Summary: AU. A look into a what-if Sharon had married Andy instead of Jack back in the days, some things would have been different and others would have been the same.
A/N: You know that feeling when you think about characters and a story and it's all fluff and rainbows until the first sentence you write and you just know it's going to be angsty like fuck. Sorry. So be warned, a bit dark and angsty with a sprinkle of rainbows.
…
PARALLELS
…
"She's a pretty little thing, ain't she?"
"Who?" Andy asks even if he shouldn't cater to the whims of a serial killer. Thorvald Miller, however, hasn't said a word since he was arrested and Andy really needs to loosen the creep's tongue so they'll know where the rest of the bodies are buried. The victims' families deserve the closure of being able to have a proper funeral.
The interview room has been otherwise quiet. No matter how many pictures of the dead girls is laid out on the table before him, Miller simply stares with a calculating glint in Andy's direction that makes his hair stand on end and his skin crawl. No matter how much he shouts at the creep, gets in his face and threatens, there's no reaction. Only an impish tug of his mouth and the miniature smile on the murderer's face makes his stomach turn. Andy understands why his partner opted for listening from the outside, and he silently wishes he had that option himself.
"Andrew – may I call you Andrew?" there's something disturbing about the voice, the way it slithers in a sweet connotation and is so at odds with what he knows about the creep opposite him. The way the creep leans on the table with his elbows, hands clasped as if he's praying, seemingly at ease.
Andy sneers back, "What's it to me – call me whatever you want. Now, why don't you tell me about Jessica, huh? Where did you bury her?"
The creep smiles, "Your wife, Andrew – she's a pretty little thing."
His stomach drops and his mouth dries up. His hands tremble and he quickly hides them under the table, trying to still them.
The man smiles, obviously tuning in on Andy's discomfort. "You've been investigating these sad deaths for some time now, haven't you Andrew? You remember how you pushed me up against that brick wall, when was it – a month ago when poor Darlene went missing? You sputtered and sprouted all those threats into my face, how you would prove what I was even if it took you a lifetime." The creep makes a tut-tut sound, "Andrew, did you think I would not look you up? After all that trouble you took to make my life miserable, did you really think I would not return the favor?"
There's something wrong with the air in the interview room, it feels oppressive and hot. He feels lightheaded, the taste of bile on the brink of being too much.
"She looks, hmm, what's the word… delectable. A sure little spit-fire, I'd imagine."
Andy grits his teeth, tries to count to ten. He can't, not over the buzzing noise in his head.
"Don't," Andy starts to say but the words are trapped inside him, stilled by those calm eyes smiling at him from the other side of the interview table.
The creep shakes his head, another smile, "Do you enjoy fucking her? I think I would enjoy fucking her. I would enjoy wrapping my hands around her pale neck while I fuck her. Is that how you fuck her, eh? You look like a guy with a temper, Andrew."
His fist connects with the bastard's face, his body already up from the chair and he's on the creep with both hands. They land on the floor, the son of a bitch underneath him and Andy lands another punch that catches the creep's jaw, one on the eyebrow, the nose again – stomach, a knee in the groin.
The bastard retaliates as he manages to land a knee in Andy's stomach, the punch hard. Air rushes out of him momentarily but he continues with his fists, rage quick to build and adrenaline turning him invincible.
"You don't talk about her, you son of a bitch," he spits, taking a hold of the creep's collar, repeatedly forcing the body onto the floor with enough force to build up lactic acid; the cracking sound when the head meets concrete floor not making him stop.
It takes a whole crowd of uniforms, his partner and two detectives down from Narcotics before the interview room is once again quiet. Andy has sunken to the floor in one corner, head in his shaking hands. Taylor sends the bastard down to county, leaking Miller's M.O. to the other detainees and no one will be the wiser about the injuries. The usual cover.
"Go get yourself sorted out, Flynn," Taylor says, a calming hand on his back, "Take a day off. Go home. I've got this."
Andy nods.
Instead of going home he ends up in a bar, drinking whiskey from a large tumbler. His partner curls around his own glass and that weird kid from Vice who always seems to hang out in the cop haunt joins in. The night is slow but easily forgotten in the haze of a bottle.
Everything is blurred when he finally makes it home in the early hours of the next day.
Sharon is still asleep when he opens the bedroom door, lying on her side closest to the window, all curled up and looking peaceful. She has forgotten to close the curtains and the breaking light of the morning sun is soft. He pulls the curtains close and the room is encased in darkness. Better it be dark when he wakes up hungover.
His hands ache from the raw and bruised knuckles. He feels it like the slow, painful thudding of a pulse; thud-thud. Maybe a broken finger or broken bone in his wrist; that would explain the pain. His abdomen smarts when he moves, and when he tries to get his shirt up over his arms. He knows there's a dark, threatening bruise on his lower ribcage to the right. He had looked at it earlier in the dingy bathroom of the bar; skin turning into a colorful mark under his gaze.
Andy strips down till he's nude and slips under the covers. He wonders briefly about his breath and the smell of cigarettes that lingers not only in his clothes but in his hair and skin too.
To hell with it, he doesn't care.
He just needs to feel her – just lie next to her and feel the warmth of her body, the scent that's heavy when he's close to her. She shifts when he spoons her from behind, his legs cold against hers, his nose in her neck, her hair tickling.
His fingers land on the sway of her hips, they go over and down between her legs. The warm skin calming. Her hair smells softly of their shampoo. Of home. Safety. He forgets the pain in his hands.
She turns around with a little yawn and a stretch, her eyes slowly opening as they focus on the outline of his face in the darkness, "What – you just got in now?" her tone is muffled by sleep, "Did you catch another case?"
Andy doesn't reply, just presses himself against her, hard against the skin of her stomach.
"God, you smell," she scrunches up her nose when he snuggles closer, the tone slightly annoyed. He knows she has to get up in two hours but really, he just wants to feel her, be inside her.
Her lips are unmoving for a second before she kisses him back, arms around his back and her legs open as he rolls on top.
Her night gown goes up.
"Are you alright?" she asks, breath shaky, head arching back when he enters her.
He grunts.
Her hands thread through his hair, "Andy?"
"I'm fine," he growls, not because he wants to but because he can't tell her the truth.
Sometimes there's no truth.
He kisses her again, hands around the back of her thighs as they fuck.
…
The bedroom seems so vast and empty; the box mattress on the floor because Sharon has yet to find legs for the thing. It is close to the window where she can watch the sunrise each morning on her own. Every night she tosses and turns, not able to find peace on her side nor on his – and lying diagonally across the space doesn't work either. The side of the bed where Andy used to lie doesn't even smell like him anymore; too much time has passed. And she's already changed the bed sheets a number of times since the last time she remembers lying next to him in their bed – on their mattress, she amends, because it's really not a bed yet, is it?
She is stressed, the doctor told her, the shrink agreeing.
Sharon lets her finger slip along the surface of the kitchen counter, her steps slow and tired as she goes to the sink. A glass of water and maybe she will be able to fall asleep again. She sighs, watching the water fill up the glass. The stream of water, the force of it, makes a little show of short-lived bubbles in the water.
The tears start flowing freely and without consent, without warning. She can't stop it.
She's not stressed – it's everything around her that is stresful. It's the world, the people, everything that used to be bright and comfortable have turned into a stressful influence in her life; hovering around her and making it difficult to breathe at times.
She has just started showing, the little rounded bump easy to see when she's naked. Easy to feel when she lies on the mattress at night, her hand on the flesh trying to comprehend her situation. It is easily disguisable in a sweatshirt though or covered by her rather bulky uniform.
High blood pressure, stress and no support the doctor said. The stress of being married to an alcoholic, the shrink said, adding that depression in the relatives of alcoholics weren't a rare occurrence.
All she feels is a sense of disconnection. Stressed, high blood pressure, pregnant, and when she adds the drunk absent husband to the mix, it's no wonder she seems to be crying for no reason at all. Even just a glass of spilt water and she's barely able to stand in her kitchen, sobbing uncontrollably, hanging onto the counter.
She feels lost.
So she is stressed, and kicking him out didn't really relieve any stress. It is less stressful in a fashion, but then again, it feels as if she only exchanged one stressful thing for another. She feels even more lost. It's as if there is a tight ball inside her chest; growing, intensifying – even when she forces her breaths to a slow rhythm; deep breaths through her nose, slow exhaling. It's ridiculous; there's no change in her life. He was never home before she kicked him out, and never present when he finally did make it home.
However, she still feels bereft.
When the phone rings and the tight ball expands in fear; is he dead? Found in a ditch, shot in the chest? Asphyxiated on his own vomit? Is he in trouble again – another bar fight? Has some lunatic sliced him up? – maybe some madman he has managed to annoy beyond repair have taken him? Is he off the force?
Then there's work; the quiet stares, the silence that meets her and the small talk that commence the moment she's gone. The breath she holds when there's the possibility of crossing paths with him. The sinking feeling of despair when she accidentally meets him in hallways, able to recognize the look on his face, hungover, angry – a mess.
She feels so small, insignificant and invisible.
And her father's visits and phone calls – telling her to file for divorce, talking to her about what's good for the baby and what's not. Telling her how to feel and how to behave, how she's not taking care of herself when all her actions are permeated by trying to take care of herself and her baby. Her brother who only makes it worse; seeking Andy out on his own and she still do not know what transpired between the two. She only knows Andy called her in the middle of the night yelling, telling her to leave him the fuck alone.
She seems to be crying all the time, no matter what. It's uncontrollable and she has long ago stopped trying to stop it. Now, she simply let the tears fall.
Her family are just looking out for her, she knows. They love her, wanting only the best for her.
She loves him, and no one understands that – sometimes she thinks even Andy does not understand it.
She's lost.
She just needs to be herself, that's the least stressful existence she can comprehend. She needs quiet and no complications. Some time just to be herself. She just needs a little bit of order to her life, a little sense of purpose and meaning. And so she tells them all to leave her alone.
She's taking care of herself and she's getting rid of all those factors that stress her; like the doctor ordered and the shrink suggested.
So now she has what she wanted; the house is empty, quiet. There's only her and the broken glass on the floor. She steps on a shard on her way to the hallway closet, limping to the bathroom instead. She sighs, washing her foot in the bathtub. Maybe she should just take a warm soak instead. She plugs the tub, fills it with warm water and crawls into the soothing submersion.
Maybe she should have been more adamant about pushing him towards help; maybe she should have forced him to an AA meeting with a gun to his head – maybe he would have gone then.
Maybe she never should have kept the baby. She knows his history – knows the relationship he has with his own father. It was inevitably from the moment she told him, the downward spiral.
But no – it's the only thing keeping her going for the moment. It's comforting, her hand on the slightly rounded stomach under water, to think there's life and hope.
She inhales slowly and breathes out in a likewise slow exhalation.
…
"What do you want?" her voice sounds tired and he notes the way she has grown over the last couple of months; belly even more protruding than the last time he saw her, her cheeks round and rosy. She rubs her stomach, an unconscious move on her part because she seems fidgety under his stare.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, a hand at his neck and a sheepish half-grimace, "I know it's late - I just. I mean, how are you doing?"
She sighs and it seems exhausted too. Her anger seems faded. The last time she had shouted at him and her eyes had flashed in a way he recognizes too easily; he's well acquainted with anger after all. She's different now. Somehow he thinks it's a bad sign. She's given up, doesn't bother with anger on his behalf anymore.
"It's half past eleven," she states.
He ignores her passiveness, "When's your next doctor's appointment?" He wants to tell her he'll be there for her and the baby from now on, but for some reason he's afraid to say it. It's the most important goal, to be there for her, and yet it seems sour in his mouth. He's afraid of letting her down yet again. He can't be there for iher f he is drunk, so for the moment it is more important to not drink. That's the most important goal and he's too lost to do more than one thing at a time. He has trouble just seeing today for what it is, let alone thinking about tomorrow or the day after.
"Why are you here?"
"I just wanna know how you're doing, Sharon. I wanna know how our baby is doing? Is that too much to ask for?" He tries to make his voice soft but he feels so thin nowadays, raw, and he really just wants to know how she is – whether he's caused too much damage or not.
She opens the door further, "I was just making some oatmeal porridge."
He follows her into the kitchen, into their home. It feels warm and safe, and it saddens him because it's not his home anymore, at least not for now. She kicked him out for good reason and he hasn't returned.
"Sit," she says and points at a bar chair. He shakes his head when she takes out two bowls; he opts for a glass of water instead.
She pours the warm porridge from the pot into her bowl and brings it to the kitchen counter and sits down next to him on another bar chair, wobbling with the extra weight. For a moment he's unsure whether she'll manage getting on the chair and he can't help but smile at the image of her.
His smile changes to a slight frown when he sees the concoction she calls oatmeal, watching as she pours a large amount of syrup on her food in a quantity that astounds him. "What the heck did you put in it?"
"Strawberries, raspberries… uh and blueberries," she replies and for a second she smiles and he is reminded of how everything used to be. It quickly fades and she seems almost shy now. She quickly looks down at her porridge, fingers tapping against the spoon.
"I'm sober," he tells her.
She looks up.
"34 days," he provides.
"I want a separation," she says barely a second after. Her voice trembles and she looks down again but not before he notices the tears brimming in her eyes. Her spoon goes round in the bowl with porridge, around and around in a sluggish rhythm that makes him irritated.
He contains his anger though, "Okay." He needs to be able to control his anger, she doesn't deserve it.
She looks up surprised, her hand on her stomach again in a little caress he wishes he could join in on.
"You don't want a divorce? That'll make it a whole lot easier," he flippantly throws at her when the silence becomes too much. He runs a hand through his hair in exasperation, looking into the granite of the kitchen counter as he tries to remember what it was like before he met her – what it was like not to be in love, to not feel loved. What is was like to not be a screw-up good-for-nothing drunk.
"You want a divorce?" she croaks, and this time tears break free from her lashes, down her cheeks and it only makes him feel even more worn.
"I will do whatever you want me to," he says, resigned, "I'm here to make amends."
"Amends?"
"To apologize," he explains, hoping it will lift a bit of the darkness inside him as it had done when he had apologized to his partner. He's been saving her for last, putting her off because it had seemed too daunting. He had feared coming here.
"I don't expect you to forgive me or welcome me back. I just want you to know how sorry I am. I know I'm a drunk and I'm sorry for all the crap I've put you through. I'm sorry for all the overtime and never being there for you. For going out with the guys to bars, getting drunk till early morning. I'm sorry about those times I've disappeared. I'm sorry about the bar fights – and the fights at work."
The spoon goes round in the porridge again, her eyes on the red colored mush.
"34 days?" she asks, the voice small.
"Yeah," he answers, "Dragged my sorry ass to an AA meeting. Got a sponsor now, got my one month chip."
"Where are you staying?" she seems worried.
"Ray's place. It's just temporary. There's an apartment close to Parker Center I can rent for a while – until we sort things out."
She nods.
"I was at the doctor's last week," she says, "I tried calling you."
"Oh," another disappointment he can add to the ever-growing list of failures.
The spoon goes into her mouth and she chews on the red sugary swivel, eyes on him for a short second.
"I can't promise I won't ever drink again," he says because he's tired of making promises he can't keep. "I'm just taking it one day at a time. I can hardly wrap my mind around anything at the moment – it's all scattered and hazy."
She inhales, then stares back at him and it's a look that feels like cold water.
"I think we still need to be apart for a while. I can't – I mean, I'm happy for you, I really am. Proud," she smiles for a very short second, a waspish short of smile, "But I need – stability. It's going really well now – my blood pressure is down."
He hadn't known she had high blood pressure; another disappointment. He nods to her however even if he wants to ask her about it, he needs to show her he can be understanding. "I know – it's too early. I wanna be there, for you. I want to be there – if you want me to?"
She smiles again, a little sad but it's a smile nonetheless.
"Can I come visit you?"
She nods.
"Can I -," he chokes up, his eyes on her stomach.
"Yes," she breathes and she takes his hand, her hold tentative and somewhat estranged but she places his palm upon her swollen stomach.
It's a strange feeling.
"She's asleep for now," she tells him, "otherwise she usually kicks a lot nowadays."
It's only after a minute he falters and looks up, "She?" He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, an unbidden image of strangled dead girls lying in a ditch pops up in his head.
Her smile is again brief but he clings to the memory of it; it has to mean she's okay if she's capable of smiling.
He'll do better for the both of them. For himself.
They'll sort it out, in time.
…
She's so exhausted. Tired beyond belief, beyond comprehension.
His voice lulls her into sleep, his hand in her hair, soothing.
"I'll get her," he whispers into her ear, their baby girl crying in the crib, "You go to sleep, honey."
She falls asleep again almost instantly, warmth surrounding her. His kiss on her temple lingering and it follows her into her dreams.
…
How can something so tiny feel so immense? How can such a little creature fill his heart with both anxiety and inexplicable happiness? He can't contain his smile, a foot on the crib and his little girl is easily rocked to sleep, those little fingers slowly easing off his index finger.
He looks back over his shoulder, the form of his wife, his love, fast asleep.
He wonders when his heart will blow apart; it feels so close to bursting.
It's a good feeling.
…
She has never slapped him before.
It surprises her as much as it surprises him, the expression of anger quickly replaced by wide green eyes and a slack mouth. He grasps her arms and pushes her too harshly against the wall, reacting to being hit before he can understand what he is doing. The shocked gasp that escapes her mouth at the impact with the wall feels like a second slap.
They simply stare at each other, horror slowly settling in her expression while he feels an overwhelming sense of shame mixing with bile. Outward he's too angry to show remorse. He leaves her out in the hallway, going in through the kitchen and finding his wallet and keys. It is his default behavior; better to leave before he does more damage.
She's standing in the same spot petrified when he comes back into the hallway, quickly putting his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket. He barely spares her a glance before he's out of the door, slamming it behind him.
The door opens just as he's taken a few steps.
"You're leaving?" her voice rises in volume, "How can you just leave!"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he snarls back, turning around and scowling at her. She's standing on the porch in her night robe, arms around herself. It's hard to judge her expression in the dark night and the porch lights only make shadows deepen. If anything she looks furious.
"You promised me you weren't drinking again," she says, the tone sounding shaky, "You lied directly to my face."
It should have been a simple setback and somehow it wasn't. He should have told her early on, then things would have been different - but he thought he could handle it. However it's hard to erase the image of dead children; the blood splatter on the walls, in their beds and pooling on the floor. The dead wife had taken on Sharon's features in his nightmares. He had sought oblivion in the familiar taste of bourbon, whiskey, really just anything he could get his hands on. It had worked for a time.
Then the nightmares had returned, more gruesome, more vivid, and not in the least drowned by a little night-cap.
"You are fucking transferring to the rat squad," he snarls back because it's an anger he can hang unto easily. It warms his numb body, his numb heart. "Don't talk to me about lying, you fucking traitor. I had to hear it from George Andrews."
She starts crying and it really doesn't make him feel any better. It doesn't feel gratifying, not even in his state. It only feels cold like the rest of his dreary life.
She rarely cries.
And now it's plain and obvious - right there out in the open for anyone to see; half-sniffling, half-hiccoughs. Tears that stream down her cheeks and her breaths hitch as she tries to take control of it.
"You need to call Dave," she breathes in between a sob, the voice small.
He hisses, "I don't need to do anything."
"Mom," comes a little voice from the inside, his little girl peeking out from the front door with wide eyes. The commotion from before must have woken her. His throat constricts and he can't breathe; he's turning into his father.
Sharon turns around immediately, the sleeve of her night robe across her face as it hastily wipes away tears in a way that tells him she's a mess and it's once again his fault.
"What are you doing up, honey?" her voice is impossibly soft and warm, he feels a longing to scoop their daughter up in his arms and hold her. She leans down and their child settles easily on her hip; she does not spare a look over her shoulder but walks inside, "C'mon, let's get you to bed again."
"What about daddy?"
"Daddy's going to work."
His little girl waves to him across her mother's back, an unaware half sleepy smile on her little mouth. The front door closes and it feels like another slap in his face.
It's too much.
Too much all at once. He quickly leaves it all behind, the car in full speed as he plummets down their street. He has to get away – just for a while. It's his own fault. He never should have fallen off. He should have talked to the shrink, talked about the case and the nightmares. He never should have tried to hide it and lie about it. It was a stupid drunk mistake.
He never should have told her about the waitress.
…
The house is devoid of anyone but her, jazz playing from the stereo and she's on her third glass of wine, a fuzzy feeling inside.
It's their anniversary.
Her daughter is off with her parents.
He stands on her – their – doorstep all of a sudden, a nervous smile and brown eyes clear. A bouquet of flowers in one arm; her favorite brand and the color is stunning, and a teddy bear for his girl in the other arm. There's a good color on his face, his skin seeming less tired under his eyes, less drawn out.
She invites him in because she feels empty and lonely. She invites him in because she does not miss the look of desolation when she tells him his little girl is not home.
He has the next four days off he tells her, his eyes roaming her – their – living room fretfully, hanging onto the different décor. Even his voice and gestures are timid. She briefly wonders what he has done now, wonders if the four days are forced or voluntary – but it hasn't come to her attention at work so she lets it slide; it's none of her concern right now.
She leaves him in the living room, her smile equally uncertain when she tells him to select new music. It gives her time to quickly clean the mess she's made in the kitchen, to clear away the remnants of her wine-drinking. She doesn't want to tempt fate even if the rumor mill has him decidedly less hungover than years back.
When she comes back, a glass of cranberry juice and sparkling water in her hand, it takes one look from him and she knows how it's all going to end despite the uneasy way they seem to comprehend each other.
He doesn't drink the proffered glass; instead he sets it on the sofa table, a suddenly boyish look on his face as he approaches her.
His thumb is on her cheek, tenderly, and she feels so breathless, so light – it might be the wine but she still likes to think it's the rough pad of his thumb going down her cheek and under her jaw. Her lips tremble because she can't remember the last time there was such a raw and loving look in his eyes, she can't remember when the air between seemed to be this clear.
He's inside her in little to no time at all, the necessary clothing quickly being discarded on the floor on their way to the sofa and, oh god, she misses him so much.
Her nails rake down his back, pulls at his skin as her legs tightens around him.
She's not going to cry, she tells herself, her lips eager on his.
He's fucking her even if she would rather make love to him in her – their – own bed. Instead he's fucking her on her – their – couch, the living room bright with artificial light and the house empty. He's put on her favorite cd she suddenly realizes, the touch of his hands taking on a new meaning. Maybe he's making love to her on their sofa; maybe that's the reason she feels her eyes itch.
It's their anniversary, she thinks again. Maybe he had felt lonely too. Maybe he remembered how things had once been.
"You remember the first day at the academy?" he asks her, his voice heavy in her ear, lips soft against her skin.
She nods.
"Remember - "
"I remember everything," she interrupts him, brushing off further memoirs as she kisses him back; it's too painful to reminisce.
"Fuck, I've missed you," he growls later on, his teeth on her neck and she's so close, so hot, his hips changing rhythm and angle, and all she can do is hang unto him, her breath coming out in whimpers.
It astounds her, afterwards, the smile he sends her way, the way his lips linger on hers – the way his brown eyes can contain mirth when she's become used to resentment, anger and despair.
It feels like before.
The soft whispered kiss to her temple when they lie still, still entangled, it feels as if nothing has ever grown dark between them.
It's an illusion but one she clings to.
It's a respite.
"I love you," he kisses her, tangles his fingers with hers.
She smiles and reciprocates.
Maybe it will sort itself out, eventually.
He doesn't know she's half tipsy, doesn't know she's thinking about divorce, contemplating moving to a whole new place.
He feels solid, however, grounded in a way that's entirely new.
Maybe change is possible after all.
…
He really wishes she would have called ahead and given him the time to clean up the place. It's a mess and he feels almost ashamed to invite her into his ratty apartment, knowing that it does not show he's got things under control.
"We've been working robberies the last two weeks," he explains, a shrug at his place when he welcomes her in, "I'm sorry, it's a mess in here."
She looks out of place, he thinks, but he amends that assumption when he notices the uncertain look in her eyes, the clumsy way she sits down on his sofa and the nervous little chuckle when he gives her a glass of water. She's nervous. Why she is, though, astounds him; he's nervous as hell and he can't think of a reason for her to be.
Under different circumstances he would reach for her hand and tell her to relax. They are not quite there yet. They feel like two strangers most of the time, not a married couple with a daughter.
She sips the water and he sits down next to her, a bit of space between them, his own glass of water to sip on.
"I'm pregnant," she says, her eyes on the opposite white-washed wall.
He stares.
"You're what?"
"I'm pregnant!" she sounds annoyed now.
"Okay," he nods not entirely comprehending the news. He's tired from working for three straight days without much sleep except for haphazardly napping an hour here and there. He's living out of a ratty apartment, working nonstop, seeing the kid on the odd weekends he doesn't work and he can't remember the last time they even shared a bed let alone made love in it. He feels furious at the thought of her with some other man but there's not much he can do about that; though why is she telling him?
"Who's the father?" he manages to ask without yelling. He puts the glass of water down on the sofa table very deliberately and clasps his hands together in an attempt to hide their trembling state.
She shakes her head, stunned, "I haven't – what are you talking about?"
"We haven't had sex since - ," he falters, suddenly remembering, "Oh."
"Yes. Oh." she snarls, "you insensitive bastard."
He shrugs off her anger; he's become accustomed to it. "So? What are you – we – gonna do?"
She looks devastated then, "I – do you even want the - ," she stutters, stops and looks lost.
They don't say anything for a long time; he's staring at her and she's staring at anything but him. It should feel uncomfortable and awkward but he's suddenly trying to imagine her pregnant again, imagining how this time it can be different.
"Are you ever coming home?" she says, crossing her arms as she finally looks at him, a fragile yet strong look in her eyes.
"I don't know."
There's silence again.
"I love you," he says, resigned and desperate. "I really do, Sharon."
"Then why are you never there for me? Why are you living somewhere else? You work all the time – you haven't seen our daughter for a month."
"You kicked me out – again - remember."
"You fucked someone else, remember?"
Passive-aggressive is always their fall-back, Andy quietly remarks to himself.
She sighs, apparently sensing it too, "I wanted you to get your shit together and act like we're actually married. I wanted you to stay sober. I wanted you to see the damned therapist and sort yourself out."
He sighs, "I'm working on it, I really am. I'm sober – have been for some time now, the rest – I'm working on it."
Her lips twitch, "Okay."
There's another short pause.
"I'm making progress," he tells her honestly, his anger is all gone and in its stead he feels hopeful.
She heaves a breath, a hand unconsciously on her stomach.
It makes his heart constrict, the unconscious move.
A second chance, he thinks, at redemption.
"Okay," she mumbles.
"C'mon," he edges closer to her and opens his arms. It's a surprise when she falls willingly into his embrace, a testament to how distraught she is. She feels just like he remembers, her scent overwhelming and her warmth going straight through his skin.
It's only when her hands are on his face and she says 'shh' he realizes he's crying.
"We'll figure it out," she says to him, her voice soothing and soft, "Shh, honey, don't cry."
…
He wasn't around for this the last time.
It feels so new.
Sleeping peacefully with him in their bed, his body pressed against her own and his hands tenderly on her stomach as it grows bigger and bigger over the course of months. The way he watches her in the mornings. The healthy skin under his eyes, the way he smiles more easily.
There's a few grey hairs in his black hair, she notices when they make love – her hands threading through the short strands. She laughs – he kisses her with a laugh.
He wakes before her, his eyes open and mysterious when she wakes in the mornings. She thinks he might be watching her sleep. They enjoy the quiet that never last long; the soft pitter patter, the bedroom door opening and a little body crawling up to land between them with a giggle and an eager wake up.
It's just like before everything broke apart.
For the most part.
…
"Why don't you ask the sergeant, he's married to the bitch after all," a cocky voice snides, "I'm sure he knows whether she likes it up her ass or not." Andy reacts to the remark, thrown in his face as if he's not in the room at all.
It is one thing when said behind his back but straight to his face; it's an invitation then. He's in their space a split second after the comment, his hand crumbled into a hard fist punching the bastard's nose head-on. The force of the blow pushes the idiot off his chair and onto the floor in a heap.
"Oops, I slipped," Andy says flippantly with a dark smile in the direction of the bastard on the floor.
The squad room is quickly a bustle, two detectives forming a barrier between Andy and the bastard on the floor, afraid he's going to punch the idiot again. Andy sneers, "Yeah, you better curl up, you little piece of shit."
The bastard groans on the floor, hands on his nose, blood dripping to the floor in a satisfying pool.
"Calm down Sergeant Flynn," the detective in front of him says. Andy merely arches an eyebrow and shrugs, "I'm calm alright."
"You broke my nose," the bastard on the floor hisses, staggering to his feet.
Andy simply scowls.
They take him to a holding cell to let him cool his heels, deeming his angry expression worthy of a little punishment apparently. It doesn't bother him because he knows the system, and right enough, just as he's counting to ten, Sharon's heels echo on the linoleum floor. A bit later she is standing in front of the bars, arms crossed and an unreadable question in her eyes as she regards him.
He gives her a shrug.
She snaps at the guard and he's out in a second.
She takes him home.
He sits on the bathroom sink, watching her fixing up his hand, an ice bag against the slightly swollen skin.
She sighs.
"I was only - " he starts but she shushes him, a finger to his mouth.
"Don't." her voice is strained and he understands; it's the second time this month he's gotten into an altercation with some bastard who doesn't like the way internal affairs handle their business.
He knows she doesn't want him to defend her but what is he to do when gossip flounders around about her, and when someone says rude things about her to his face. It's impossible not to react.
"I'm sorry, Sharon, I know I'm a bad-tempered idiot," he mumbles.
"Shhh," she says, a soft kiss to his brow, "you're not an idiot."
There's a short pause, her hands feel so soft on him even as she presses down on different places on his hand while watching his expression. She seems to be satisfied which has to mean she deems his hand unbroken. She puts the ice bag on his knuckles again, leaving it there.
"You need to humor them – or at the very least ignore them."
They've had this conversation numerous times now.
"I can't. Not when they talk like that. About you."
"Andy, it doesn't bother me."
"It bothers me."
She sighs.
"What did they say this time?"
"They were discussing what kind of object you had stuck up your ass, to put it politely."
She laughs, "Oh."
He arches an eyebrow, "How can you laugh?"
"Next time, honey, you just tell them that you are stuck up my ass every night. That will shut them up for good."
He leans out over the sink, close to her face, "You are so obscene." He can't keep a straight face however, his lips curling into amusement.
"Words are better than fists," she takes the ice bag off again, his right hand in hers. She tuts over the raw and bruised skin on his knuckles.
"Taylor called me," she says as she takes his other hand in hers too, the gesture soft, "and seeing that this very thing happened before, very recently I might add, they've decided to put you on leave for two weeks – without pay."
He sighs, "Damn."
"The sergeant you fought with is off for three, for apparently once again instigating an interdepartmental fist-fight; I'd imagine that's why they are going soft on you."
He smiles, "Two weeks without pay is soft?"
She nods with a sly grinlooks up, "Yes; had it been up to me, you'd be off for at least a month and in that time forced to spend your time in anger management classes."
He shakes his head, "You are mental."
"Don't worry, we'll find something for you to do so you won't become bored like the last time."
He arches an eyebrow, "I did alright last time."
Her laugh is demurring, "You drove me insane."
He smiles, his leg catching the back of her thigh and he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her..
"There's the garden, it needs work," she lists off, a quick kiss to his cheek before she continues, "You promised, what was it, five years ago, you would fix our terrace, and that outrageous garage of yours could really do with some spring cleaning."
He nods, "I can be your handyman for the next two weeks. Sure deal."
She's the only reason he's not being kicked to the curb by the force. He wonders what she tells the brass to keep him working.
"I'll do better," he promises, "I'll be obscenely wordy next time."
She smiles, "I know you will."
He smiles back.
"You are a good detective," she tells him and he knows she means it, otherwise she wouldn't say it.
He looks down.
"A good father," she whispers in his ear, her lips soft, "and," she presses her lips gently against his, "my loveable idiot."
He grins, "I thought you said I wasn't an idiot."
"You're mine."
…
Ten years sober.
They feel like a lifetime and yet he can still remember the last time he had a drink as clear as fucking yesterday.
It's a grounding feeling to put the sobriety ring on, to see it on his finger. To be reminded. To know he's strong and to be reminded that he's capable of change. More importantly; that he is not his father.
However it's even better to kiss Sharon and see the happy look in her eyes, knowing he's responsible for that.
Better yet to know he will wake her up early tomorrow with breakfast in bed, a little gift and a happy anniversary.
…