DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. OBVIOUSLY.

SO I THOUGHT I'D TRY MY HAND AT SOMETHING DIFFERENT. AS USUAL, REVIEWS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME, BUT FLAMES WILL BE DISREGARDED. THIS IS ALL FOR FUN. SIMPLE AS. NO NEED FOR NASTINESS.

WHILE THE TITLE OF THIS STORY IS TAKEN FROM THE SONG BY NICKELBACK, THIS IS NOT A SONG FIC!

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I'm considering this my 'Earl' moment.

You know, the now cancelled television show My Name Is Earl? Starring Jason Lee as the hapless, petty crook who wins a hundred grand in the lottery, only to lose it when he gets hit by a truck? Who decides, while cooped up in his hospital bed, to attempt to right all of his wrongs and make amends for all the shitty things he's ever done to people in the past. After he makes good with the first person in mind, he ends up finding that winning ticket of his and then takes it as a sign from God and makes a huge list of others that he's fucked over and feels the urge to kiss and make up with.

Although I'm not a fan of the show and would take my Rangers over a sitcom any day, Messer swears by Earl and his band of losers and thinks it was the greatest thing to ever hit the airwaves; he even watches the re-runs despite the fact he's got the box sets and knows the damn episodes word for word. I have, however, seen enough to get the whole premise that what goes around, in the end definitely comes around. And that Karma certainly is a big old fucking bitch. But I'm no Earl. Winning the jackpot hasn't prompted me to compose a list of everyone I've ever give the proverbial middle finger to in my life. All the people I've wrongfully accused for crimes, the perps that I've gotten a little too verbal with and a tad physical, only to find out in the end that they were innocent the entire time. The witnesses that maybe I haven't been the most friendly and accommodating to or the idiotic defence lawyers I've gone toe to toe with when I've been on the stand. Or the lab techs that I've nearly made piss their pants because I've gone up to the lab guns a blazing, barking orders and demanding answers and explanations and then feeling a since of satisfaction when I've realized I've made even the boys quiver in fear.

And I'm certainly not about to call up the family of the perp that killed Jessie and repent for blowing his sorry brains out. The guy had it coming and I'd do it again, a hundred times over, if the need ever arose. He had got what was coming to him, plain and simple. And when I'd walked out of that boiler room, my heart still shattered into a million pieces and feeling lost and empty, I'd been suddenly filled with the utmost sense of peace. As if I'd somehow righted a drastic wrong. That I was excused in the eyes of God for betraying my badge and myself for taking the action that I had. I'd known, in those split seconds before pulling the trigger, that what I was doing was wrong. That I should have simply just called for backup and let another cop, or even Danny, take the perp in. I should have just walked away and called it a day. The bad guys had been caught and would atone for what they had done. My job was done and there was no need to take things into my own hands. I should have been able to just turn and leave that boiler room and go and drown my sorrows in an endless supply of booze and then find some way to both accept what had happened to Jess, and to get on with my life.

A year later, I'm honestly unsure of why I'd done it. Why I'd chose to end a life instead of seeking the normal course of justice. Despite my personal beliefs of 'an eye for an eye' when I was growing, joining the academy and the years on the force had drilled it into me that letting the law handle things was the right way to go. At the time, with Jess' sudden and tragic death staring me in the face, the rage and the sorrow had been so overwhelming, so raw and powerful, that drawing blood and snuffing out the life responsible for taking hers had seemed like the only option.

Now, almost a year and an hour to the day that I talked to Jess' dad after her funeral, I realize that I'd gone about everything all wrong. Despite the fact that Danny's my boy and I know for a fact that he'll never rat on me, I live in constant paranoia that my dirty little secret will be exposed. That my single act of vengeance will come back to hand me in a big way and I'll end up both losing my badge, and spending the rest of my natural born life in Sing-Sing. At the time, I'd convinced myself that the undying, unwavering love that I felt for Jess had given me the green light to go ahead and avenge her death. And now…now I realize that my devotion wasn't so undying and unwavering after all. It didn't take the months I thought it would to get over losing her. I had thought for sure that I'd spent at least a year in a fog of alcohol and grief. That I'd toss and turn every night and pine for her for at least the better part of three hundred and sixty five days. At least. That it would take a hell of a long time before it hurt to speak her name or see her picture that it would kill me inside to pass her empty desk and frequent the places we once did with each other.

The truth was, a month after her death, life wasn't so painful for me anymore. I was able to both think about her and talk about her without feeling like complete and utter shit. I was able to pack the things she'd left at my apartment and take them over to her dad's without even feeling the least bit sentimental about it, or even wanting to keep something of hers behind. I'd thrown myself into my work and had found that I didn't sit back and stare at her empty chair and torture myself with thoughts of, 'What would Jess be doing right now?'. And I certainly didn't drink myself into a stupor every night and wonder 'what if'. I guess I'd just realized quickly that maybe I'd been more in love with the actual thought of being in love than I was with the actual person. Sad, but true. After a series of disastrous relationships -could Devon even really be called a relationship? Or the women I'd met in my daily travels that I'd spent little more than a couple of lust filled nights with?- Jess had given me some stability in my life. Someone to come home to and share my day with. Someone that adored me and accepted me no matter what. Although her concern with who knew about us and her seemingly indifference about the pile of shit I'd landed in with IAB over Todd Fleming had been, and should have been, almost enough to tell her to start packing her shit and get the hell out of my life. But I hadn't wanted to be alone. I'd done it for years and I was sick of it and I figured that one little mess up like that wasn't the end of the world. I liked having her around. Or should I say, having someone around. I now realize, a year after her death, that Jess and I hadn't been together long enough for me to actually love her as much as I thought I had. That we probably made better friends and co-workers than anything else. Nothing against her memory or the great times we had together, but I can admit now that she wasn't ever going to be my always and forever. That in a few months or a year or two, I would have woke up and looked at her and decided that I was done with the whole thing. Maybe that's just how I am. Maybe I'm not meant to be the monogamous, to death to us part kind of guy. Maybe I'm just meant to satisfy my physical and emotional needs for a certain length of time and that's it.

So I didn't love her. That much I'm sure of. But I do miss her and I do wish her back every day. But more so for her family than for myself. And I thank her for filling my life, even for such a short period of time, with a lot of wonderful moments and some stellar companionship.

It's Jess and her untimely and tragic death that has got me to where I am right now. The engine idling on my unmarked squad car as I sit behind the wheel, intently watching a one and a half storey red brick house on that quiet, tree lined street in Flushing, Queens. A block away from my own folks' place, the house and its small patch of grass out front are well kept and welcoming. There are white lace curtains on the front living room window and planter boxers of vibrant flowers -pansies and petunias from what I can see- lining the entire length of the driveway and dangling over the black wrought iron railing. A royal blue tricycle is upended in the middle of the front yard and the owner, a little boy in a pair of khaki shorts, bare feet, a Mets t-shirt and cap is tearing around, giggling noisily as his mother - a water gun on her hand- and a golden retriever puppy both chase him. Their laughter and the dog's barking float on the breeze, and the picture of stable and happy home life brings a smile to my face.

I'm here to make amends with the one person that is on my list. The sole benefactor of my 'Earl Moment'. I haven't seen Bree-Anne Truby in close to three years now, since the day that she testified against her estranged husband during his trial for not only murdering Kym Tanaka, but for stealing those drugs from the raid and attempting to profit from the crime. The shit had certainly hit the fan when Breezy took the stand. She'd painted a picture of Truby that had had me, and I'm sure many others, wanting to vault over the wooden railing separating him and his team of lawyers from the spectator gallery. She'd talked about the emotional pain and suffering that she'd suffered at his hands from day one of their ill fated relationship and short year and a half marriage. While he wasn't physically abusive, he was a nasty ass sonofabitch that enjoyed berating his pretty young wife not only in private, but in front of all his buddies as well. He got off on seeing her squirm and having her flee the room in tears, while everyone laughed more out of shock and embarrassment then anything else.

The defence had jumped on Breezy during cross-examination. To be honest, I hadn't wanted her to testify in the first place and had told her so. I didn't see the reason for her to be up there, exposing herself and her and Dean's dirty little secrets to the entire world. I knew that getting her on the stand would be traumatic for her and that there were things that were just better left unsaid instead of being dragged out into the open. She'd accused me of wanting to protect myself, not her. She'd called me an insensitive bastard who'd only cared about not wanting to embarrass and sully his own reputation. After all, everyone knowing that Donald Flack Junior had been having an affair for nearly a year with Truby's wife would only tarnish the department Golden Boy.

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Maybe I should back up a bit and give a little more background on what had actually been going down between Bree-Anne and I. This wasn't just a case of meeting one of my guys' wives and being instantly and tremendously attracted to her and deciding that I needed to have her for myself. We have history. Stretching as far back as grade nine and lasting for the four years between our start of high school and her entrance into college and my own into the NYPD academy. I'd met Breezy -a nickname I'd lumped on her during our first date as nervous and awkward fourteen year olds- on the very first day of high school. I'd been pissed off that my locker was located what seemed like miles away from any of my friends, and had been fighting with the combination lock when I'd heard a giggle from behind me, and then had caught a whiff of baby powder and had felt silky skin brush against my bare arm.

Suddenly there was this willowy and stunningly beautiful minor niner sidling up to me, a warm smile on her face and her brown eyes sparkling up at me in amusement. She was hot. There was no second-guessing that. But there was something so…wholesome…about her that had had me intrigued right from the get go. No make up graced her flawless and creamy face and unlike most girls who rolled their kilts up so they barely covered their asses, hers just skimmed the top of her knees. She had one the knee length socks and her blouse was buttoned nearly to the top. Yet I'd still been given a little glimpse of that dainty gold cross she wore around her neck.

"Looks like you're having some problems there, handsome," she drawled in her Queens accent, and bumping my hip with hers, shooed me to the side and grabbed a hold of the piece of paper bearing my combination from my hand. "Stand back and let the mistress take care of things," she said, and I'd done just that, a smirk on my face and doubt in my mind as I watched her tackle the job at hand. And my pride had been trampled a bit when she not only managed to get the damn thing unlocked, but slammed her first against the metal door to pop it open.

"You're good," I said, nodding my approval as she stepped out of the way and I began unpacking my backpack.

"I'll take that as a thank you," she grinned, then unlocked the locker beside mine. "Looks like we're neighbours," she chirped, then offered a hand. "I'm Bree-Anne. Bree-Anne Douglas."

"I'm Don," I shook the tiny, delicate hand in front of me. "Don Flack."

"Don, huh?" she crinkled her nose in slight disgust. "Reminds me of a grandpa name. Think I can call you Donnie?"

I'd never, ever let anyone outside of my parents call me that before. I detested the nickname and it made me cringe every time I heard it. But there was something about the name Donnie coming out of those glistening, peach coloured lips that made it so damn beautiful. And I'd been unable to resist telling her that she could call me whatever the hell she liked.

Breezy and I had hit it off right away. Even if we were opposites. She was a church going girl that shied away from most extracurricular activities save for the decorating community and the drama club. She avoided cheerleading like the plague, while I easily and effortlessly made it onto the football and hockey teams. I was a jock, she was a brainer and an introvert. And despite the ribbing I took from my buddies and guys on the team, things just worked for Breezy and I. Her folks loved me because I came from good stock, as her old man had put it. My dad was a NYPD legend so in his eyes it automatically meant that I had a responsible head on my shoulders and that I'd treat his daughter like the princess she was. Her mom thought I was devastatingly handsome with my thick black hair and my blue eyes and said I had the best manners she'd ever encountered in someone my age. Boy or girl.

Breezy and I had been each other's firsts. For everything. We were each other's first real relationship. One another's first lovers. Years later, I can still remember that night at my folks' place after junior prom, down in the basement while everyone else in the family was fast asleep. I'd finally managed to make it past second base, and when she'd shown no objections to me trying to take things further, I'd taken the opportunity. At the time, it hadn't been just the first sex we'd ever had, but also the best. Hell, we wouldn't have known bad sex if it jumped up and bit us in the ass. And for the next two years, we'd learned how to please each other and had enjoyed exploring every inch of each other's bodies.

It had broken my heart when Breezy had gone away for school. She'd gotten a scholarship to Georgetown. She'd always wanted to be a teacher and she'd been given her chance to further her education while I stayed behind in Queens and followed in my dad's footsteps by joining the academy. We'd tried our hands at a long distance relationship, but it became apparent that we were too immature and that we were drifting further and further apart. I was all about being a cop, she was all about excelling in her academics. So at the end of her first summer home, we'd come to a mutual decision that while we loved each other, a future just wasn't in the cards.

It had been, after years of wondering and wishful thinking, a shock when a now grown up and mature Breezy had walked into the twelfth precinct that day in 2006, looking for Dean Truby. He'd been under my watch for a few weeks and he was honestly the best rookie detective that I'd ever had the pleasure of working with. He was conscientious and reliable, dedicated and driven, punctual and tenacious. A supervisor's dream come true, in fact. And I'd been dumbfounded to find out that not only did Truby and I have the badge in common, but Bree-Anne as well. They'd met a year before, after she'd taken a teaching position at a Catholic inner city school that Truby coached football for, and just gotten married three months before and were living in a cramped one bedroom in lower Manhattan. I'd tried to act happy for the guy. I really did. Breezy was as stunning as ever and I'd been unable to take my eyes off of her or get over the fact that after nearly a decade, she was standing right in front of my face.

Things had started out honourable. Two friends re-connecting. And it had been a few months before Breezy admitted to me, in a tear filled phone call at three in the morning after Dean went on one of his drinking binges, what was really going on behind closed doors. I'd offered her a place to stay, to get away for a couple of days. Our little secret. And a couple of days had turned into a couple of weeks and we'd somehow managed to fall into bed with each other shortly after her first night at my apartment. I'd taken advantage of the situation. She was needy and desperate to feel loved and important. I was lonely and miserable and there she was, my first love, right under my nose. And even after she went back to Dean to appease him, Breezy and I had kept things going. Only it had transformed from incredible sex to an impenetrable bond. We'd fallen back in love with each other and were determined that we'd be together. Our plan had been to go to Dean together and tell him what was going on, and that Breezy would leave with me and file for divorce as soon as possible.

Only we never got the chance to start on our happily ever after. I'd gotten the call out to that warehouse that night involving a dead paint baller and I'd left Breezy peacefully sleeping in my bed. It would be nearly twenty-four hours until I'd return to my place and I'd tell her exactly what had happened. That Dean had been arrested for murder and that he'd also been responsible for stealing drugs from a raid and selling them on the street.

I'd dropped Breezy off at her folks' house that night. My plan had been to let things cool down for a bit. So that it didn't seem as if I'd jumped into a thing with Truby's estranged wife while he was awaiting trial. Only sometimes the best-laid plans just don't pan out. Because the next time I saw her, Breezy had been six months pregnant with Dean's baby -she'd assured me that it was his, that I didn't have to worry about her coming after me for child support- and I had been fighting about her testifying against Dean and she'd been accusing me of being embarrassed to be involved with her. After the trial, we'd both gone our separate ways. She'd moved in with her parents and I'd tossed myself into my work. Story of my life. Become super cop when the cards weren't in my favour.

I still love her. That fact is perfectly clear as I sit behind the wheel of my squad and I watch her playing with her son. There's a lump of emotion in my throat as I take in every inch of her. That wavy, light red hair that tumbles past her shoulders in luxurious waves, the creaminess of the skin and the womanly curves that are on display in her denim shorts and her vibrant yellow tank top. Her smile captivates me, and as she collapses down onto her rear in the middle of the yard and her son tosses his arms around her and plunks himself down into her lap, I'm struck by the thought that the scene before me could have been my family.

Had I only gone after what I wanted and who I wanted instead of buckling under pressure.

I sigh and kill the ignition. I can't sit there forever watching her. I'm starting to feel like a stalker, and I'm pretty sure one of the neighbours is going to notice my car sitting there for the last half an hour and call the cops. And the last thing I want is for anything to be ruining this moment. I just want to go over and apologize. I want to tell her that I'm sorry for abandoning her when she needed someone the most. That I regret walking away from her each and every day.

And I want nothing more to than to take her into my arms and to hold her face in my hands as I kiss every inch of her skin softly.

I can help her heal. I'm sure of that. And I know for a fact that she can mend me. From the inside out.

Snagging my keys from the ignition, I take a deep breath and release it slowly before reaching for the handle on my door.

It's now or never.