AN: I'd like to preface this with one thing made very clear. This is a true stand-alone story. It does not exist in the same universe as any other episode tags or stories or anything that I've written in the past. It was written with the personal belief that 2 things are true: that Sharon has some personal trauma from her life long before we came to know her, and that trauma has a profound influence on her personality and in particular, the way she interacts with other people.

As usual, I don't own Sharon or Rusty. They own me.

Eggshells

by Heretherebeangst

The apartment was dark and quiet as she entered, and Sharon's heart sank.

She had thought he would be home. Not just because she would sleep better knowing he was down the hall and safe, though that was always a consideration these days. There was no security team, visible or invisible anymore, and she had done her best to let it go. It didn't mean that she actually had.

But the sinking feeling in her heart tonight at the dark apartment was less about her worry for Rusty's safety. Loathe as she was to admit it, she needed him tonight.

He was not a cuddler nor a hugger. Sharon always grieved a bit at the thought that she had not had him as a little boy when she might have woken in the middle of the night to find that he had crawled up into her bed and under her arm as Ricky and Emily had done. She was so tactile, and those early months had been hard with Rusty. The way she had to stop herself hundreds of times per day from reaching over to brush away some hair from his eyes, or a fleck of dirt on his neck, or just an appreciative shoulder squeeze. He didn't shy away or flinch anymore. Sometimes he even reached for her first. But he still was not a hugger. Those were for special occasions or moments of emotional turmoil.

And tonight she had so wanted to be hugged by him.

Dropping her bag and keys by the door before stepping out of her shoes and trading her blazer for the soft sweater draped over a chair, Sharon walked into the kitchen, pulling the sweater tightly around her as the words from earlier echoed in her mind once more.

You drop an egg, sometimes it breaks, sometimes it doesn't.

Looking around the kitchen now, she could almost hear the crack of an egg speaking to her from more than a year ago now.

After that tearful confession in her office, she had brought him home in relative silence. She helped him unpack in almost equal silence to those painful moments before she had passed him off to Provenza because she could not keep him safe herself. The silence was different this time, though. It was safe.

Sharon had awoken the next morning to the sound of something sizzling on the stove and an egg cracking against a bowl.

"Hey."

"Morning. What's all this?"

Rusty shrugged at the stove, gently pushing at the eggs cooking in the pan.

"Breakfast. For you. The tea is ready too, and I'm almost done with this."

Moments later, he put a plate with a single pancake, a few strawberries, and scrambled eggs before her at the table, sitting down across from her with his own breakfast.

"You really didn't have to do all this, Rusty."

Sharon smiled and began to eat happily. There was something about food cooked by someone else-it always tasted better. And by now, Rusty knew exactly what she liked. Like how she loved it when he sprinkled in some peppers and spinach with the eggs, even if it wasn't a real omelette. What kind of cheese she preferred, the single pancake. A touch of color with the strawberries. He still liked to tease her about her preoccupation with color variety on her plate, but she thought he might have finally bought into it. A colorful plate is a healthy plate.

After a few moments, she looked up and realized he was watching her. He still hadn't taken a bite. She released her fork and took a sip of tea, looking at him quizzically.

Eventually, he spoke.

"So what happens in April?"

Sharon's brow furrowed.

"I suppose generally the same that happens in March and May," she said slowly, still unsure of what he was getting at.

Rusty rolled his eyes.

"No, I meant-with my birthday then. What happens?"

Setting the teacup back on its saucer, Sharon replied easily, "Well, it's still a few months off, but you know I'd love to throw you a little party if you'd like. And when it gets a little closer, maybe you can think of a few special things you might like." She saw him opening his mouth to protest, but she headed him off. "I know how you feel about gifts, but really it's my pleasure. So start thinking about a few things. Make a little list."

She went back to her eggs, thinking that was the end of the subject only to find him still staring at her, a look of pure consternation spreading across his face.

Sharon sighed heavily, putting her fork down again. "What is it, honey?"

"Okay. First off, like, no, Sharon. No parties. And God, no gifts. You buy me everything already-"

"Presents are non-negotiable, young man. The party I'll yield, if you insist."

"No to both, Sharon. I won't give you a list," he countered, staring her down.

"Oh, dear me. Whatever shall I do without you and your list to guide me?" She smirked a little at his scowl. "Give me a list, and I promise you'll get something off of it. No list, and I'll use my considerable investigative powers to find you something else you'd like. Like I said, gifts are non-negotiable."

Rusty groaned dramatically. "Oh my God, Sharon. How do you do that?! You always get your way!"

Picking up her teacup again, Sharon smirked at him over it. "It's a gift. A very well-honed one." He was rolling his eyes at her again, but beneath it all, Sharon could see that he was touched and pleased at the prospect.

"But it seemed like there was something else bothering you," she continued, serious again.

Rusty looked down at his hands, fingers fiddling with the hem of his sleeves, a tell-tale sign of anxiety.

"Yeah, well, like… What I meant before was…" He took a deep breath and finally looked up at her again. "Well after I turn eighteen, like… I'm not your problem anymore. I mean, like, I can find a job probably and get things figured out by then, but like, I just wanted to sorta know what the deal was, I guess."

His hands were pulling on his hemline more insistently now, and his eyes dropped back down to them.

Sharon's eyes widened at his words and her face softened. For a long moment before she spoke, she wondered if he would ever truly understand how wanted and loved and cherished he was in her life. That he did not have to prove anything to her or earn anything to be worthy. That she was never going to walk away.

Reaching over cautiously with a single hand, her fingers brushed his hair away from his face slowly before they curled around his cheek and brought his face back up so she could see his eyes again.

"Rusty," she began, speaking very deliberately. "You are not a problem. You are not something that needs to be fixed. And you will have a home here for as long as you want it. You're stuck with me. You don't owe me a cent. All I ask is that you finish high school, maybe go to college if you want to. Be kind. Be safe. And most importantly, be you."

The memory faded away, and Sharon turned away from the kitchen, back down the hallway. She pulled the edges of her sweater tightly closed around her torso. She missed those days when she could come home to an empty apartment and not worry that a mad serial killer was holding him at knife point. Again. When she slept well enough to lose that irritated bite in her voice. When his safety was not a guarantee, but at the very least a probability.

She missed it.

She felt another egg, cracking in her own hand this time, a moment calling to her across decades this time. Sharon pushed it away, as she had done for hours now, boxing it away in a corner of her mind that she did not often visit. She would have to let it out eventually, she knew. But not at this moment.

A hand on her bedroom door, Sharon heard a small creak and jumped. Moving away from her own door and down the hall, she knocked on Rusty's hopefully before pushing it open.

And there he was. He had been there the whole time, safely shut away in his bedroom.

She knew her relief was evident on her face as she stepped into the room.

"Just wanted to make sure you were home-and alright."

Rusty had been typing away at his computer, but he turned as she entered, smiling. There was a shadow of something that might have been confusion in his eyes at her words. He still did not quite understand her worry. It was a raised scar on her skin that caught on her fingertips as they passed over it. Her worry for him was a part of her, a blemish that her fingers brushed over and over in the vain hope that they could smooth it out again. But tonight it was not just about his physical safety. It was more than that. Old wounds of her own this time, torn open by the events of the day. She needed him, and she did not quite know how to say it.

So instead, she stood just inside his bedroom, taking him in with relief.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Rusty shrugged, looking up at her. Sharon thought perhaps he could tell that something was not quite right. He looked as if he might ask. She both wanted him to do so and did not want it at all. Before he could say anything else, she changed the subject, looking over at his computer screen.

"So, you learn anything new watching the Slider interview?"

"I dunno. He's not exactly a reliable source, Slider."

Sharon nodded.

"Well, be careful. Diving into Alice's life could open up some old wounds."

Like mine, she said to herself.

"It does," he replied almost immediately, and Sharon felt her face fall. Reeling herself back in, she waited as he continued.

"But-for some reason, the more I learn about her, the more important Alice becomes to me."

"Yes. It works that way for us too."

Sharon took in every inch of his face, carefully, methodically. She searched him for any signs of breakage. Checked to ensure that this was not too much too soon for him. Eventually satisfied, she spoke again.

"It will help you not to exhaust yourself," she said pointedly, beginning to make her exit.

He rolled his eyes at her in that comfortable teasing way he did so often and turned back to his computer.

"I know. It's just-I promised another post by tomorrow, and I-I think I have it."

Smiling softly as she closed the door behind her, Sharon stepped back into the hall.

She could feel the egg cracking open in her hand again. It was not going back into that box in the corner.

Instead of continuing down the hall to her bedroom, she passed silently into the bathroom in a few quiet steps, shutting herself inside before perching herself on the edge of the bathtub.

Sharon felt the egg cracking in her own hand this time rather than hearing it. It crunched between her fingers, a bit of shell catching under a nail before falling into the bowl. Hissing quietly in frustration, she fished it out and tossed it over into the sink with the rest of the shell.

"Liz? Are you up? I've gotta head out. You want some eggs too?"

It was a tiny little apartment, but she loved it. Her first place that was all her own with no roommates or siblings or parents. Well, this week it had a sibling in it, but Sharon had invited her and it was not permanent.

Liz's voice carried without much effort from the couch in the tiny living room.

"Hang on, I'm coming, I'm coming."

Sharon had finished scrambling the eggs and divided them between two plates when her younger sister finally appeared.

"Thanks, Shar. That was nice of you."

There was no doubt that Liz and Sharon were sisters. Liz had the same green eyes and reddish hair, though hers was kept very short. The similarities mostly stopped there, however. Maybe it was because she was still barely more than a teenager at eighteen, but Liz still barrelled headlong into things, and not just Sharon's kitchen. Only five years Liz's senior, Sharon remembered being eighteen very well. And it had not involved a tattoo of a butterfly on her back "just because."

"Okay, so tell me your plan for the day?"

Liz rolled her eyes a bit. "You know, you're turning into Mom."

Sharon dropped her fork and playfully punched at her sister's arm. "Elizabeth Amelia O'Dwyer, you take that back!"

Dodging the blow, Liz stepped away, laughing. "It's true! You said you were going to be the fun big sister while I was here."

"I can be fun. Who says I can't be fun and know where you are all day?"

"Okay, okay. But don't tell Mom. She hates this stuff, okay?"

"No promises."

Liz sighed rather dramatically. "Fine. I'm going down to this tunnel I heard about to look at the street art. Everyone says it's really cool, and a lot of artists are down there most of the time. It's gonna be really neat. Then maybe I'll try to get some good shots in the park. I need some new things for my portfolio for my application. And this West Coast stuff is different. I'll be back here before you're out of class. Promise."

"Okay," Sharon replied as she put her finished breakfast plate in the sink and swung her bag over her shoulder. "Just be smart. You're an adult now, but Mom and Dad will still murder me if you get arrested again, okay?"

"Oh lay off, I'll be fine. Besides. You said you were going to bring this guy by today so I can finally meet him. I wouldn't miss seeing you with a boyfriend for the world!"

Heading toward the door with her keys in hand, Sharon called over her shoulder, "you know, he has a name."

"Yes," Liz half-shouted back at her. "But since Jack is a stupid-ass name, I choose to ignore it."

Sharon laughed as she pulled the door shut behind her.

As she should have predicted, when Sharon returned that afternoon, Liz was nowhere to be found. "I'm going to get her a watch someday," She muttered to herself. "She'll never wear it, but it sure will make me feel better."

For a while, her sister's absence was not unusual. But when Jack arrived a few hours later and there had still been no word, Sharon began to worry. Jack's continued "I'm sure she just lost track of time" comments were not at all helpful.

By 8pm, she was in a panic.

The sound of that old rotary phone ringing through the tiny apartment; it was a sound, a moment she played over and over in her head as if in slow motion. Like an egg rolling over the edge of the counter while her back was turned, tripping up under her feet before it became smashed and mangled beneath her toes.

Jack drove her to the hospital. She sat in the passenger seat in stony silence while he prattled on and on about how he was sure she was fine, that they were just being overcautious.

The rest of that night was a blur, punctuated by the occasional vivid image. For decades now, Sharon had combed through her recollections of that evening. For the life of her, she could not remember what exactly the doctor had told her when she arrived. What she had said to her mother when she had finally called. How long she had sat in that uncomfortable waiting room chair with a plastic bag of Liz's things in her lap. Certain things, however, remained with her to this day in exacting detail. The smell of the emergency room, something like bleach and sweat and grief. The pink pattern of flowers and leaves covering the curtain a doctor had finally pulled back. Her little sister, shirt cut open where they must have tried to bring her back. Pale and still, the hair at her forehead tangled and caked with dried blood that looked nearly black.

Sharon did not remember if she heard what they told her that night. If anyone had actually told her, then, what had happened. She did remember repeating the facts over and over to people for months.

"She was just-she liked to take pictures. She wanted to be a photographer. She was in school for it. And something-someone-she got hit in the head. And she fell. There were rocks-that part of the park is pretty rough. And she, well-they said her brain just couldn't take the pressure…"

How exactly did you tell people that your eighteen-year-old sister came for a visit, fell into a ravine, and died while you were in philosophy class?

She had never been able to look her parents in the eye again, always worried that she would see her own guilt reflected in their eyes. She drifted away from them slowly, visits coming more and more seldom as they all seemed to pull away from each other. Left behind, in the city where she had all but killed her teenage sister, she had reached out and made a new family with the only person still next to her: Jack.

It had been terrible and wonderful and everything in between; but always a little quieter, a little colder, a little farther from Liz.

You drop an egg, sometimes it breaks, sometimes it doesn't.

Still perched on the edge of the bathtub, a tear rolled slowly down Sharon's face and she pulled her sweater instinctively tighter around herself.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Sharon started in surprise a bit.

"Sharon? You've been in there a while. Are you okay?"

She brushed her fingers across her face quickly, hiding the tears and cleared her throat.

"I'm okay. I'm sorry. You get the shower at night."

The door creaked open and Rusty poked his head in.

"No, it's fine I just-" He caught sight of her, still perched on the edge of the bathtub, and came in. "You don't look okay."

Sharon smiled rather tearfully as he came to sit beside her, nudging her over a bit to make room.

"Well, you know," she began softly, "you aren't the only one with old wounds."

Rusty nodded thoughtfully beside her.

"Yeah, but I think the thing here is that I don't know," he said pointedly.

Smiling a little ruefully, she nodded herself.

"Fair point. Here's the deal. I tell you a story, and you promise me that if this Alice thing gets too hard or too close to home for you, you let me know."

Rusty nodded again. "Deal."

"Okay." She reached up and brushed away some of his hair from his forehead as she began to speak.

"When I was about twenty-three, my younger sister came to stay with me for a couple of days."

Rusty looked at her in confusion. "Ummm, I think I would know if you had a little sister. And Ricky and Emily would have, like, mentioned it. You've got that brother in Germany that you never see, and your sister Janet who hates me."

Sharon smiled in spite of herself and nudged him with an elbow a little exasperatedly. "Janet doesn't hate you. She doesn't know you. And do you want to hear this story or not?"

Raising his hands in surrender, Rusty quieted. "Fine, fine."

"As I was saying. My sister came to visit. She was about eighteen, and she got hit in the head somehow. She fell down a ravine in Griffith Park and died."

She saw Rusty's eyes sober significantly at her words, then look at her in shock.

"Wow, Sharon. That's like-I'm really sorry."

Putting the story together in his mind, Rusty looked over at her again, cautiously.

"Can I, like, ask about that? It wasn't-It couldn't have been where-"

"No, Rusty. It was a different part of the park."

"Okay. Because that would be too weird."

Sharon nodded and they were both silent for a long while.

Eventually, Sharon squeezed his shoulder briefly before getting to her feet.

"Well I've had a very long day."

She turned to go into her bedroom at last, but his hand on her wrist stopped her.

"Hang on."

Getting to his own feet now, he pulled her in for a hug without warning, his cheek pressed up against hers tightly.

"Love you," he whispered into her ear and giving her cheek a quick peck.

Before she had time to realize exactly what had happened, he turned away embarrassedly and all but sprinted out the door.

One hand on her cheek where he had kissed her, Sharon watched him scurry away intently. A new facet of understanding had stretched between them tonight. It was odd, but validating. It was intimate, what had happened here between the two of them these last years. What they had learned, the way they became invested in each other. Their shells were cracked and battered, but neither of them had broken.

It was no small thing.

You drop an egg, sometimes it breaks, sometimes it doesn't.

Now before you all come at me with the torches and pitchforks, I just have this to say: Remember the cute fluffy things? There were fuzzy things here too!

Also I trade internet chocolates for reviews. So you know what to do if you want chocolate…