattress, he moves under the covers, his nose peeking out from under a pillow first.

"Damn, girl. What are you? Dead?" he sniffs at the coffee pot and squints at the black liquid she pours into both cups. After that he hides his face back into the pillow again.

Sharon smiles and then settles back into bed, sipping her coffee and slipping into the world of law once again.

After a while – minutes? half a hour? – she feels the soft touch of his fingers against the back of her spine, tracing patterns.

"You're mumbling," he grumbles at her, his tone rough from too little sleep and his fingers now adjourning up along one side of her torso, aiming to either tease or to simply show affection.

"I am memorizing," she tells him without turning her head, her attention only on the words, trying to get her head around regulations and rules, the language ornate and foreign.

"You are mesmerizing," he playfully slaps her ass, soft enough to be meant as an appreciative gesture and yet hard enough to tell her he is already sporting a morning erection.

She turns her head and gives him a coy look on purpose.

His hair is in a wild array, this and that way, and the stubble looks to be days old.

"Andy," she whines mockingly.

He pouts.

She purses her lips.

"I really wanna fuck you. Like in this very moment."

She laughs.

"Drink your coffee."

"I can't – I'll end up with stomach burns, if not big burning holes in my intestines."

She laughs again, "Oh, shush it. You make it just as strong, if not stronger. Remember? Jimmy told me all about your garage-coffee; they are going to use it as electric shock from now and onwards in the emergency wards. Heart-starter; that's what he calls your version of coffee."

He rolls onto his back in a huff, his legs pushing in over her lower body and his right arm neatly lying across her book as he yawns, "Maybe. You with your morning hair and cute little reading glasses, are what I would call a heart-starter."

She smiles.

He looks up at her, a raised eyebrow and a cheeky expression she knows always gets under her skin.

"You know, you are a regular heart-starter."

"I was reading," she tells him with a smile and a nod at her covered book.

"You were reading yesterday," he complains.

"Yes, and I will be reading tomorrow as well."

"Can't you read while I fuck you from behind?"

"Only if," she lowers her voice, trying to contain her amusement, "and only if you promise to be my personal errand boy for a month."

"Done," he says with pretend seriousness, immediately on her, his fingers tickling her sides as he leans in, his nose cold against her ear. "Love you."

She smiles and playfully asks, "You do?"

He nods against her neck, his mouth on the skin in a reverent kiss.

She can feel it at the corner of her mouth, the insistent tug. That is how it starts, and then it moves through her body, under her skin like wildfire. She ends up smiling back at him in a way that fills her whole being up with warmth.

She pushes her book away till it lands on its front, back cover up and forgotten for now. No, instead of study, she flings herself at him, laughing because now he is laughing.

"I love you too," she tells him between heavy kisses, their clothes hurriedly being flung away. Not that there is much to fling away; a couple of t-shirts and that is it.

…

"You steal from me, it's only a given I steal something of yours. Get in the game, boy."

The note is pinned to his Harley, a stick-it note, plain in color and indistinctive and with no signature. Just there, covering the helm of his bike.

It was not there when he came in early to the garage this morning; it is midday now and the sun is high in the sky, glaring. The air is dry and warm, and for a split of a second he thinks it is a bad joke and then the reality of it hits him, hard like the unmoving air.

Andy has never tasted dread like this before, the forceful way it feels like someone has shoved it inside his throat without his permission. Dread rolls off him in sweat, perspiration clinging to his back and t-shirt.

In some ways it is not a surprise to him; he just figured it would take longer for the bastard to figure the scam out. Andy knows exactly who pinned the damn note on his Harley.

Shit.

He throws a wrench key across the ground, the clang loud and shrill.

Shit, shit, shit.

He does not bother picking up the tool again, his hands clenched by his sides and his mind roaring.

"Jimmy," Andy bellows as he moves back into the garage. "Jimmy, you little piece of shit."

Jimmy – the idiot – looks up with a faraway glance, eyes blown away by something altogether different from merely beer. Andy kicks the empty beer cans on the floor, the sound of them rolling across the concrete floor satisfying.

"You idiot," he breathes out, hollow on the inside. The insult is as much directed at himself as it is at his cousin.

Shit.

It doesn't take a damn genius to figure out that when you piss off the big boss – the one who sits on top of the monetary pyramid of the city's underground illicit happenings – that you better skip town.

"We are goddamn screwed, you get that?"

His cousin shrugs, dreamy-eyed in escapism.

Only, for fuck's sake; it's too late to skip to anywhere. Andy does not bother getting a reaction from his cousin. The idiot is too far gone now and won't be much help.

Andy is quick to grab his things, a last look at Jimmy before he is out of the garage and jumps up on his Harley. Busted big time; well, he thinks, at least it is not the cops. The wheels of his bike skid in the curve as he runs as fast as he can through the streets, only one objective in mind. The bike feels too slow and he only skips the traffic lights when he is sure no cruiser is around to arrest him, mindful that if he has to spend time accommodating the cops, then surely whatever plan Mr. Garuto has planned, will be over and done with.

The longer the ride takes, the more fear wells up in him; the more time he has to reevaluate his outlook on the entirety of his screw-up; pissing off cops would have been better. If it had only been cops he was dealing with, then maybe it wouldn't feel this horrible. Mr. Garruto, however, will do just like he said in his note.

The threat is problematic on the surface because Andy has nothing of value in his life; no bank accounts with savings in them, no apartment or house to his name. The only thing he has is Sharon; more valuable than the entire world.

…

Sharon struggles with the heavy weight of the newly bought cactus in her arms, her backpack slung over one shoulder and threatening to slide off. The aroma of earth is heavy as she breathes in and it is such a peaceful scent that for a second she forgets the huge fight last night, the passive-aggressive words thrown around carelessly.

She never gets the opportunity to settle the plant in its new home.

The moment Sharon opens the front door and makes it inside her apartment, she is overthrown by a heavy body and a foul cloth is pushed forcibly in front of her mouth and nose, stinging and smelling horribly of chlorine.

She struggles with all the strength she can muster up but it is not enough; it is futile and in a manner of seconds she feels her body go limp.

Funny, the one thing she thinks before darkness sweeps her away, the one thing that seems to reverberate inside her skull when she drowsily wakes up again, is that Andy is going to go ballistic when he finds out someone chloroformed her. It is a fact that she clings to and it helps her, warms her and protects her.

That is until she opens her eyes and fully comprehends what looks like old veterans of the wrong side of the law, standing before her with grim expressions and leather jackets. Her eyes fastens on the crowbar in the hands of the guy in the back, the greasy slicked-back hair and crooked nose that looks to have been broken on more than one occasion. The two thugs have tied her down, rope around her wrists that chafes and rope around her feet that digs into the skin and successfully binds her to the legs of a chair. She feels so small, tied up like this and sitting on a chair while the two intruders tower over her.

Her world and composure tilts when the younger one steps forward and slaps her hard across the face, backhanded and with enough force to knock a horse unconscious.

"Sorry, doll, gotta make you look miserable," he apologizes in a sizzling voice that has her insides roiling. He smiles and she stares at his ugly, yellowed teeth through a haze of pain, blood welling up in her mouth.

Sharon wants to talk; she wants to tell them they have the wrong person but before she can stutter the first syllable, the young one backhands her again and then condescendingly puts his index finger before his mouth, "Shh, little girl. Better keep quiet. Quiet girls get to live, okay."

It sounds like a threat and the brute keeps smiling at her as if he expects her to talk.

She keeps her mouth shut then.

"Good girl."

The ugly thug however, is anything but silent.

"Let's hope Prince Charming gets here quick, huh girl."

She clenches her teeth and swallows the blood, her eyes cold as she says nothing.

"She's a pretty thing, ain't she," ugly-face says to his companion over his shoulder, "looks rich, huh."

Sharon breathes through her nose.

"Boss said not to do much to her," the one in the back says in a quiet, frightening rumble.

Ugly-face shrugs, "Boss said to teach the mechanic a lesson." His eyes land on her and he takes a slow step closer, smiling in what Sharon assumes is supposed to make her feel threatened, "Your boyfriend fucked up, sweetheart."

Still, she stays silent.

"She's a good listener, huh," ugly-face laughs.

"Don't knock her up too much," the man in the back says with a hard look at ugly-face before he turns toward the front door. "Boss wants her to live."

"Yeah, yeah," the young one sighs as he watches the older one leave through Sharon's front door.

She would prefer the old one had stayed.

…

Andy is met by a dark clothed man outside Sharon's apartment, swathed in the glare of the sun as smoke billows, the cigarette dangling between his thick fingers almost done. The man gives him a superior, dark look, meant to show who is in charge.

Andy's jaw is shut tight with anger, so raw it overwhelms him completely, not in the least softened by the alcohol in his system or the idea that someone is upstairs with Sharon.

"What do you want?" he sneers at the silent man, vaguely familiar with the mountain figure from snippets of conversation around town.

The man smiles, the pin-point of eyes momentarily gleaming.

"Boss wanted to teach you a lesson in property."

Andy smiles back, the action nothing but hateful, "If she is in any way hurt – if you have so much as touched one hair on her – I will personal see to it that your intestines are pulled out through your windpipe, get it, old man!"

The man laughs, "Be my guest and see how far you get, kiddo."

"You want the money back, is that it?" Andy tries not to sound desperate but it hangs there, in the words he speaks, in the trembling hands.

The man shrugs again, "Oh, it has nothing to do with money, boy. It is a matter of territory and hierarchy – you can keep the little profit you made from your high-jacking and theft." The smug idiot blows out smoke, and then, "As I said, it's a lesson."

"You did something to her?"

"Not me," the man smiles.

That does it.

The man is surprised when Andy pushes his leather jacket back, the gun tucked in his jeans.

…

When Sharon comes to after another round of being knocked around by an impatient Mr. Ugly-face, she is utterly surprised to be staring into Andy's concerned face instead of the hateful, ugly face she had expected. He is cradling her head with his big hands, the calluses on them familiar and soothing against her skin. His eyes are red-rimmed as he hovers so close to her she is able to feel his breath on her; moreover she is able to distinctly observe snot running from his nose in a trail close to his upper lip. He looks dreadful.

"Shit, shit. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Shit, shit."

He keeps repeating the sentence like a worshipful mantra, his eyes on her with some sort of manic expression. His eyes are unfocused and his scent overpowers her, putrid beer and stale blood, her own throat dry and to the point of throwing up the blood she swallowed earlier on. She almost gags.

"I'm so sorry."

"Andy," she croaks out, trying to maintain his attention, "I'm alright."

He caresses the sides of her face with his thumbs, the pad up and down in a soothing touch that seems almost absent on his part. Her hands are untied and the skin feels raw on them. Before she can comprehend more, she is pressed against his chest and she can feel him shudder against her, his erratic breathing troubling.

Shouldn't she be the one freaking out?

She threads a hand through his hair and holds him to her, firmly to let him know she is here, and then she tries to soothe him with nonsensical words and sounds.

It works.

He quietens down and his grip on her changes, becomes more aware she thinks, more soft and less desperate.

"I'm alright," she whispers, the flakes of blood on her lips still tasting like metal, "only a broken lip – or two," she tries to joke, "maybe a black eye or two."

"It's my fault," he tells her in a small voice, "It's all my fault. I'm so sorry."

"No, no," she disagrees.

Sharon is not stupid; she knows he must have pissed someone off – someone who he shouldn't be dealing with at all – but it doesn't matter now. The late nights and weak excuses, the drinking and the money that seems to spring up out of the blue; it is of no consequence now. They have fought enough as it is. It is not his fault. "No matter what you have done, it's not your fault, okay? You didn't tie me up or beat me up – it wasn't you, okay. You are not responsible for the actions of others."

"I didn't mean to."

"What, honey?"

"I just wanted to scare them off. I didn't think he would have a gun as well."

The words run through her skin like deep winter.

"I had to shoot him first, okay. I had to. And then there was another, out of the blue. I didn't mean to."

When she takes a tentative look at her apartment she sees the chaos, his shoulder soft against her chin as he continues to cradle her, his face hidden in her neck. The mattress is thrown in the other corner of the room, her plants ripped out and soil on the floor in a mess. Her favorite painting is half off its canvas and her front door is gaping wide open.

She threads a hand through his hair again and the action makes him look up. His expression is pale and his t-shirt is marred by spatter of blood. The hands that touch her cheek smell raw and when she looks, his knuckles are bloody, skin grated off in strips.

In the middle of everything, on the floor unmoving is the younger thug, lying with eyes open and staring unblinking up into her ceiling. One side of his face is caved in and there is a small pool of blood by his ears and skull; blood that only keeps on expanding.

Worse, next to the expanding pool, near what looks like the rope she had been tied with, is the cold metal of a gun, the crowbar lying haphazardly by Andy's feet.

She looks back at Andy, her heart so quiet that it is painful.

"Where did you get a gun?"

He looks so lost, staring at her uncomprehendingly.

"It was self-defense?" she isn't sure if it is a question or an order.

He nods slowly as if he is drugged, "They were hurting you. They pulled the gun first. I didn't mean to – I just wanted to get you out, safely," he starts crying again, "I just wanted you safe."

"We need to call an ambulance and the police," she breathes out, fear so palpable inside her that her hands shake.

Again, he simply nods as he continues to hold her, sniffing into the side of her neck.

…

Prison reeks of desperation and sweat, broken promises and death threats. The desolation and the isolation intermingle to the point of inseparability, the startling harsh reality soon simple routine. Daily life continues, grey and more dangerous than the streets outside.

Andy's mind is set and his vision clear when Sharon visits him the first time after his sentencing; he is sporting weeks' worth of stubble, his eyes drawn and hollow but his determination is unwavering. The bruises on his jaw and his raw knuckles reinforce the notion that he belongs in here; a reminder to himself that in here it is a matter of survival and he gives a good punch back when provoked. Half a year of constant fear and dread, a horrible trial already set on the outcome and his life is rendered in stark relief. He sees it all clear now; the patterns of his life and how it connects.

He is no good for her – even less in a jumpsuit and behind bars, a lowly criminal with a too short fuse – and so he tells her the lay of the land in the only way that will get her to stay far away from him; in the only way that will let her move on with her life. Brutality and harshness; that is all he has now.

He doesn't love her.

He doesn't want to see her again.

He doesn't want her to write.

The harsh words sink in slowly, her eyes glazed over with a haunted expression. It is nothing new; it has been there since that day he killed two people.

The visiting room smells sweet in a ripening fashion, the scent of perfume and sweat strong, the low murmur of voices a constant thrum. There is no real privacy here – not really. Next table over to the left is the red-haired mountain of a man, barely old enough to be an adult and yet there is a hard look in the edges of the firm eyes; Andy assumes it is the boy's mother who sits across, wringing her hands around a tissue. In the back, there is an older man, bald and marred, mute as he listens to what can only be an attorney.

Sharon sits politely and still across from him, her clothes impeccable, ironed and smooth. She sits unmoving like a marble statuette, her spine ramrod straight. Her complexion is pale and she looks slightly sick, an unhealthy tinge to her skin.

"Okay," she says in a low, modulated voice, "I understand."

Another inmate raises his voice, insults flying across the room until a guard tells the big guy to keep it down.

Andy cannot tell her that he is letting her go; setting her free.

Instead he bites out, "I don't love you."

Anger is so warm inside his body that even if he only directs its volume and energy at himself, she will still see and hear the current he speaks with; anger. It is the reason he feels like hitting something; the reason he doesn't mind when the others get the first punch in.

"Okay," she says to the top of the table in front of her, her pale fingers intertwined to the point where it looks painful.

Andy grimaces, "I don't want you to come here – I don't want to see you again. You understand?"

She looks up with a jolt, distraught, "You cannot just tell me -"

He quickly interrupts her, his voice trembling, "Don't you get it? You don't belong here."

She stares at him as if he has grown two heads.

Andy stares back, his eyes narrowed.

"Okay," she repeats, her eyes focused on the table again and for a horrible second he is afraid she will start to cry.

Andy grits his teeth, prepared to ignore the tears.

But no, she only sits so still he thinks he might have broken something in her; then after an uncomfortable period of time, she gets up.

Before she goes, he takes her expression for keepsake.

She looks so devastated and yet the moment she rises from her chair, she looks determined.

…

2012

…

"I've imagined this so many times, in my head, that I've lost count," Andy tells her in an honest tone, the tea in his cup lukewarm. There is only Sharon now and her presence seems more intimidating without the presence of the boy.

Her smile is both soft and sad, "Oh, me too. I imagined it for years, Andy. I imagined it everytime I went upstate to visit you. You never wanted to see me though. Two years I went without ever seeing you."

Andy clears his throat. He is not proud of his actions those first years in prison; sending her away everytime she came to see him however, will always feel right to him. It is the same feeling that made him avoid her for so long, the same sentiment that forced him to make himself non-existent in her life. His life did not belong with hers; not back then. Instead of answering her, or trying to explain his actions, he simply nods.

"Apparently you were too busy knocking people around and getting into solitary," she says it with a simple shrug. And there it is, bitterness, understated and not full-blown but yet he catches on to the undercurrent.

"If I hadn't knocked the others around, I would be dead now."

It is a harsh fact of life in prison; you only turn more dark.

She gives him a probing look, weighing upon something.

Andy quickly sips more of the lukewarm tea, the mint powerful. He feels so out of his element in this setting, in her home. In his imaginations there is always the possibility of going back and changing what doesn't work. In real life, the past is static and a wrong step will ruin what little connection remains between the two of them.

Andy sighs and then continues, "I was angry for a long time."

"I can relate," she says, dryly.

He smiles scornfully, "Ah, I'm not sure of that."

She purses her mouth.

The tension is visible and just under the surface there is something else he cannot put a name on.

"You have been out on parole before. What is different now? – why come see me now? The first time you were out on parole, you didn't contact me. I only knew you had been out when I got notice of you going back to prison again."

"You were doing so well with your life back then," he defends himself, "I didn't want to disturb you. I didn't want you suffering on behalf of me."

"I could have helped you," there is bitterness in her voice again but dejection is more palpable.

"I was on a downward spiral, Sharon. In and out of jail, that's no life to share with you. It's no life to share with anyone."

Her mouth thins.

"And now?"

Andy shrugs, "I spent a year gearing up for meeting you."

She smiles and the action surprises even her; she quickly looks away and when she is composed, she looks back at him, a small smile still present, "Am I that intimidating?"

Andy laughs, "Yes."

There is a brief silence, tense and awkward as they pretend not to look at each other.

"I followed your career," he tells her when silence is at the point of overpowering him, "and it makes me happy to know you have gotten where you wanted. It took me a very long time but I'm in a good place now. I'm good now, on the straight and narrow, you know."

She looks up, surprised yet again.

…

The second time they meet up, she is insistent on it being on neutral ground. That first time, in her home, felt too close for comfort.

A café in the hum and buzz of street life is common ground between them and it offers the guise of publicity to hide behind. She wears a dark suit and the cover of professionalism along with a hot cappuccino in her hands is akin to a life vest.

They have little to talk about but the past; even less since the past is off-limits.

The whole thing – the actual act of sitting across from him, drinking coffee and pretending they haven't spent a half lifetime apart - it ends up hitting her hard. The impact is so painful and uncomfortable that she considers never seeing him again; she considers leaving him in the café as she stands in the restroom, her eyes on the mirror and her own reflection. She can easily sneak out the back or pretend the office needs her to come in; she can even use the excuse Rusty imprinted on her a thousand times, the wonderful boy still wary about Andrew Flynn.

The restroom is empty and for that she is glad; no one can see her look devastated and out of sorts, no one knows she is waiting for the tears to subside, angrily pushing them away the moment they leave the confines of her eyes.

He won't blame her.

He will see through the feeble excuses but he won't blame her.

It is this notion, however, that make it impossible to leave.

She tries to infuse her determination with a deep breath, inhale and exhale, and then she thinks about corn fields and the summer sun, orange city light in winter and the silent momentum of driving in traffic, waves hitting the shore rhythmically and the tint of a crescent moon low in the horizon.

She splashes water on her face and wipes it off with paper towels.

When she rejoins him, Andy has ordered two blueberry oat muffins and refilled her cappuccino, his fingers patiently intertwined as he waits with his elbows on the table. He says nothing about her red-rimmed eyes and nothing about the ten minutes that she spent avoiding him.

Sharon forces on a smile albeit it being small and weak.

"If you don't want to be here," he says in a quiet voice when she slides in on her chair again, "please don't force yourself to be here. I will understand."

She waves his concern away and instead she fastens her gaze on the refilled coffee cup, "You got me another cappucino." She stirs a spoon into the foam.

His mouth tightens at the blatant way she ignores his comment.

"Yeah," he sighs resigned, "got a good prize on a refill."

"Thank you," she smiles cordially and sips from the rim of the cup, the warm feeling of the cup against her hands calming. The scent and the flavor of caffeine even more calming and when she takes another look around the café, she feels more at ease.

He studies her; she can feel his eyes on her, flickering over her form, lingering on her hair and her hands, then on her mouth and then very briefly the top of her chest. Mostly though, she thinks he studies her expression, gauging her mood.

In the end, after another round of coffee and awkwardness, he walks her down the block, casually observing her when he thinks she is not looking.

She feels guilty; he suited up for the occasion. She has never seen him in a suit before and the clothing looks impeccable; he looks like a completely different person. She knows it is all for her benefit; the clean-shaven chin, the subtle but fresh smell of his aftershave and the soft Italian leather shoes and the bright-colored tie.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he tells her with his hands deep in the pockets of his open jacket, in front of her silver Hyundai, the words sounding well-thought out. His honesty surprises her; she thought he would simply say goodbye. His eyes seem darker when they connect with hers.

"You do not have to feel obligated to see me or meet up with me."

"I don't," she comments and when his mouth opens to disagree she quickly explains, "I don't feel obligated. I feel uncomfortable, maybe, yes. Uneasy, maybe. Is that not natural?"

"I guess," he nods and then his lips break into a smile, "I'm nervous as hell, so yeah."

She smiles back, "See, we are both out of our elements."

He nods again, slow and without the cheerful shade he greeted her with when he stood outside the café, waving shyly at her approach.

Sharon breathes in deep and the she quickly asks, "Can I give you a ride home?"

He shakes his head, "Nah, it's no bother. My Harley is parked in the other direction. I just wanted to walk you to your car."

The image she instantly has of him on his bike warms her.

"You still ride," she comments with the first true smile of the afternoon.

"Occasionally," he answers.

She looks down, to hide her smile, her pain; the two are too tangled when it concerns him.

"Look," he starts in a low voice.

Sharon looks up, catching the pained expression in his eyes.

"I don't expect anything from you."

She must look surprised.

"All I ask is a second chance."

"A chance at what?"

"At friendship, at apologizing. To make it up to you. Whatever you feel comfortable with."

"Okay," she agrees, not sure she is ready to give him anything.

"Okay," his smiles genuinely. The smile floors her; he is happy simply being able to apologize to her.

She will give friendship a chance; she wants to believe in him, in second chances. Otherwise, the world would be awfully dreary.

"It might take time," she tells him honestly – because she cannot simply jump into friendship with him as if nothing has ever happened. "I mean, it will most likely feel awkward and weird for some time. I can't simply pretend, you know." She stops, not sure how to tell him that her hesitation has more to do with her heart than he will ever understand.

Andy looks directly at her, his voice soft when he makes it simple for her; "I'll wait for you." His tone is thoughtful and it makes her eyes water. "You've waited enough for me, Sharon. So I'll wait. I've got all the time for you."

They leave in separate directions, awkward goodbyes.

Next time, she thinks there is a distinct possibility it will feel more natural.

Next time, she thinks she will be more open to the idea of friendship.

…

Finito.