DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. I ONLY OWN BREE-ANNE 'BREEZY', COLLIN AND LUNA
A/N: I'VE DECIDED TO SWITCH THINGS UP WITH THIS STORY AND DO CHAPTERS THROUGH DIFFERENT POV'S.
A HUGE THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED AND ADDED TO ME ALERTS AND FAVS.
What Do You Say?
"What do you say in a moment like this?
When you can't find the words oh to tell it like it is
Just bite your tongue and let your heart lead the way
Sometimes you got to listen to the silence
And give yourself a little time to think."
-What Do You Say?, Reba McEntire
BREE-ANNE'S POV
As Collin bounds off of my lap and scurries off in search of yet another toy or another game for us to play, I give a content sigh and stretching my legs out on the grass, lean back on my elbows. Luna the puppy nudges my left thigh with her nose, then plops down beside me, and rolls over onto her back, a clear invitation and a demand to vigorously scratch her eager tummy. I happily oblige, then close my eyes and tip my head back, allowing the brilliant sunshine to bathe my face in warmth.
I spend the entire year waiting impatiently for the summer. Not so much for the weather, but because I can concentrate fully on the things that are most important in my life. Teaching full time leaves me with little time to myself. Or to indulge in my favourite role. As Collin's mommy. When the off months hit, I beg off offers to help out at summer school and live off of the whatever money I've managed to squirrel away throughout the year, and the remainder of the settlement I'd received when I'd finally managed to shed Dean once and for all. He'd had a healthy sum -an inheritance he'd been given when his grandfather had passed away- in his own savings account and my lawyers had procured every cent. Arguing that he didn't exactly need the cash where he was going, especially since he'd been an old, withered man collecting pension when and if he ever saw daylight again. We'd also played the emotional pain and suffering card when Dean's attorney had tried to use adultery against me and paint me as the dirty one.
By that time, news of my extra marital affair had already been made public knowledge at the trial when the defence team had attempted to make Dean less of a scumbag by tossing my mistakes in my face. Of course, it had made things even worse when the counter part in the indiscretion -I'd been adamant on that stand that it had been a bonafide relationship and that to call it anything else was disrespect to both parties- was revealed to be the same cop in charge of the raid my estranged husband stole drugs from. And who'd not only been the head detective investigating the dead paint baller's shooting, but had be the one to help bust Dean in the end. I didn't know the ins and outs of what had exactly gone down, but I'd heard that there'd been drama over the logbook involving the raid and that nailing Dean's thieving, murdering ass had caused a whole lot of hell for some of the people involved.
His lawyers had tried, in vain, to turn the tables and paint me in a bad light. As if turning me into a dirty, two timing slut would make him less of a monster, or at least explain how he'd come unhinged in the first place. Thankfully, the prosecution had drilled home the fact that affair or no affair, I didn't force Dean to steal those drugs and I wasn't the one who had plans to sell them on the street. And I certainly didn't fire the shot that killed Kym Tanaka. Dean was a murderer. Plain and simple. And he was going to spend a long, long time wondering how in the hell he'd screwed up his life so horrifically.
He has no access to my son. How do you explain to a two and a half year old that the man named as his father on his birth certificate -I had decided not to leave the name blank in order to avoid suspicion regarding Collin's parentage- isn't around because he was a selfish prick with total disregard for human life? Although so far, Collin's only asked twice where daddy is and I've decided that the less he knows, the better. I've told him that his father wasn't ready to have a family and that he's gone far, far away. And that hopefully, one day, mommy will find him a step dad that will love him to the ends of the earth.
My baby boy doesn't need to know that I was married to one man but had gotten pregnant by another. And that in order to protect his real birth father, I'd lied on the birth certificate. Just like Dean doesn't need to know the real results to the DNA test I'd had done when Collin was just days old. Thing are better the way they are. With everyone in my life kept in the dark about certain things. Even my parents, who Collin and I live with, don't know the whole truth and believed me when I'd told them that the test had verified that Dean was my baby's I'm pretty sure that my folks -especially my dad, who's notoriously paranoid and suspicious about everyone and everything- question whether or not I'm on the up and up. I mean, it's not common that two brown-eyed people make a blue-eyed baby. Or that someone with light brown hair and another with auburn can have a child with coal black hair. I cite a great grandmother that had had raven hair and the fact that certain genes can skip generations and nail an unsuspecting baby.
"Mom-meeeee!" Collin bellows from the front porch, his voice snapping me out of my reverie. "Mom-meee! Watch dis!"
"What are you doing there, button?" I ask, as I swing my legs around and manoeuvre my body so that I'm facing the house. Collin hurries down the stairs, a yellow tennis ball in one hand and a plastic, child size hockey stick in the other. The Mets cap long gone and lying abandoned by the front door, his black hair shimmers in the sunlight, and his blue eyes are sparkling and the dimple in his left cheek is standing out as he beams at me from across the yard. Four months shy of his third birthday and he's all about hockey. Grandpa's not only decorated his only grandchild's room in black, yellow and white -to represent Collin's 'bestest team' as he calls it- but he's also bought him a NHL comforter set, matching curtains and a bedroom light that is an exact mini replica of the score clock at Madison Square Garden. Collin's even been to a handful of Rangers games. He simply eats, sleeps and breathes the sport.
"Watch dis, mommy!" he cries, and setting the tennis ball down on the grass, curls both hands around the hockey stick and lines up his shot.
I laugh at the sight; his eyes narrowed and his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates intently. And with a mighty swing, the stick connects with the ball and sends it careening across the grass. Luna takes it as an invitation to play and swiftly jumps up and scampers off, barking noisily. I give Collin a tremendous round of applause and praise his skills while he cocks his head to the side and smiles sheepishly.
That one simple gesture causes my chest to constrict agonizingly, my stomach to knot and tears to form in my eyes. Because it's one of many moments in the past two and a half years where I'm dumbfounded at how much he's like his daddy. And at how much I actually miss and still love the man that helped me create the miracle of life. Who'd I'd loved and lost twice. First as an immature little girl trying to make her way in the world, and then as a terrified grown woman struggling to make sense out of the disaster her life had become.
"Heck of a slap shot," a deep voice observes from behind me. "Gonna be the next Gretzky."
My heart literally stops and my lungs forget to draw breath. I don't need to look over my shoulder to know whose rather intimidating presence is looming over me. It's been three years but his scent is exactly the same; masculine and intoxicating. A smell that I spent many a night drowning in as I lay beside him in a mess of tangled limbs and twisted bed sheets. That I drank in as I rested with my head on his chest, feeling relaxed, completely sated and loved as he combed his fingers through my hair and my own traced lazy patterns over the network of scars that marred his pale skin. And that voice. Assertive and aggressive and able to both calm me down and frighten me at the same time during an argument, and then make me shudder and squirm in pure unbridled desire in passionate moments. A voice that had promised me the world at fourteen and then again at twenty-eight, and then had abruptly vanished from my life, leaving me broken.
I don't need to look to know who it is. But I do need to look so that I'm sure I'm not imagining things. That his voice and his scent aren't a figment of my imagination. A moment of fond recollection brought on by the sharp pang of emotion that my son so often is able to instil inside of me. And when I finally will my chest to commence sucking in air once again and my heart settles itself down, I slowly twist my head to the side and look skyward.
I'm torn on how to react, and I mentally berate myself for not bringing a pair of sunglasses outside with me. So I could use them to hide the tears that are threatening to burst from my eyes and cascade down my cheeks. Part of me -a huge part in fact- wants to simply stand up and throw my arms around him and sob. To allow years of nagging loneliness and want and need to come tumbling out of me. To tell him how much I missed him and how much I loved him and that I knew he'd come for me one day. To admit that I'd never lost hope, even though it's been three years, that he would show up on my doorstep and make good on all of those promises of unwavering, undying love and devotion that he'd made to me. To make him live up to each and every time he'd told me that I was his forever. That we were forever. That he was going to save me and protect me for the rest of my life.
And then there's the devastated, bitter part of me that wants to yell and scream profanities at him. To hurt him just as much as he's hurt me. To make him suffer just as much as I have in the years that has passed. He had abandoned me at a time when I'd needed someone the most. And not just anyone. Him. He'd promised that when things died down, when the scandal and the departmental whisperings regarding our relationship finally settled and Dean was locked away for good, that he'd come for me. That we'd be family. All three of us. He had been ready, willing and able to take care of a child that he believed wasn't his and I'd been counting down the days and minutes until he showed up at my house and took me away from everything. To help me escape.
That time never came. Donald Flack Junior had slipped quietly from my life. He had destroyed me. There were no other words for it. And in between loathing and cursing him one moment and pining for him and loving him the next, I'd always held out the small hope that he'd wake up one day and realize how badly he'd let me down and finally make good on all of his promises.
And now here he was. Standing in the middle of my front yard. Obviously fresh from work with that gleaming badge still clipped to the waist of his black dress pants and his holster and gun sitting on his right hip. There's no sign of a tie or a jacket, but his white dress shirt -with baby blue and yellow stripes- is slightly un-tucked and the sleeves are rolled to his elbows. The top three buttons are undone as well, giving me a sneak peak of the wife beater he wears underneath and the coarse dark hair that I know mats his chest. He's changed, at least physically, in the past three years. Back then he'd been tall and lanky, and now he was all muscle and brute force. His shoulders and chest are wider, his forearms and biceps larger and stronger. Some grey takes up residence in his short, black hair and pair of sunglasses hides those blue eyes that had captured both my attention, and my heart, when I was only fourteen years old.
I've witnessed him go from a skinny, awkward teenager to a confident and powerful man. And I curse both him, and myself, for letting the last three years happen in the first place. Our own stubbornness and turmoil for keeping us apart.
I'm not sure exactly how long I've been sitting in this spot staring up at him, but when Don gives me that charming, boyish smile, I feel all the anxiety and tension quickly evacuate my body. That smile is calming and reassuring, although does little to alleviate the curiosity as to why he's here and the million and one questions that are stampeding through my shell shocked brain.
Don offers one of his large, strong hands. And I'm suddenly hit with a rush of memories of those hands and those fingers and how they felt against my skin. Of him holding my face tenderly in his hands and using his thumbs to clear tears off my cheeks. Of him tracing my lips with a gentle fingertip or his knuckles grazing along my skin as he pushed my hair behind my ears. And I can easily recall how rough his skin is and how wonderful those hands, capable of manhandling a suspect, had felt when they'd explored my body and had brought me to the heights of a pleasure I'd never even known existed before.
Shoving those thoughts aside, I curl my fingers around his and leaning down, he uses his other hand to softly cup my elbow, then hoists me up onto my feet.
We stand there in silence for what seems like an eternity. My fingers still clasping his tightly and my free hand shielding my eyes from the sun as I look up at him. I'm unsure of what to say. Of how to act. But for those long, quiet moments, it feels as if nothing ever changed.
And as if we're the only two people that exist in the world.
"Hey," he finally says.
"Hey," I somehow manage in return. All my resolve crumbles right there and then, and I can't stop the sob that escapes from my mouth of the tears that burst from my eyes. Three long years of wondering and hoping have finally come to an end. He's here. Right in front of me. And nothing else matters. "Donnie..." I choke out, and feel my body propel forward and my head find his chest.
I feel him stiffen. A clear indication that I've gone too far in my exuberance and relief of seeing him. I've obviously made the huge mistake of putting all of my eggs in one basket. While I've taken his return as a sign of repentance, renewal and rediscovery, Don is apparently here for a very different reason.
He hasn't come for me after all.
"I'm sorry," I sniffle, and quickly draw away. "I never should have...I'm sorry...I..."
Those big, strong arms envelope me, and I'm pulled back into his chest. As Don's left hand settles on the small of my back and his right rests on my head and commences stroking my hair, I close my eyes and lose myself in him. In that wonderful, alluring smell, in the warmth of his body and tenderness of his caresses.
And I'm easily transported back three years ago, when he held me for the very last time on the front porch of the house we now stand in front of. We had stayed there, under the dim sheen cast by the front porch light, for what seemed like hours. Clinging to each other as if we were one another afloat, and terrified that some unseen force was going to tear us apart. Lost in a moment of confusing and uncertainty. Would we ever find our way back to one another? Would we ever feel each other's touch and taste each other's mouths again?
That night remains riveted in my memory. I can still remember what his heart had sounded like as it beat in his chest, and it seemed so much more thunderous than the rain that hammered down and pattered on the tin roof that covers the porch. And I can still feel him pull away slowly and take my face in his hands and press his lips against mine.
I can still taste his kiss. And I still miss it.
"It's okay," Don whispers, and I feel the weight of his chin as it rests on the top of my head. "I'm here now...I've got you...I'm here Breezy."
The use of that nickname causes me to break down once again. Don's the only one who's ever called me that, and in college I'd had it tattooed -across my right side, just below my breast- in flowing black letters. In the longest, most difficult nights of despair. it had helped to lift my shirt and look in the mirror and see that term of affection permanently inked into my skin.
"Mommy?" A tiny voice -curious and concerned- reminds me that Don and I aren't alone. That there's other hearts involved here, besides our own. And I'm suddenly terrified that my three year secret is about to be exposed. That despite my reasoning's and best of intentions, I'm about to break Donnie's heart. He's the love of my life, and as amazing as it is to have him here, the fact remains that I do have a life. I have gone on. No matter how pathetic the attempt and the results have been.
There's no possible way to spirit Collin away and hide my demons. I've gone three years not only protecting my secret and my heart, but keeping my son away from his birth father. And suddenly, my reasons for doing so seem groundless and I hate myself for what I've done.
I pull away from Don and look up at him. I know he senses my nervousness and feels my fright. He's probably the one person who knows me better than I know myself, and he's always been able to expertly read my body language. The way my eyes shift, the way I chew on my bottom lip.
"Breezy..." he combs his fingers through my hair, then lets his fingertips trail along my cheek and drift across my lips. "What's wrong? Why do you look so scared? I know you're freaked 'cause I just showed up out of nowhere, but.."
I'm unaware of when exactly my hands had settled on his sides, but I remove them and reach out to lay a hand on the back of Collin's head. And as I step backwards, I gently draw the toddler in between us.
"Donnie..." my voice trembles in time with my hands. "This is your...this is..."
"Hi!" Collin chirps, and tilts his head so far back to look up at the tall, big man before him that I'm afraid he'll topple over backwards. "I'm Collin Alexander Truby," he announces, and the way he speaks causes the last name to sound like Two-bee. "I'm two and a half," he adds as an afterthought.
I glance up at Don, anxiously awaiting his reaction. I watch as his shoulders visibly tense and he shuffles backwards several steps. His hands slide from their resting places alongside of my face and on my back.
Say something, I silently plead. Anything. Just don't stand there...
He slowly removes his sunglasses. There's confusion and hurt written all over his face and evident in his eyes, as he looks from Collin, to me, then back down at my son, Our son, as he stands between us. A twenty-five pound, three foot barrier that must seem, in Don's perplexed and shocked state, like a gigantic, unmovable object. His hands fiddle with the arms of his shades as his eyes lock on mine once more. Then his mouth opens and I brace myself for what just may be a vicious onslaught.
"Are you a real peas-man?" Collin asks curiously, a tiny finger reaching out to inspect the badge clipped to this stranger's waist.
Don's attention snaps away from me and focuses on the toddler at his feet. "A what?" he asks, obviously unable to form a coherent thought of sentence.
"A peas-man," Collin repeats. "Is dat real?" he asks, as he fiddles with the small, golden shield.
"Uh...yeah...yeah...it's real..." Don finally responds.
"Your gun too?" Collin inquires. "Is dat real too?"
Don nods. "I'm a real policeman," he confirms.
"Mommy says that guns are bad," the toddler says. "Is dat true?"
"Bad people make guns bad," Don tells him. "I'm not a bad guy so my gun's not bad either."
"If you're a peas-man, where's your peas-car?" Collin asks, as he looks up and down the street. "I love peas-cars. I love the flashing lights and the...you know...the who-who..." he mimics the sounds of a siren and twirls a finger in the air to represent the lights.
"The siren," Don says.
"Yeah! Dat's it!" the little boy cries, then looks one way, then the other once more. "How can you be a peas-man with no peas-car?"
"I'm a special policeman," Don explains, then unclips his badge offers it to our now wide-eyed child. "I have a special car. So that the bad guys don't know when I'm coming for them."
"What kind of special peas-man?" Collin inquires, awe in his voice and on his face as he cradles the badge gently in the palm of one hand as the fingers of the other delicately inspects every nook and cranny.
"A detective," Don replies. "It means that when the bad guys do bad things, I find clues that help me catch them. I put all the pieces together and they tell me who the person is and where I can find them."
"You mean like a puzzle?" Collin asks. "I love puzzles! I have a Lion King puzzle in my room. Mommy helps me put it together all da time. Maybe you can help me seein' as put them together lots. Wanna come see my room?"
"Maybe some other time," Don replies gently. "How old are you?" he asks. "'Cause you are way too smart for only two and a half."
"I'm almost tree!" Colin cries excitedly, and holds up three fingers. "Grandpa says I'm a pint size genius!"
"Guess you get your brains from your mom then," Don concludes, and his stares at me intently. There's a lot of questions in his eyes. Mixed in with confusion, hurt and accusations.
"What's your name?" Collin asks. "What's your name Mister Peas-man?"
"This is Don," I speak up. "He's your...he's..." I struggle for the right words. It's way too soon to be introducing father and son to each other. At least in the verbal sense. Now is not the time to be bestowing titles on anyone. "He's a very, very, very good friend of mommy's," I finish, and smile at Don. Relief surges through me when he returns it with one of his own.
"Do you like dogs?" Collin asks, as he tugs on Don's pant leg to get his attention.
His father nods.
"You wanna go and see my puppy?" the toddler asks hopefully, as he points towards the front porch where Luna is sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, chewing the tennis ball to death. "Her name is Luna. She's just a baby. She likes to nibble on my toes!" Collin giggles at that. "You wanna come see her?" he inquires once more, this time offering a hand.
Don flashes me another smile, and then looks down at my little boy. His little boy. "I'd love to come and see your puppy," he says, and curls his large fingers around Collin's tiny hand, swallowing it whole.
And as I watch as father and son head off together, my heart aches. Both for all of the precious years that have been lost, and for the uncertainty of those that lay ahead.
I just want to thank everyone who is reading and reviewing, and even those who are just lurking! I appreciate all of the support and your willingness to try something new of mine!!
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