DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OBVIOUSLY. I DO OWN SAMANTHA FLACK AND BABY DJ.
ONCE AGAIN, THIS IS A DANNY/OC STORY. IF THE THOUGHT OF DANNY WITH SOMEONE ELSE OTHER THEN LINDSAY TURNS YOUR STOMACH, THIS ISN'T THE STORY FOR YOU. IF YOU ENJOY IT AND FEEL HE, AS A FICTIONAL CHARACTER, CAN BE WITH ANYONE UNDER THE SUN, ENJOY!
ALSO, IF YOU DON'T LIKE READING A LESS THAN PERFECT FLACK, YOU MIGHT NOT LIKE MY STUFF EITHER.
ONE MORE OLD CHAPTER TO GO AFTER THIS! HOPE TO SEE YOU ALL COME BACK AND REVIEW WHEN THE NEW STUFF IS UP!
USE OF ITALICS DENOTES A FLASHBACK.
The highs and the lows
"I probably wouldn't be this way
I probably wouldn't hurt so bad
I never pictured every minute without you in it
Oh You left so fast
Sometimes I see you standing there
Sometimes it's like I'm losing touch
Sometimes I feel like I'm so lucky to have had the chance to love this much
God gave me a moment's grace
'Cause if I'd never seen your face
I probably wouldn't be this way."
-Probably Wouldn't Be This Way, LeAnn Rimes
A soft smile gracing her face, Samantha pressed end on the cordless phone on her hand and set it its base located on the five shelf book case that inhabited the far wall of the home office. It had been over a year since she'd stepped foot inside of that room. She had kept the door closed and avoided the desire to journey inside on many occasions. She had simply let the dust pile up and the emails that had gone into her husband's account on the PC got unanswered. It had once been the most inhabited room in the entire house. Many a sleepless night and countless weekends had seen her husband behind that desk. Surrounded by case files, his phone held to his ear with his shoulder as he either conversed, or argued with, whoever was on the other end. Eyes conveying annoyance as they flicked back and forth between the computer screen and the papers strewn all over the desk.
Don Flack Junior had been notoriously unorganized. Infamous for his horrific filing system -he admittedly had none, but insisted he knew exactly where everything was- and his terrible typing skills. He had been old school. Preferring paper and pen to a computer keyboard. Sam could recall, on numerous occasions from the very first day they met, wondering how in the hell he'd ever survived so long in a technology age when he was two finger typer. Both index fingers and that was it. It took him forever to get even the simplest of reports done, and there'd been many a time, when away from the scrutiny and prying eyes of the precinct, she'd been the one to sit down with his log book and files - all containing his almost intelligible handwriting- and spend hours converting his notes onto the proper computerized forms.
It had been their little secret of course. If the department had ever caught wind of the fact she was reading his work and knew of cases and witnesses and victims that she had no business being none the wiser of, shit would have definitely hit the fan. Every time she expressed concerned over being busted for what they were doing, Don had always shrugged his shoulders and applied his 'What they don't know won't hurt them' philosophy to the situation. And when he was commended by brass for having his work done in record time and for being so precise and thorough, it had been all he could do to keep a sly smirk off of his face.
And then he'd come home and thank his wife in his own personal, private way.
He had also been a self admitted work-aholic. He had never known when to simply walk away and take a break from something. When he immersed himself in his work, whether it was at the precinct or at home, he'd become somewhat obsessed. He'd hated letting things lie. His main fear was that if he stepped away, even for a short period of time, leads would get wasted and the trail would go cold. He felt that if he was on top of things and persons of interest at all times, the higher the chances of successfully solving a case. Many a joint day or weekend off, even their dating period, had consisted of them doing their separate things. While he either parked himself in the home office -or in the tiny spare room when they still lived in their cramped apartment in lower Manhattan- she'd busy herself with laundry or other chores. In the cold weather, she'd often be in the living room watching television or reading while he worked away. If the weather cooperated, she'd go rollerblading through Central Park or take her credit and bank cards on a shopping trip in mid-town.
Mostly she stayed inside. While they weren't in the same room, she liked the feeling of security being under the same roof as him had provided her with. Out alone, she was just that. Alone. In the apartment, even with him down the hall, they were still essentially together. She could hear his deep, authoritative voice as he barked out orders on the phone. The clicking off the keyboard as he typed. The occasional squeak of the chair when he shifted his position. A cough or a sneeze. The littlest thing that let her know that he was still around. As long as she could hear him, sense him, the loneliness avoided her. Sometimes, she'd actually sit in the room with him. She'd bring in a chair from the kitchen and they'd share the desk. She put her feet in his lap as she read a magazine or surf the 'net on her lap top. She'd bring him cups of coffee or stand behind him and massage the tension out of his neck or try riding him of a ferocious headache by rubbing his temples. She'd make lunch and dinner and they'd eat in that small second bedroom. And many a time, he'd still be in there long after she'd gone to bed.
Her mother, and most of her friends, called her nuts for putting up with 'that shit'. They didn't understand how she tolerated being ignored and put on the bottom of his totem pole of priorities. Sam had argued that that was just the way things were. It was their relationship and that was how they did things. It was no one's business and no one was in the place to judge them. No one knew about those quiet conversations they'd have when he'd take a break from his work. The way he'd smile at her from across the desk, tenderness and affection and love in his eyes as he listened intently to whatever she had to say. The way he'd rub her legs or illicit hysterical laughter and bring tears to her eyes when he tickled the base of her toes or the ultra sensitive arches of her feet. Or the way, by a simple look from her, he'd simply put everything on hold and take her into the confines of their bedroom and show her that she was still important to him. That he still loved her and still wanted her. And needed her.
But despite the fact that she'd accepted that being with a cop had met that there were times she'd be second or even third of fourth in his life, there had been moments where she'd been angry. Pissed off that he couldn't just concentrate on them for a change. Why he just couldn't save his work and turn the computer off and spend even half an hour of his time with her. As a couple. There'd been many an argument and many tears on her part when he'd none so gently reminded her that she had walked into a relationship with him knowing that this could happen. Knowing that his career was everything to him.
"But I want to be everything to you, Don!" she pleaded, following a particularly nasty exchange shortly after they'd gotten married. He had been gunning for his promotion to Sargent and their life as a newly married couple was taking a serious hit. He was clocking insane hours. Over ninety one week, close to eighty the next. And when he was home he was glued to the computer and the phone was practically cemented to his ear.
"You are!" he argued. "I married you didn't I? You're my wife! I wouldn't have married you if you weren't the most important thing in my life!"
"But sometimes it doesn't feel like I am! Please just listen to me! Sometimes it feels like I'm the last thing that's important to you. I know your job is important to you, Donnie. I know how much your career means to you. And believe me, I want you to climb the ladder and I want you to succeed. But at the same time I want to feel…I don't know…I guess I want to know that you don't think getting married to me was a huge mistake."
His eyes narrowed. There was vehemence in his voice. "Is that what you think? That getting married was a huge mistake?"
"No. I wouldn't have married you if I didn't want to be with you for the rest of my life. But the problem is…we're not really together, Donnie. Don't you see that? We merely co-exist ninety percent of the time. We live under the same roof and that's it. We share the same bed. For sleeping . That's it. Half the time I'm already in bed and fast asleep before you come in the room. We've been married three months and I can count the number of times a month since we got married that we made love."
"So what you're saying is that sex is the biggest part of our relationship," Flack snorted. "What a reason to get married to someone."
"Don't you turn this around on me!" she cried, taking three bounding steps to his desk and slamming her hands down on top of it. "Sex isn't the biggest part of our relationship. But I miss it! I miss you and the intimacy we used to share. And not just the sexual intimacy either. I mean the simple things. The way you put your arm around me and you brush your fingers against my shoulder. The way you push my hair behind my ears and kiss my forehead. The way we used to spend Sunday mornings just lying around in bed. I miss those quiet, peaceful moments just being in your arms and listening to your heart beat. I miss…I miss you, okay? I just miss you."
"And you can have me back once I get this promotion, Sammie. Two more months. Two more months and then I take the exam and things will go back to normal. I promise you."
"And if they don't? If they don't go back to normal? You were like this even before you knew you were up for promotion."
He sighed and dropped his pen angrily onto his desk and leaned back in his chair. Placing his hands behind his head, he laced his fingers together and stared long and hard at her. "My job is important," he informed her.
"I fucking know that! You remind me every goddamn time we fight about this!"
"Well maybe if you stopped getting on my ass all the time about it, you wouldn't have to keep hearing it. You never fucking stop, Sam! You go on and on and on. You never just shut your goddamn mouth about it! I told you before we even got married that if you didn't want to accept that sometimes you'd be second, that you had every right to walk away from me. I told you that! And yet here you are. You still married me. When that promotion is secured, things will change. But for now…for now just back off of me and shut the fuck up about it."
"I won't back off of you and I won't just shut up! Who the hell do you think you are? Your father? Just because your mother sat back and let him shit all over her for the last forty years, don't think for one goddamn second your getting away with that crap! I deserve respect from you! I deserve to be first once in awhile, Donnie! I married you because I love you! You're a pompous, mean, arrogant, insensitive douche bag sometimes but I love you! For some goddamn reason I actually love you! And I want forever with you!"
"Okay…you know what?" Flack calmly went back to his work. He'd long ago learned that avoiding her when she got into her hyped up, confrontational moods, was the best thing for both of them. If he got into a fight with her, things would turn nasty and he'd end up saying things he neither meant, or could take back. Hurting his wife's feelings was definitely not on his agenda. And when he got defensive, hurting her was the first thing he always resorted to. " I think you need to just step away Sam and go somewhere and calm down. You say a lot of shit when you're angry. So just leave the room, go chill out somewhere and come back when you're ready to talk about this like a mature, reasonable adult."
"You should be thankful I'm not bottling this all up!" she cried, brushing tears off of her cheeks. "Do you remember what happened last time? When I bottled it all up 'cause I knew you wouldn't listen to me? I was one step away from a nervous breakdown. You were the one that told me to open up to you more. To tell you how I felt 'cause you weren't a mind reader. And now you're just….not listening to me."
"It's hard to listen to you when you're like this," he told her. "When you're acting like some spoiled rotten, selfish, clingy, whiny little bitch."
"I'm sorry…I'm sorry if you find it clingy that your wife wants to spend time with you. I'm sorry if you find it selfish that I want my husband back! Or that I'm whining because I tell you how you're making me feel. And maybe I am spoiled. But only because until we got married, you were mine and I was yours and I didn't feel like I had to compete with your job for five minutes of your time."
"You don't have to compete. There's no competition. I just need you to be more patient, Sammie. More understanding. I need you…" he sighed. "I need you to accept me for me. I need you to realize that I shouldn't have to change who I am to be with you. I shouldn't have to become a completely different man just to suit you. You should love me and accept me as is."
"And you should love me to enough to realize that I need you to need me. I need you to want me, Donnie. I need you to love me."
"I do love you, Samantha. And I do need you and I do want you."
"But not enough that you'd look up from your paperwork and say that to my face," she mused, and turning on her heel, stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
She had stormed down the hall of their apartment, tears of anger and hurt streaming down her face. She bypassed their bedroom door, barely resisting the urge to go inside and pack her things and take off. Not permanently. Leaving him permanently had never been and never would be an option. Because despite his immense dedication to his job, he was a good man. A great husband. Who tried hard to make things perfect between them. Who wanted nothing more then to take care of her. Both financially and emotionally. She had always prided herself on being fiercely independent. She had never needed or relied on a man to pay her way or take hold of situations. It wasn't until Don Flack Junior that she had realized it was more because she had always had to be in control in her relationships. She had never trusted a man enough to allow him to make decisions, to reign her in when her moods got out of hand. To ultimately protect. And then she'd fallen quickly and hopelessly in love with him and had surrendered the most vulnerable parts of herself to him. She found she liked being taking care of. She liked having someone coming to her aide and making her feel safe. Even if she didn't always let him know that.
The problem was, since he was old enough to remember, Flack had always possessed a desire to have control over everything in his life. And when he felt that control slipping or felt threatened by her trying to assume control, it was then that he lashed out. They had bad moments. All newly married couples went through some trying times. Being in a committed, legally binding relationship definitely took some getting used to. On both their parts. But what they lacked in communication skills, they made up for in love.
Only sometimes you need more than that, she had thought, as she stormed into the kitchen and began tossing open cupboards in search of something to eat. Food at always been her weakness. She wasn't afraid to eat. Not by a long shot. If she liked something, she ate it. She didn't worry about it going to her ass or her hips. All her life she'd fluctuated between a size eight at her lowest and a twelve at her heaviest. She had no desire to fit into size zero jeans or be model thin. But when she got stressed or emotional, she immediately turned to food as her comfort. And during the early stages of her marriage, she had seemed to be seeking comfort at an alarming rate.
She had dried her tears and vowed to never, ever let him have that kind of negative effect on her again -easier said then done, considering it always seemed that the ones you loved the most also drove you the most insane- and decided on her before dinner snack. The remainders of a tub of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream, and a half full bag of Oreo cookies. Which she ate, standing at the counter. She had just dipped her third cookie into the ice cream and bit into it when her husband, ceramic coffee mug in hand, journeyed into the kitchen. A frown on his face, his blue eyes dark and serious.
She watched him, through narrowed eyes as he silently made his way to the sink a mere foot from where she stood leaning over the counter. No words were exchanged as he turned the water on to rinse his cup, then shut the taps off and set the mug on the edge of the sink.
Turning, he leaned back against the counter. The movement causing his arm to brush up against her.
She glared down at his arm as it briefly touched her, and as if it had scalded her, sidestepped until she was out of reach.
"Don't be like that, Sammie…" Flack said in a quiet, almost sad voice.
"Let's just not talk," she suggested. "Because every time we try to say three words to each other lately it just turns into a massive thing. And I'm tired of fighting you with Donnie. I don't want us to be that way. We just got married. We're suppose to be disgustingly happy and in love. Not…" she sighed heavily and dipped her cookie into the ice cream. "Not like this."
"I am disgustingly in love," he informed her.
"I noticed you didn't toss the word happy in there somewhere," she said.
"Why toss it in there if it's not true?" he asked.
She frowned. "Nice…very nice. What a sweet, lovely thing to say to your wife. Your game is even worse then I ever thought possible."
"It's not that I'm not happy with you. 'Cause I am, babe. You know that. The only time I am happy is when I'm with you. And I'm not talking sexually. I'm talking when it's just me and you and we shut out the entire world. When we forget about everything except for us. Those are the times when I'm happy. And we haven't…we just haven't had many of those time since we got married."
"And somehow in all of that I'm too blame?"
"Was I blaming you? Did it sound as if I was blaming you for anything? It's not us, Sammie. It's everything surrounding us. Surrounding me. It's Whitmore and Sinclair and it's my father. It's me and my obsession with proving that I can be better then him. I want that promotion. So bad I can taste it. And I'm worried that if I don't throw myself into it, I'll lose that chance. And I've been an ass. I know that. I haven't been there for you when you needed me. I've pushed you away and ignored you and shit all over you. And you know that I never meant to do any of that."
"But you still did it," she pointed out.
"What do you want me to say, babe? I suck at relationships. I always have. I've always been too selfish to be with someone on a constant basis. And now here I am. Married. Which is not the time to be a self centered prick. And I'm trying here. I am really, really trying to be what you need me to be. It's just…I don't know…I guess I just royally suck at being a husband."
She shook her head and dug into the ice cream container. "It's not just you, Donnie," she said. "I know important your job is. I want you to succeed and do achieve great things. You know how proud I am of you. But at the same time, I need you to be there for me. And I should have just realized that at this time, you can't do that."
"Yes I can," he assured her. "I can do both. I can do the job and be a husband."
"I have been selfish," Sam concluded, popping her spoon into her mouth. "I've wanted you all to myself and I wanted to be the only thing in your life. But that isn't reality and I know that. It's a fantastical, overly romantic way of thinking. And I'm sorry if it was all a little too much for you to deal with."
His eyes narrowed as he regarded her, his head tilted slightly to the side. "Is it wrong that you lost me somewhere along the way? Because for the life of me, I can't figure out what it is your exactly trying to say."
"We're both immature, self centered tools who need to grow up and start working together. As a team. We need to stop thinking and acting as individuals," she told him. "We went into this marriage and we need to build on it together. It's a learning process. Well there's lots left to learn on both of our parts."
"Guess it's a good thing we've got all of our lives to do this learning thing, huh?" he asked, a dimply grin spreading across his face as he reached out to run a hand over her hair and down to the small of her back. Pressing a kiss to her temple, his hand slipped around to her side and he pulled her tight against him. "That way we don't have to waste all of our time schooling each other."
She giggled at that. "I quite like it when you school me on things," she said.
"Yeah…and I know what kind of things you're talking about," he chuckled. "Seeing as I took this innocent, near virginal Catholic girl to bed one night and it took me a few sleepless nights to transform her into a wild and crazy sex goddess."
"Yeah?" she asked, a licked ice cream off of her spoon with the tip of her tongue. "What was her name?"
"You're a goddamn smart ass," he declared, and tangling a hand in her dark, waist length hair, captured her mouth in a sizzling, toe curling kiss. "You know what I think we need to do?" he asked, when the need for air became overpowering and he broke from the kiss, only to concentrate on pressing his lips along her jaw line and the side of her neck.
"What's that?" she asked, although the flutter in her stomach and the heat spreading through her entire boy gave away what she wanted to be doing.
"I think we both need to apologize and then have insanely hot make up sex."
She laughed and placed her elbow against his stomach and playfully pushed him away. "You and your damn make up sex," she said, shaking her head.
"Best sex of all," he declared, and trailed his hand down her side, over her hip and around to her ass.
"Is that an insult?" she teased. "Are you trying to say that all other types of sex with me are horrible?"
"Absolutely not…any and all types of sex with you are incredible. It's just…" he pushed her hair off of her shoulder and leaned in close to suckling lightly at her shoulder before his teeth nipped gentle at the sensitive spot just below her ear. "That's just something about make up sex that makes it insanely hot. All that adrenaline I guess from fighting. You're still a little pissed off at each other so you take it out on each other in the bedroom. Nothing wrong with that."
"You know what I think?" she asked, and fanned herself off with her hand.
"What?" he inquired, and moved her hair away from the side of her face to kiss and lick her ear.
"I think we need to re-christen every possible place in this apartment," she declared.
And that was exactly what they had done. For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening -in between breaks for beverages and sustenance- all thoughts of work had been pushed aside. And afterwards, when they were exhausted and completely and utterly sated, they lay in the middle of their rumbled bed together, sweaty limbs entangled, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her hair and her fingers traced lightly over the jagged scars that decorated his chest and lower left abdomen. Their hearts had pounded in unison as their ragged breathing slowly returned to normally. And it was then that he'd said the words she'd remember all of her life.
"Till death to us part, Sammie," he whispered, his lips in her hair. "I meant when I said that. Every word. 'Cause death is the only thing that can take me away from you."
And it had. It had torn him away from her far ahead of his time. The moment those words had escaped from her lips, she'd scolded him for being so fatalistic. For even talking about something like that when he was barely crowding thirty two. And he'd gathered her into his arms and rolled her onto her back. And bearing his weight on his left forearm, cupped the side of her face gently with his right hand and look deep into her soul. Blue eyes locked on golden brown.
"I meant when I'm old and grey and I go in my sleep, Tinks," he said. "Unless you're planning on offing me sometime soon."
"Only on days that end in Y," she'd laughed, and then catching him off guard, tackled him onto his back.
After that, things had changed drastically. He'd made a valiant effort to put his new wife ahead of his work. They had fought less and loved more. They had learned to forgive easier and when it was time to walk away from each other when they felt as if things were spiralling out of control. They were enjoying the slow process of learning every little intricate thing about one another.
Then that learning had so abruptly ended the moment she'd heard the news of the plane crash that had claimed her husband's life. Along with many others. And she thought, as she stood in front of his desk, wringing the papers in her hands together nervously as she eyed 'homework' and folders that had been sitting there for over a year now, that she had had so much more to learn about the love of her life. So much more to experience with him. So many more ups and downs and moments of joy and sorrow.
Anger still lingered near the surface. She was angry that he had left her. That he had broken that promise of forever he'd made to her. They were suppose to have the rest of their lives together. They were suppose to raise a family, welcome grandchildren, grow old and grey and enjoy their golden years together. They were suppose to be a team.
And he had left her. Without a chance to say goodbye.
Stop it, Sammie, she scolded herself, closing her eyes in an effort to compose herself. What happened wasn't Donnie's fault. He didn't know it was going to happen and he couldn't have stopped it. He didn't leave you because he wanted too. He left you because he HAD to.
Hallow words some days. There were times thinking that way brought her comfort, and other times they did little to to scratch the surface of the grief and animosity that often threatened to suffocate her. Tonight, convincing herself that her husband's death had in no way been preordained on his part, nor had he wanted to leave her or their unborn child, had done its job. The anger lifted, the grief abatted and she opened her eyes.
She was worried however, that it wasn't quite normal that she still had these unwavering, intense feelings of love for someone that didn't even exist anymore. That she was some kind of freak for letting her grief still overpower her a year later.
That there was something wrong with her because she still loved and missed her husband even thought a new man had come into her life and she was quickly developing such strong, overwhelming feelings for him. Not quite a 'new' man, she thought with a small grin, as she journeyed around behind the cluttered desk and pulled the chair out with her foot. It amazed her, and frightened her, that she was tumbling so hard and so fast for Danny. Someone that she had always considered one of her closest, most dearest friends. A brother, almost.
Someone that was engaged to your dead best friend, a voice piped up inside of her head.
"That's neither here, nor there," she said aloud, then laughed, feeling like an ass for talking to herself.
Was it okay that she still missed and adored her husband even though she was falling for someone else? Was it okay that that person was her husband's best friend? Was it okay to be experiencing grief and love at the same time? Was that even possible? Was she doing both Don and Danny huge disservices by feeling fifty different things at once?
What's not normal is that you obsess over things too much, she told herself. Just let things happen in their own way. Stop torturing yourself and take things one step at a time.
Sighing heavily, she combed her fingers through her hair and gazed down at the mess that littered the desk. An uncapped pen, manilla folders -Danny had long ago gone into the office and gathered anything of dire importance the NYPD would need and returned it to the brass- pieces of crumpled computer paper, a yellow legal pad bearing her husband's hand writing.
"You are such a slob, Donnie," she said aloud, and setting the stack of bills in her hand on top of the computer monitor, began tidying up the work space.
Shuffling papers together and stuffing them into the folders, putting the cap back on the pen and dropping it into the Mets mug that served as a pen and pencil holder. She picked up the yellow legal pad and prepared to close it, pausing briefly as her eyes skimmed the writing that was there. Notes for a case that he had been taking while talking with one of his guys on the phone, they stopped abruptly and in mid sentence halfway down the page. She couldn't remember now why or how he'd be interrupted during his work, but he had never gone back to it. It was probably one of the last things he'd worked on before…
Stop torturing yourself, Sam ordered, and snapped the pad closed and dropped it ontop of the folders she'd already organized. In a couple of days, she'd go back in there and gathered everything up of his that was no longer needed. All of his files and notes and anything else work related, go through them and either shred them or return them to the department. It was time to start between some of the past behind her in order to move on with the future.
But for now, she had work to do. Dropping into the leather chair, she reached out to power up the computer and grabbed the stack of bills and laid them out in front of her. Most were still in Don's name. She'd happily given him the responsibility of paying the bills. She would do the cooking and the cleaning if he did all the manual work, help with grocery shopping, and make sure the bills were paid on time. If it had have been left up to her, things would have easily been forgotten and their hydro or heat been disconnected.
Scatterbrained. He had always called her that. Lovingly of course. It was never said out of malice. She'd be running around the house or the apartment fretting about not being able to find her car keys or her purse or her sunglasses. And for a few minutes, he'd calmly listen to her frantic ranting and raving and watch her tear the place apart, and then he slowly walk over to where he knew the purse or the keys were lying in wait, take them and hand them to her. And one more then one occasion, he had journeyed over to her, giving that boyish, dimply grin and reached up to pull her sunglasses off of her head and push them onto her face.
"Scatterbrained," he'd declared with a smile, and kissed her softly.
There were worse things I've been called throughout my thirty-five years, Sam mused, as she spread the bills out across the desk and reached for a pen in the Mets mug. Her hand pausing in mid air as her eyes settled on the framed photograph that sat proudly amidst the mess. An engagement photo that she had had to practically beg Don to take part in it. The moment that he had slipped that diamond on her figure, she had begun to make wedding plans. They had agreed right off the hop that they wanted a church wedding with no more then seventy five guests and a nice reception afterwards. That was all the decisions he needed to make, he said. The rest was up to her. His only request was that there be nothing tacky like ice sculptures or doves that had to be released. And NO pink. The second they'd returned from Atlantic City, Sam had run out and bought every wedding magazine and planned imaginable. Once she had read about engagement photos, her mind had been made up. They NEEDED one.
Don hadn't seen the need for it. It wasn't as if they were announcing their engagement in a newspaper or anything. Their family and friends just needed to be told about. What purpose did an engagement picture serve? Her argument had been that she wanted a nice picture of the two of them together. Something professional. Not something that had been taken on someone's digital or a disposable camera. Something they'd be able to give his parents and send to her folks in Arizona and pass around to their closest friends if they wanted to.
Finally he had relented after two months of near incessant begging. They'd booked a photographer -for what he'd grumbled was a 'ridiculous amount of money for pictures we could get a friend of a family member to do'- and had converged on Central Park on a gorgeous, brilliant and uncharacteristically warm early spring day. Clad in simple black tops -a turtleneck for her, a Henley shirt for him- and jeans, they'd spent an hour being ordered into various poses by the photographer. Employing everything from park benches and the park fountain to the various statues throughout the park to capture half a dozen usable shots. In the end, the one that graced the top of her husband's desk had been their favourite of all. Don sitting down on the grass, his legs bent at the knee, arms wrapped loosely around them, with Sam kneeling behind him with her arms over his shoulders and her cheek pressed against his.
But what she remembered most about that day, wasn't his bitching or moaning about the whole process. Bitching and moaning about things was just his way. Nothing would ever change that. And she'd learned to tune him out or wave it off or tease him about being a snotty little boy. What she remembered was the rest of the day after the photographer had left. She had assumed once things were done, that was it. They'd head back to the apartment and Don would go back to his paperwork and she'd busy herself doing housework or watching television. Instead, as they headed for the exit of the park hand in hand, he'd suddenly stopped in his tracks, pulled her into him and covered her lips with his in a long, slow, tender kiss. Then announced they weren't going home. He didn't feel like it.
They'd spent the entire day in the park. Sprawled out on the grass with hotdogs and pretzels and ice cream and lemon merinque and chocolate caramel flavoured fudge they'd purchased at vendors along the way. They'd talked and laughed and teased on another. Forgetting about everything and anything that existed outside of them. For once, all thoughts of work were pushed to the back burner and they became just a normal couple madly in love with each other. And as they'd laid together on the grass, Flack on his back, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched straight out, a forearm over his eyes, and Sam on her stomach tight against his side and her chin resting on his shoulder, she'd smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek and nuzzled his ear with her nose.
Grateful for the opportunity she'd been given to not only meet and fall in love with him and he with her, but to spend the rest of her life with him. And she'd promised herself, from that day forward, to never take him or his presence for granted.
Sadly, she had. Like most humans who became to wrapped up in their daily routines and stresses, there'd been times when maybe she didn't show him or tell him she loved him and appreciated him enough.
I am not making that same mistake twice, she vowed now. It was too late to mend the errors she'd made with Don. And it pained her immensely to think that maybe, a small part of him hadn't known the true depth of her feelings for him. That he had maybe questioned on occasion if she felt they'd done the right thing getting married and attempting a life together. But she was determined to learn from her ways. She wasn't going to hold anything back this time around. She was going to speak her mind and bare her heart and soul. She wasn't going to let a single moment go by without letting Danny know how happy she was having him in her life. How much she l..
She couldn't say it out loud just yet. While it felt so right to be both speaking the word and feeling it, part of her told her it was too soon. That she should just keep it back until she felt comfortable and at ease using that four letter word for someone other then her husband.
Face it girl, you're falling in love with him, she thought, as there mere passing though of Danny Messer brought a smile to her face and made her stomach and heart flutter. Why deny it? Who does it hurt admitting something like that? You're only hurting yourself and taking an unnecessary chance with your heart by not telling him. If he doesn't know, he could easily just walk on out of your life and find someone who will tell him.
I'll admit it, she decided, as she logged onto the on line banking service to take care of the bills before her. But I'm only admitting it to myself right now.
She rummaged through the stack of papers and envelopes in front of her until she reached the most important item there. A copy of the death certificate issued by the ME's office. Although the NYPD had taken care of all pension and personnel issues, she still had things that needed to be changed into her name. All the bills for one. She also knew she had to take Don's name off of their joint account and the credit cards they'd had in both of their names. And she had to remove him as the beneficiary of her own life insurance policy. She'd left it all for far too long. And dealing with it was a sign that she was getting in control of herself again. That her life was becoming her own. That she was coping.
Opening the envelope, she pulled out the copy of the death certificate and sighed heavily as she looked down at the name and the words typed out on that sheet before her. Sid had made the 'official' call based on evidence from the NTSB that no one could have possibly survived the crash. He had determined that the case of death was fragmentation to blunt force trauma and then signed off on his decision. She could remember, the tears in his eyes as he stood on her front porch handing his findings over to her. He was apologetic that there'd been nothing found and that there were no definite answers that he could give her.
She didn't have the heart to tell him that she'd already received the papers from the FBI. Sid was a gentle, kind man. Who possessed a startling amount of compassion and love for everyone he came across. He had been like a father to her since the very first day she'd started. He was down to earth and personable and he liked that she always laughed at his corny jokes and was genuinely interested in stories and personal anecdotes he'd told her numerous times.
He had done what he could with the limited information he'd been given and Sam appreciated that.
And she missed him. She missed those stories and his jokes. And his cooking. Before he'd become an ME, Sid had lived his 'previous' life has a chef. It had become a common occurrence for him to bring various dishes to work for her to have on her break or to take home for both her and Don to enjoy. And after they'd gotten married, they'd gone to Sid's home on various occasions, whether it was a dinner party the man was hosting or just Sunday supper.
Selecting a pen from the mug, she uncapped it with her teeth. CALL SID, she scrawled on the bottom of one of the bills. ASAP.
Spitting the cap out of her mouth and onto the desk, she pushed the chair across the room and settled herself in front of the fax machine. Prepared to make copies of the certificate to drop off or mail to the various companies.
Until she heard the sound of the sliding door in the kitchen opening. The damn thing squeaked horribly, and it had been on her mind for weeks now to put some oil on it to rectify the problem. She sat quietly and listened to heavy footsteps falling on her kitchen floor and becoming closer and closer to her location.
Wonderful, she thought. The hair on the back of her neck standing straight up and her heart pounding. Someone breaks in and there's not one gun in the 's what you get for not learning to lock the goddamn doors. She picked up the receiver of the phone on the desk and had her finger hovering over the number nine when a familiar voice finally spoke up.
"Samantha?…Are you around?"
Breathing a huge sigh of relief, she put the phone back and got up from her chair and went to the office door and poked her head out into the hall. Smiling at the tall, strong man that stood in the hall. His blue eyes sparkling as he saw her, flashing a warm, dimply smile of his own.
"Long time no see," her father in law said.
"Too long considering you practically live in my backyard," she chided.
"Things have been…" Flack Senior sighed heavily. "Strange," he finished. "Very strange."
She nodded in agreement. "Something tells me that your lovely wife sent you over here."
He shook his head. "I came over on my own accord," he assured her. "I realized I'd been shutting myself off from you and DJ. For purely selfish reasons and I was hoping that…"
She waited patiently as the older man chose his words carefully.
"That we could talk," he said at last. "About you. About DJ."
She nodded.
"And about my son," he added sadly.
She gave a warm smile and crossed the small expanse of hallway and laid a gentle hand on his bicep.
"I'd like that," she said.