Fuller hadn't actually thought back to that night in a long time. Even when he retrieved the letter from the file cabinet where he'd kept it, his mind has been so focused on Doug and what he was going to say to him, that he'd completely forgotten…

[FLASHBACK]

Tom had strolled into his office that sweltering summer evening, his hands jammed into his pockets and sweat lingering on his forehead and in his hair that he'd been letting hang into his face around that time. The already weak air conditioning in the chapel had been out of order all day, and almost everyone had filed out early in order to escape the stuffy old building. Fuller remembered wondering if the disheveled hair-in-the-eyes look was a subconscious way that Tom was hiding, retreating from things. The young man had changed quite a bit in the couple of years they'd worked together. Some of the change was maturity, growth, knowledge, and some of the change was darker. But could one ever really disentangle those things and know where they truly diverged? Or were they really just the same thing?

"Hey Coach." Tom's voice was low, and Fuller could tell something was bothering him.

"Tom, it's late, and it's Friday. And you already turned in your report on the Hopkins case," Fuller chided gently. "You better get outta here before I call Penhall to come drag you out."

Tom attempted a weak smile, but remained standing nervously near the file cabinet.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Hanson finally said, as if it had taken a great amount of thought to get to this point, whatever unknown point that was.

Over the years, Fuller had gotten used to Hanson's questions. The young man tended to agonize over problems in ways that others did not. It was both a blessing and a curse.

Fuller set down his pen carefully. "You can ask, but I have no idea if I have the answer you're looking for."

Without making eye contact, Tom anxiously rubbed his chin and furrowed his brow even more. "Do you…have you ever, considered quitting? Quitting police work entirely?"

Fuller leaned back as a thoughtful chuckle escaped his lips. "Of course, who hasn't?"

Tom finally looked up to meet the Captain's gaze.

"I know very few cops who haven't questioned this profession," assured Fuller with a smile, but then he turned a bit more serious. "I know lately…I know you've been…" His words dropped off. They both knew what he meant; he didn't have to say it.

Tom fidgeted. "Yeah." It was really eating him up that night. And it hadn't even been brought on by any specific trigger point. He'd just been sitting at his desk and the overwhelming feeling of panic swept over him. He drew his hand across his mouth in thought and then shook his head in disbelief and glanced up at the ceiling. "I don't know why…I don't know why all of a sudden, right now, this moment, it's hitting me. But I can't breathe." When his soulful eyes met Fuller's gaze again, Fuller was taken aback at the fear and confusion etched across the young man's face. There was even a slight hint that a tear was about to well up, but it never actually did.

"I used to be so sure. Of everything." Tom's jaw clenched. "When my father died, I didn't even take a moment to consider any other path, I just knew that I needed to do this. That sense of purpose was instantaneous and overpowering."

With his hands still in his pockets, Tom crossed to the other side of the room in a nervous pace, still wracking his brain. "But now," his voice lowered to almost a whisper, "I just don't know anymore. I spent years not having to give this all a second thought. I was so preoccupied with that one, singular goal, that I never even considered…"

He sank down onto the couch, leaned forward and buried his head in his hands.

Fuller snapped up straight in his chair. His heart went out to the kid in front of him. Yes, he knew the young Jump Street officers were all capable adults, strong men and women. But then there were times when their youthful inexperience was so painfully raw. Tom was just shy of 24. Sometimes he seemed so much older. And then sometimes he was almost indistinguishable from the teenager he pretended to be.

"Look, Tom," Fuller tried to sound as comforting as possible. "It's okay to question things. It's okay to not be sure. Give it some time. Acknowledging that you're at a crossroads is part of the process."

Tom felt sick to his stomach. He clamped his eyes shut and tried to wait for the feeling to pass. "I guess what's bothering me the most is…I don't know how to just wait and figure it out. I thought I knew but, it's not happening. I feel so uncomfortable. I'm stuck. Or something, I don't even know…"

Jesus. Fuller hadn't seen Tom act like this before. He'd seen him in a lot of different situations and through many different emotions, but this seemed different. Fuller stood and took a few paces behind his desk. He purposefully tried to relax his voice even more. "Hey, it's gonna be okay…" Shit, that sounded so canned. "Tom, did…are you sure there wasn't something in particular that brought this on? Did something happen?"

Like so many other things in life, there wasn't a clear answer. Was there something in particular that brought this on? No. Yes. Kind of. Maybe. So many small things had been mounting over time. He couldn't even count them all. "I don't know…" Tom muttered.

The weight of the world. Fuller somehow felt responsible for at least some of Tom's anguish, in an indirect fatherly sort of way. "Being with these troubled kids, day after day…seeing them struggle. Witnessing their bad decisions…and knowing that sometimes it's not their fault. Wanting to help them, but also feeling outraged at them, and the adults around them and The System…I get it. This is the hard stuff. I wish I could tell you that it gets better, easier. But we both know that isn't necessarily accurate."

Tom uncovered his face. The older man's words rang true, yet they didn't offer the comfort that he so desperately desired.

"You can always transfer to another division Tom," Fuller offered, and he laced his voice with as much hope as he could muster. "I know that you would easily be accepted into at least a dozen other programs or departments, if that's what you want. But, I…" He paused to gather his thoughts. "I realize that may not be the answer. But there are options. You have more choices than you realize. I know some people you could talk to, get more information, maybe provide some perspective. But no pressure. Only if you want to."

Tom nodded, letting it all sink in. He rubbed his eyes and the ever-so-slight ease in his tension immediately brought on the surge of exhaustion that up until that moment, he had been able to keep at bay. "Thanks Coach. I'll…think about it."

He stood up, and the sudden change in position made him slightly dizzy. He waited a second until the vertigo subsided and then he took a step forward and stopped. "Oh, I uh…" He reached slowly toward his back pocket and retrieved a sealed envelope.

He stared down at it while he smoothed out the paper. Now that he was about to hand it over to someone else, he wasn't sure…

He didn't even really know why he'd been compelled to write it. He wasn't the kind of guy that wrote things like that, letters, personal things. It wasn't his style. So then, why had he sat at his desk that night and let his fingers pour out thoughts that he'd never imagine uttering out loud? It didn't make sense, and yet it also made perfect sense. He suddenly felt embarrassed. Not because of the contents of the letter, but just the fact that he'd written a letter. Was it silly? Childish? Weird? Should he just put it back in his pocket and throw it away later?

No. He'd taken the time to write it, so he might as well just hand it over and never think of it again.

He quickly placed the letter on Fuller's desk and retracted his hand as quickly as possible. "I…" He'd written it so fast and furious, that he'd completely forgotten about how to explain it. "Could you…keep that for me?" He said tentatively, a million thoughts whirling through his mind. "In case…if something ever happened…"

Fuller glanced over at the envelope and saw what was written on it. He understood what it was and it instantly roused fear. What state of mind would generate something like this? But as his gaze moved from the paper over to Tom's distressed face, he knew that he shouldn't ask any more questions. Not at the moment. Whether he consciously knew it or not, Hanson was seeking out acceptance, and what he needed most in that moment was assurance, of anything.

"Of course," Fuller affirmed. He wanted to add something like, but I'm not going to ever have to give this to him, or something to imply that the worse-case scenario would never play out. But he knew he couldn't promise that. So, he restrained himself from saying anything more.

Tom didn't look up again. "Thanks," he whispered, and stiffly walked out of the office.

Fuller stood in place and didn't move a muscle until the sound of footsteps disappeared and the humid air had been silent for a while.