Crossroads

by Isolith

A look into the past - two lives cross. Police ball of 1985; Andy's drunk – Sharon's sad.

Title: Crossroads

Summary: A look into the past - two lives cross. Police ball of 1985; Andy's drunk – Sharon's sad.

A/N: My attempt to not write angst; fail =)

-o-

/Red Tape/

Andy had not seen her up close for twenty years; had only been privileged to the rumor mill about her – the bitch from IA. Darth Raydor some preferred to call her. The frigid bitch who had a stick stuck up her ass – who really needed someone to fuck her malleable. The robot hell-bent on following the rules grievously; stuck-up know-it-all. The list was long.

She looked older; which was to be expected. She looked very self-important; which did not surprise him. She looked unbaffled; which really was no surprise either. She looked like the bitch everyone thought she was; striding in her high-heels and figure-tailored cotton-coat, floating along the ground in a walk that in no way assuaged the bitch attitude – commandeering her detectives and flinging orders left and right. Looking as if she owned every one of them. A well-dressed hustling bitch; it amused him. Maybe she did own a little bit of him; a tiny piece of skin, he mused.

He wondered if she remembered him. He wondered if she wondered whether he remembered her. He had been drunk but somehow the memory of her was not lost in a blurry haze. Somehow he remembered her vividly.

It was not a memory he felt inclined to share with Provenza; or anyone else for that matter. The encounter was something else; it seemed both embarrassing and curious now in hindsight.

He plastered a grin on his face and arched his eyebrow as she approached her red tape, seeing Provenza and him standing there. Maybe he only imagined that her eyes lingered longer on him but the likewise arched eyebrow she directed their way was not beyond him. She was amused, he could tell.

The situation amused her; her smile directed to the small ants that were far outside their own territory.

Oh, still a smug bitch.

Provenza grumbled something; Andy just watched her walk away, following the sway of her hips and the toned legs in the high heels.

Shit; he wouldn't mind banging her even now.

/1985/

His headache disappeared the instant he drowned the rest of the whiskey in his tumbler. He was buzzed but not wasted. He had deliberately avoided drinking his usual the whole day; knew he would otherwise have been unable to attend this obligatory festivity. His captain had pulled him aside last week and told him in no uncertain terms that if he showed up drunk it would be straight out on his ass. Andy was not sure if he cared. He had arrived only slightly high-spirited; capable of remaining outward collected. He was buzzed now and felt wonderful. Only; he did not particularly feel like conversing with anyone.

He felt horny though.

He noticed her when he let his eyes wander around the ballroom.

It was almost impossible not to notice her – she stuck out like a sore thumb.

She was alone; sitting by herself sipping what looked like sparkling water – or maybe it was a gin and tonic. His eyes always riveted to lonely women; they were easier to charm.

She was pregnant; almost heavily pregnant – sparkling water then. It did not matter really; he did not mind. It only seemed to draw him closer if anything; he had never really been with a pregnant one before. His ex-wife had left before she had started showing, filling for divorce before he could sober up; the mess had only reeled him right back into the arms of his whiskey.

He strode towards her table; his tumbler once again occupied by brown liquid. She was sporting a split lip and a bruise under her eye; it was vivid upon her pale face and noticeable once he came close enough. Make-up could only cover so much.

Not a problem either; maybe she needed a little bit of comfort. A shoulder to cry on; he could deal with that.

He sat down giving her an inviting smile.

Her eyes locked on him, condescending in their depths. She seemed almost angry that he chose to sit down next to her. It did not deter him; he craved some kind of resistance – she looked like the sort to antagonize.

He sipped his whiskey, his eyes on her.

She twitched in her seat; uncomfortable with his gaze.

"You don't seem to be enjoying yourself," he drawled, his eyes travelling across her features; the dark brunette strands that looked almost black when he tilted his head; cold dark eyes regarding him with disdain. He just grinned; he had always liked a challenge.

There was a wedding band on her finger; he noticed when she gripped around her glass. It did not bother him either. Nothing really did when he was drunk.

She sighed. "I'm not interested."

Her voice was rich in texture; the words slowly pronounced and infused with something that only made him more intent on immersing himself into her space.

He sipped another mouthful of whiskey, tilted his head as he regarded her.

"Darling – you are sitting here all by your lonesome."

Her eyes narrowed and he knew she resented being called darling; it amused him.

"I prefer it that way."

What she really meant was fuck off; her voice was dismissive now and held an undercurrent of danger.

He smiled; this was just what he needed – a feisty invitation really; she should have ignored him. He would most likely have gone then. But no; there was something about her.

"I hope you beat the crap outta the bastard who did that to you," he indicated the bruise on her cheek and the gash on her bottom lip.

Her lips turned slightly crooked; the barely noticeable smirk dark.

Oh; she was a treat.

"Was it your husband?"

Her eyes turned to him; and he saw the truth in them even if she tried to hide it with a derisive look.

"I hope you're filing for divorce, darling."

Her face turned into an enraged sneer; it did not make her any less enticing.

He brought his tumbler to his lips, watched as her eyes kept him in a locked look of barely concealed disgust.

"He was drunk," she said to him, the tone delivered in a perfect pitch; not a simple waver in it – then her eyes latched onto the tumbler with whiskey in his hand, "Just like you are."

He gave a laugh; she really was something.

He tipped his tumbler at her and took another sip.

"I don't hit women even if I am drunk," he told her casually, watching her expression flitter from contempt to sadness then back to annoyance.

He had a fleeting thought that she would throw her drink in his face; she looked on the verge of something violent. Only he watched as her expression changed – became almost dark with something that reminded him of fiery fire.

"Honey," she drawled the word drenched in scorn, "you reek of desperation."

He shrugged – she reminded him of a snake, glistening poisonous fangs bared to inflict some kind of pain. Usually people left when he started poking them – not her; she seemed intent on biting back.

She continued, "Don't fool yourself; everyone can see you're wasted."

"I wonder what everyone sees when they look at you?" he countered.

"A stuck-up bitch," she replied; it seemed to amuse her, somehow.

"Touché," he grinned.

He watched as she tried to fight her lips curling into a bemused smile.

"I'm still not interested," her smile was less derisive.

He merely chuckled in reply; instead he took his time looking her over, purposefully doing it in a slow fashion. He let his eyes linger on her cleavage, wondering what it would be like to suck her nipples into his mouth – what it would be like to undress her and tangle his hands into her hair as he fucked her.

He looked up and saw a faint blush on her cheeks.

Feisty, sad and probably in serious need of some pampering; perfect combination.

"Not interested in talking?" he prompted even though he knew that was not what she had referred to.

"Even if I felt in the mood you would not be on my list," she tilted her head, sipped some water.

He arched an eyebrow; "I'm not sure you would be on anyone's list either."

"What, I'm too pregnant!"

"Too heavy yeah."

Her eyes widened; almost non-perceivable but he noticed.

She narrowed them a second after; "But I'm on your list?"

He grinned, "I won't mind; I'm drunk remember."

She looked caught in between a dark gaze of anger and hurt.

"Yes, what a catch you are," she snorted sarcastically.

"Indeed," he agreed.

She looked away; her gaze going into the crowd of people at the other tables. She obviously wanted him gone, out of her sight.

"I'm good with a massage," he told her, keeping his voice conversational.

Her head turned his way again, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

"You don't know when to stop do you!"

He shrugged.

She continued, her voice like venom; "I would imagine that's why you're a drunk."

"I wouldn't be talking to you if I were sober."

"Oh, just my luck."

"You kicked him out?"

"Pardon?"

"You kicked the bastard out, I hope."

"What's it to you?"

"Curiosity, darling."

She heaved a deep inhalation, "It's none of your concern."

"You don't look like the type."

"What type?"

"The type that doesn't fight back."

Her teeth shone as she revealed them in an angry smile; "I'm seconds away from decking you."

"I bet you're something in bed."

She shook her head; "Really; that's your line!"

"That's your only kid?" he nodded at her stomach.

She did not answer.

He scooted closer to her; watched as she looked even more furious but she did not move an inch.

"You looked sad sitting here by yourself; that's the reason I came over."

"Right; that and your dick."

"Yeah; I brought it along for this special occasion – you wanna greet him?"

She rolled her eyes.

"You can keep him for yourself," she retorted.

"Your loss darling."

She tilted her head and gave him a long look; "If I wanted sex you idiot I would not have trouble finding it; so lay off."

He grinned; he was sure he had never met someone this delightful to antagonize.

"I don't want sex; I want to fuck you."

This time her smile was sugary; "Too bad; you're not my type."

"You like them older?"

"You probably like them younger," she shot back.

"You like them with higher rank," he guessed.

"As I said, you're not my type."

"I'm too charming?"

"I like them sober."

"I can be sober."

She sighed, "Honey, I'm not a ditzy little doll; I know who you are."

"What do you mean?" he felt a little unsettled; the first time this evening.

"Sergeant Flynn, I presume."

He gave a half nod, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

Her smile turned wry, "Aggressive, bad-tempered, always taking the easy way out; sound familiar?"

He kept silent.

"You've not been sober for a long time; everyone is covering for you. Do you ever wonder how long it will last?"

"How long what will last?"

"Until they give up on you, throw you out."

"I'm doing my job; no skin off my nose."

"Someday you will wake up in your own vomit and wonder where your life has gone; some day you won't wake up at all. It's only going in one direction; don't you know that?"

"So you kicked him out!" he tried to remain calm, tried to bring back a conversation that did not seem this hurtful.

She sighed and stood; she looked down at him.

"You should sober up."

"You should keep those legs open; you never know when a promotion is up."

She rolled her eyes; and then strode away.

-o-

His head hurt like crazy, overwhelming him in a nauseating ache. He was stumbling into the toilet, his hands trying to keep blood from flowing to the floor and unto his shirt; his nose was hurting even worse than his head.

"Go to hell, bastard," he sneered over his shoulder at the tense sergeant standing in the doorway, fingers tenderly trying to soothe a swollen eye.

"Keep it up," the guy spat. Andy watched as the guy winced, fingers once again going to the bruised skin – he smiled to himself. Even if he felt as if someone had run him over he had managed to get a fist in.

He looked at himself in the mirror; the bloody nose standing painfully out – ashen face and incoherent eyes, he thought. He looked awful.

"Or what; I'm not the only one to get reaped across the coals, pal"

When he was drunk he had the unfortunate tendency to piss people off; it was not seldom it resulted in some form of fight – verbal or physical. Sergeant Hotshot leaning against the toilet door had been in his face and things had escalated before Andy had his bearings.

It was one of those things that seldom made it into the official reports; too much paperwork to file and tend to – just a couple of guys letting off steam was usually the general consensus. Usually it never amounted to anything big – only somehow this time it had escalated into inflicting visible signs. He was not sure whether the higher brass would let it slide without some form of reprimand.

But Sergeant Hotshot would be in just as much trouble; it calmed Andy down somewhat.

"I'm getting us a first aid kit," the guy sneered and left – most likely never to return again. Andy would have fled the scene of crime as well – only he was not sure he could manage to walk the whole way out of the building to hail a cab. He felt horribly nauseous; he had poured too much whiskey into the refilling of his tumbler – had managed to drink too many liquid-filled tumblers. He felt sick – the pain in his face not helping one inch.

He sighed.

He should just have stayed at home and drowned himself; anything would have been better than this spectacle. Screw mandatory attendance and his god-awful captain; he should have stayed home.

"You alright?" a soft voice spoke from the doorway.

He turned his head around, surprised at the voice – he had managed to crumple together a couple of paper towels and stuck them to his face – they were already soaked through with his blood.

He had not expected to see her again; had thought she would be well out of his hair; had expected she would not come close to him again.

He turned his head back to the mirror and took another paper towel from the dispenser and plastered it on the other crumbled bloodied tissues. He had no clue what to do – too wasted to even figure out how to stop his nosebleed.

He heard the door close; he thought maybe she had gone again – only he heard the telltale sign of someone approaching him – heels clicking on the floor.

He spun around again, ready to tell her to go fuck herself; not in the mood to converse with a single soul.

But her head was tilted to the side as she regarded him, an almost pitying look in the depths of her eyes.

She shook her head, dark strands flying; "Honey, you're really screwed up – don't you know not to piss the wrong ones off?"

He grumbled, the motion bringing along a torrent of pain from his nose and lips.

"C'mon here," she said as she stepped even closer – her hands suddenly on his jaw and tilting his head back.

"Keep it there," she ordered and took away all the tissues from his nose – threw them in the trash.

He was about to open his mouth – probably tell her a ghastly cheesy thing or two, only she stuck a rolled up tissue straight up one nostril and then proceeded to stick another one up the other nostril.

He was left flustered – the lecherous thing he had been about to lay on her gone from his mind – he could not remember what he had been about to say.

Her hands gripped his chin again – a bit roughly; he had been about to tilt his head back and look at her.

"I said keep it there"

He heard the sound of water flowing; then the cold feel of a wet tissue running across his lips and cheek and jaw – down his neck.

"God – you've got blood all over."

"Thanks mom," he grumbled not ready to go all mushy over someone actually caring. He knew he had blood all over; it was in his mouth, the taste horrible metallic and doing nothing to soothe his whiskey-induced nausea.

He imagined she rolled her eyes at the comment.

Again her hands gripped his jaw, turned his head back to a normal position as she gave him a onceover.

She looked unbaffled – dark eyes settling unto him with something that made him unsure.

"Sit down," she commanded again – her voice hard – she pushed him to sit down on the sink, "Before you pass out – I'm not sure that head of yours can handle a concussion as well"

She came to stand in front of him, his eyes at the wonderful level of her breasts.

He grinned even if it hurt – this was shaping up better than he had imagined.

He winced when her fingers examined his eyebrow – the bastard might have hit him there as well. She prodded around his nose as well; examining it while he tried not to shy away at the slight pain it evoked.

"You're going to bruise nicely," she commented as if he was an interesting specimen of a plant.

She was actually not that tall he reflected. She seemed even smaller now – only that protruding belly of hers seemed to demand a larger presence.

Her dress was modest – but still he found his eyes going up and down her figure – wondering and contemplating.

He heard her sigh.

He looked up and caught her eyes; hard and not amused.

"You've got a split lip as well," she pointed out for him – as if the throbbing pulse in his lips was not clear enough.

"We almost match," he countered, keeping his gaze on her own bruised face; hers was more faded though – it had not happened yesterday. He wondered whether she had filed charges; spouses rarely did.

She kept silent; went about wetting another tissue – one hand once again on his jaw as she tried to get more of the now caked blood from his skin. Her fingers felt determined but soft – he did not mind.

He looked down again – eyes going straight to her belly.

As if of its own accord one hand landed on her waist – going around in the front on the stretched out skin, the large bulge seemed almost alien to him.

"Sure, go right ahead and grope me," she caustically retorted but kept her attention on cleaning his face.

It did not really feel like he thought it would.

"My ex left before she started showing," he confessed to her, his eyes still on her belly – his hands barely touching her – he was half afraid she would slap him; his face hurt enough as it was.

She sighed again.

But her hand came and covered his – at first he thought it was an odd action; only she drew his hand down her belly, on the other side.

"He usually kicks right here."

Her hand pressed his down and he could feel it more closely.

He waited in half wonder; and then he felt it.

He looked up and caught her eyes; they were obscure – he had no way of knowing what was going through her mind.

He looked down again; her hand left his but he kept his own on her belly – amazed at all the activity. Amazed at the feeling – it seemed so absurd. He let his thumb trace around in a circle, his palm flat – he wondered whether she let others touch her like this; or whether she just pitied him.

"Honey?" her voice was soft.

He looked up again; relieved she did not call him sergeant. There was something almost comforting about her voice and the way she pronounced 'honey'.

"I'm going to call you a cab, okay?"

He nodded; his world blurring and swimming at the motion. His hand was still on her; he did not want to let go.

"I'll help you through the building, okay?"

He nodded again; he was more focused on her belly, his hand and the movement beneath gaining all of his attention – he felt on the verge of breaking down. He had a small thought that his ex-wife was in the same state as her – maybe just as big.

She tilted his head up, her eyes almost soft.

"You're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

"I know."

"I know a sponsor – he's really a wonderful guy – he could help you," the words were delivered in a neutral voice, a steady rhythm he felt himself more and more drawn to. It seemed balanced.

He snorted; it always came down to that – trying to fix him. He was too fragmented for recovery – too broken and old to be given a second chance.

He hopped down from the sink – he saw the wide surprise in her eyes at the sudden movement. It did not last long; he swayed on his feet and was barely able to keep his balance – her eyes turned back to a calm demeanor, her hand on his arm steadying him.

"No sponsor," he told her when the world stopped spinning, pulling the tissues from his nostrils and depositing them in the trashcan. He was not about to walk through the building with them stuck up his nose.

She kept silent.

Instead she helped him all the way down and out of the building; a silent but somehow calm presence. Once outside he leaned on the wall, breathing in the fresh air as she quickly strode inside to call a cab for him.

They did not exchange another word; both silent as they waited for the cab to arrive.

She watched him getting in and disappeared again when the car drove away – his eyes followed her retreat into the building as he drove away in the cab.

He wondered what her name was – but it was only a brief thought. If he saw her again they could pretend it had never happened; her name was inconsequential.

/Old Money/

Her name had turned out to anything but insignificant, however – here some twenty-odd years after that horrible evening and her name evoked a turmoil of emotion in him. Her name was feared among the whole police department – was a name that could drive everyone into frenzy. It was a cursed name as much as it was joked about. He did not even learn her first name until he read up on her, after that first time she had collided with major crimes – feeling an inexplicable need to know more about her.

It felt weird; he felt he knew her on some level – but face to face so many years after their encounter and she seemed like a stranger. It would not really have bothered him only he sometimes caught himself studying her facial expressions – trying to catalogue familiar ones and new ones.

He had seen her up close numerous times now – even spoken to her; but it was all in the capacity of police personas and with a heavy motive to protect major crimes from her. She was the outsider; the one intent on bringing along unwanted rules and unwanted chaos. Her presence alone seemed to drive everyone in the squad crazy; he felt a little bit mad as well.

Why was she all of a sudden in his life; as if something seemed intent on pushing her into his path Why, when he had had no contact with her for so long.

They had never once spoken about that evening so long ago; it was as if it did not exist. They had seen each other from afar in those intervening years – it was impossible not to cross paths a bit when you worked in the same building – but they had never acknowledged each other.

Only; somehow she had made an impression. He found himself drawn to her; even when he felt an overwhelming need to trample her down.

He was leaning against his battered car – blood seeping from god knows how many wounds, his knees weak beneath him. Everything hurt; a nagging little thought in the back of his head kept spinning around the scenario of his dead body lying limb next to his car – too much blood loss.

He kept seeing her, young and pregnant – standing in front of him, tending to his battered face.

He kept hearing her soft voice, calming him down.

He called her number.

Not only was the whole mess the affair of FID – but he was hit by something intense; something that coiled inside him in a very peculiar way. Maybe she could fix it.

Maybe he just wanted to see her a last time; before he passed out.

He had a strange nostalgic thought that she would somehow soothe the situation.

-o-

/Isolith

Hope you enjoyed this little one-shot.