Pairing: Sharon/Other; Sharon/Flynn UST; Sharon, Rusty
Chapter One:
Rusty wasn't sure what woke him, but when he lifted his head, he definitely heard quiet movement in the living room. The condo's front door snicked closed.
Creeping to his bedroom door, he peeked out. A hulking figure was bent in the dim hall. Rusty had made this silent journey many times to sneak a snack without Sharon hearing him. He was behind the intruder before he could be noticed.
Rusty grabbed the man's right wrist, meaning to wrestle his arm behind his back. But the powerful forearm twisted, flipping the boy off his feet. A large hand grabbed his throat and thrust him against the wall. Mute, Rusty gasped for air and scrambled with his feet for purchase.
A handgun's hammer cocked. Sharon's cold voice ordered: "Drop him."
When he was released, Rusty slumped against the wall but quickly fumbled for the light switch. The hall lit up.
The man straightened and faced Sharon. "You need to go back to the firing range, honey. Your grip's off."
Sharon put the safety back on her weapon. "Nick, what the hell are you doing here?"
Still catching his breath, Rusty got a good look at the stranger. He wasn't tall, but his broad shoulders and barrel chest made him an imposing figure. He appeared to be in his sixties, with thick, short, salt and pepper hair sleek against his heavy skull. A wide mustache covered his upper lip, masking rough-hewn, aged features. The man straightened his wire-rimmed glasses and then his silk tie.
Rusty still found himself doing a quick financial assessment of every man he met; a habit which disgusted him, but that which he was unable to control. Dark camel hair overcoat atop a tailored black suit. A platinum wide-banded watch. A heavy gold link bracelet on the other wrist, but no rings. Money, lots of money.
"Do you know this guy, Sharon?" he asked, breaking the tense silence that hung between the couple.
She lowered the gun to her side and for the first time, Rusty noticed that she wore nothing but a thin silk mid-thigh nightgown. He'd never seen her this exposed; she always wore a heavy robe if not dressed.
"He's my husband," she said tonelessly.
Leaving Rusty gaping, she headed back to her bedroom to put away her weapon and cover up.
"And you are?" Nick said to Rusty.
Clearing his long bangs from his eyes, Rusty looked Nick over again. "Why do I have to tell you anything? How did you get in here?"
Nick held up a keyring. "Through the front door."
Sharon returned, tightening the sash of her robe.
"Sharon, why does this guy have a key? I thought you were separated," Rusty demanded to know.
Nick stared at the young man. "Kid, I don't know who you are-"
Sharon joined the barrage on their intruder. "Rusty's right. What the hell are you doing here? You didn't call-"
"I've been trying to call for days-"
"Are you that unidentified caller I've been getting?" She shoved her hands in her robe pockets. "I don't answer calls from people who won't identify themselves. Why didn't you just leave a voice mail?"
"I don't leave voice mail," Nick said, just as stubborn as Sharon. "I'm in town for a case. I thought I'd stay here-" He glanced toward what was now Rusty's room.
She stopped him before he could finish. "Sorry. You'll have to go to a hotel."
"I sent my cab away," he protested. "I'm jetlagged and I need to be taking a deposition in-" He checked that expensive watch. "In five hours. I'm not going to waste two of those hours getting a room. And not to put too fine a point on it.." He looked around the condo again. "I own half of this place. I thought the understanding was I could stay here when it town."
"When I said that, I didn't expect you to have the nerve to actually show up." Sharon stepped over to block Nick's way to Rusty's room. "Besides, my guest room is currently occupied."
"I can take the couch," Rusty said quickly. "Really, it's no problem."
Nick started picking up his Louis Vuitton suitcases and garment bag. "Thanks, son, but I couldn't sleep a wink on a set of Ironman sheets."
Ignoring Rusty's gasp of outrage and Sharon's muffled snort, Nick made his way to her bedroom.
"Where do you think you're going?" Sharon called after him.
"To bed," he said and then closed the door.
Rusty and Sharon looked at each other, unsure.
"Really, I can take the couch, Sharon," the young man said.
"No, I can handle him." She turned her steely gaze toward her closed bedroom door. "Slept next to him for twenty years, I can take one more night."
"Are you sure? I mean, what if he-" Rusty flushed.
She snorted again. "There's no worry of that," she said definitely, heading to the bedroom as well, leaving Rusty puzzled.
Nick Raydor had always been a quick change artist, Sharon remembered when she found him in bed already, the light out.
"Queen bed. Gonna be tight," wafted out of the darkness.
"Not if you keep on your side," she warned, coming around to empty side of the bed. It had always been her side during their marriage, but she'd claimed the other side after he'd left. She felt the first irrational prickling of irritation to see him lying on it.
"I'll be dead in a second," he said drowsily.
But she heard him mumbling to himself.
"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked.
"Just doin' my evening prayers," he said, unashamed.
"Flat on your back?"
He chuckled, shaking the bed. "Too old to get down on my knees at the bedside any more."
There was no suggestiveness in his tone, but she still had a quick, hot memory.
Keeping a distinct distance between their bodies, Sharon looked over at Nick. Still wore that damn Jets jersey to bed, she saw. For all his affectations as Nicholas Raydor, Esquire, no silk pajamas for him. Nicky Ray from the streets wore his team's colors in bed.
"Got rid of our bed?" he said, making her jump. He wasn't slipping right off after all.
"No room for a king-sized set in this room."
"Could have kept the house-"
"Nick, let's not go into this for the hundredth time. I thought you wanted to get to sleep." Sharon rolled over, her back to him, grateful for that quick anger to push away any other response to her husband.
Sharon had expected to brood well into the night, but was surprised to wake in the morning with her alarm. To turn it off, she scrambled back over to her side of the bed-had Nick really been there, or was it a dream? When she stumbled into her bathroom and discovered the toilet seat up, she knew it was true.
"Son of a bitch," she grumbled, slamming it down.
Rusty found Sharon's husband puttering around the kitchen, making breakfast.
"I thought you needed sleep," he said to the older man.
Nick peered at the boy from under his thick brows. "I'm on New York time." He motioned to a seat. "What'll you have? Eggs? Pancakes?"
Rusty had to think. "Pancakes I guess." He didn't sit. "But I can help. I cook sometimes."
"Show me where the flour and sugar is," Nick asked.
While Rusty dug around in the cabinets, Nick watched him. "So what's the deal, kid? I think I would have remembered Sharon having another son."
"Stop calling me kid," Rusty said roughly as he set the containers on the countertops. "Please," he added.
"Sorry," Nick said. "It's a East Coast thing."
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the egg carton. "How about dude? A lot more California."
Rusty gave a short laugh and handed Nick a mixing bowl. "I'm a case of Sharon's. That is, I'm a witness for a case. I need to be in protective custody."
After measuring the ingredients into the bowl, Nick mixed them briskly. "It's not safe for you to live with your family?" he asked casually without looking at the young man.
Taking a deep breath, Rusty plunged in. "My Mom's not around. I don't want my Dad around. So Sharon's taken me in. I really appreciate that," he said, sounding self-righteous and choosing to forget his more petulant attitude of the recent past.
Nick nodded at Rusty's school uniform. "I see you're going to Saint Joseph's. Our kids went there."
"That's what she said." Without being asked, Rusty got out a griddle and heated it on the stovetop, ready for the pancake mix. "It's okay."
"Claire and Brice did well at Saint Joe's," Nick said conversationally.
Rusty shrugged and began setting the table. Nick returned to cooking, seeing this was not a young man who poured his guts out to anyone who asked. He'd just have to trust Sharon that she knew what the hell she was doing having this young man living in her home.
She came storming out of her bedroom, immaculately dressed and not a hair out of place. "You left the toilet seat up," she accused Nick disagreeably.
"Sorry," he said, flipping a pancake onto a plate for her. "Why don't I share your bathroom from now on, son-"
"From now on?" Sharon interrupted. "You'll be moving to a hotel today-"
Rusty's head swiveled back and forth, watching the two of them face off.
"I thought I made it clear last night," Nick said. "I'm here on a case. I'll be staying in our home."
"This is not your home," she fumed. "I chose it, I decorated it-"
"My name's on the title and I paid for half," he pointed out.
Sharon cursed her foolishness at keeping one financial tie to this man. At the time she bought this condominium, they were calling it a trial separation, but they'd seemed to have settled easily into two separate lives. It had been easy enough to forget she even had a husband, and yet here he was, demanding as ever-
He offered her a plate of pancakes. She snatched it from him and dropped to a chair at the table.
"How long are you in LA then?" she wanted to know as she poured syrup over her pancakes.
Rusty accepted a plate as well and sat, his lively gaze darting between them.
"Hard to say. We're still in the preliminary stages for the trial."
"Great," Sharon muttered. "What's the case?"
"We're suing Hancock Enterprises on behalf of an injured employee for ten million," Nick said smoothly, joining them at the table.
Sharon shook her head in disgust. "So it'll be months."
"At least a couple."
"No," she stated, folding her arms.
"I'll be out early, back late, probably will even sleep at the practice's office a couple times. Seven days a week. You remember how it was when I was on a case. You won't even know I'm here," Nick said between steady bites of his pancakes.
Rusty waited, watching Sharon's face. He could see the wheels turning in her mind.
"And it would help me out." Nick took a deep gulp of his cooling coffee. "Don't we owe that to each other, as husband and wife?"
She hissed, discontent at his reference to their union.
Incongruous in his Jets jersey and mismatching boxers, his hair still tousled with sleep, Nick bore into Sharon with his intense gaze. "You wanna get rid of me, then file for divorce. Are you ready to do that?"
Before Sharon could reply, the doorbell rang. Rusty rushed to the door and yanked it open.
Flynn stood in the hall with a carton holder of coffee cups. "Ready for action, Captain?" he called over Rusty's shoulder. "A dead body waits for no one."
Nick rose from his chair and stalked toward the door.
"He works with Sharon," Rusty babbled to Nick, trying to break up the escalating tension.
Flynn took in Nick's obvious bedwear. "Sorry, not enough for overnight guests," he said tightly.
"Had my coffee," Nick said, veering off to the bedroom.
Sharon checked her cell phone and saw the text from Flynn announcing their new case-Nick's presence was already causing her to be less than attentive with her work, just like the old days. Cursing under the breath, she gathered up her overcoat and purse, shoving her phone inside. Flynn asked her, "Who the hell was that?" She brushed by him without replying.
Rusty leaned in and whispered, "The husband!"
Before Flynn could respond, Sharon barked from the end of the hall. "Come on you two! We're going to be late!"
After giving Sharon's shut bedroom door one more glare, Flynn closed the front door behind Rusty.
~ E/N: It's not just my BSG fangirlness which makes me 'cast' Edward James Olmos as Sharon's husband. He's a great actor, and if he were willing, the producers should snap him up. I'm trying to make Nick Raydor a different character than William Adama, and yet someone EJO could play well. We'll see how that goes!