Hi and welcome to another chapter of 'Keeping it in the Family?' I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas and a great New Years day and I'm sorry for the lack of updates recently – I've been rather busy with other stuff and hadn't had as much time as I would have liked to have written this.

Big, huge thank yous goes out to everyone who keeps reading and reviewing – you guys are the best!

Enjoy!

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Seeing her breath amongst the haze of grey cigarette smoke of the council own property her Mum was actually proud to call her own, Casey Carlisle grunted, feeling rotten after a shitty day on the job and an even shittier return to her house.

Earlier in the day – fearing that her Mother was with a client or would actually be bothered to bombard her with multiple questions about her whereabouts (which just about never happened unless her Mother was really bored) – she'd only dumped her note book and pens inside of the door; Casey came to the conclusion early on in the day that it would be a good idea to take a very long walk, hoping that her frame of mind wouldn't be so jaded after her pleasant stroll, as soon as she'd heard the burnt orange Cortina screech around another bend in Manchester.

To put it plainly, her Mother was useless, completely and utterly useless. No matter how many times she screamed at her or asked her politely, never was she considerate enough to make sure the house was warmed through before she returned home. Yet, if the boot was on the other foot...

Heaving another jumper over her freezing body, one that she should have perhaps washed weeks ago, considering the multiple stains evolving across the cotton fabric, Casey soldiered on into the kitchen. After all, she wasn't going to be receiving any visitors that night, so what did it matter?

Anticipating a kitchen crammed full of fresh goodies from the local grocery store, bitter disappointment clouded her face when she opened many of the cupboards to find them completely empty.

Scowling, she searched for the shopping list that she'd rushed about writing for her Mother that very same morning. Groaning, in her mind she knew exactly where it would be; on her whore of a Mother's bedside table, probably used as a coffee coaster. In the exact same place she'd left it in that very morning.

Plodding upstairs, she felt an explosion brewing inside of her. It was like someone was stood on top of a building, forever pouring gasoline over her unruly fire.

But the thing about this fire was it wasn't good for her; it was self destructive. Instead of filling her with hope, urging her to carry on in her most diabolical of days, it scorched at her insides until they were little more than ash.

As the door creaked open, the smell of cheap perfume hit Casey before she even had a chance to turn a light on. Choking, she did so, wondering over to the opposite side of the bedroom, finding exactly what she'd expected; the shopping list she'd wrote out in the fading moments before heading out to work, a coffee mug stain eclipsing her writing.

Casey murmured; she asked her Mother to do very little for her. Yet, the menial, parent like tasks she does ask of her are always to much. In fact, she wondered just why she felt so disappointed, so betrayed; after all, she should be use to it by now.

Shoving the mug off the paper, Casey took the note in her hands, almost hoping that there was no form of response included. At least that way, she could sort of think of it as an innocent mistake on the behalf of her single Mother.

Yet, if she thought her day had been shit up until now, she was about to hit another heap of turd - face first.

Scrawled lazily over the back of the letter, her Mother had hurled words together, leaving a rather passive and ignorant message.

Couldn't go shopping - morning appointment.

And that was it; no sorry, no kisses. No nothing. Just a few words cobbled together from nothingness. Typical of that bitch of a Mother. Typical that she would disregard her own flesh and blood's needs over her own. She'd even ripped the note in half, shredding some of the groceries away from one another.

Casey wanted to scream but something stopped her. She didn't know why, but she just couldn't. It was as if she knew not to waste her energy on being angry, especially not against somebody who had disappointed her so many times before anyway.

As the overbearing stench of fragrance began to subside, a new smell entered Casey's nostrils; nail varnish. Glancing at her nails, she hadn't applied any of the stuff in weeks. With one thing and another, she'd been far too busy to care that much about her personal appearance.

On her way home last night though, as a little treat to herself, she stopped off at the chemists. One of her few gal pals had told her that there was a new line of Revlon nail polishes, in bright, shiny colours to be noticed in. Everyone's wearing them, she'd enthused, sucking Casey right into the new craze.

After few moments of her deliberation, she went with her gut instinct and chose the colour that had caught her eye first; the turquoise blue colour, stood proudly at the top of the rack.

Loving it instantly from the moment she first saw it, it said a lot about her personality; she was cautious, wanting to fit in. Yet, her quirkiness was always lingering in the background. So, she did it partly by the accessories she wore, the make up she adorned herself with and the people whom she was friendly.

She bought the nail varnish with the intention of using it that night. Alas, she'd got side tracked by her Mother's self indulgent rant about money, men and sexually transmitted diseases.

Flipping her hair over her shoulders, Casey glanced to the ground, irritated at what she found; a teal blue stain on her Mother's cream carpet.

"Fuck off!" she yelled in exasperation.

On her hands and knees, Casey picked the bottle up, angered that half the contents was drying on the floor, the other half hardening as she continued to moan to herself, in the bottle. A note was beside the mass.

Just borrowed it - love the colour!

Casey's face screwed up, tearing the paper into minuscule pieces and slinging it onto her Mother's pillow.

Disrupting her melancholic angst, a gentle knock came at the door. It was soft yet long enough for her to realise that she should perhaps answer the door. Yet, she just didn't feel like company. That was, until she pulled back the curtain, poking her head as far as it would go against the cold glass of the window.

"Sam?" she mumbled, seeing him look up; the light from the bedroom was pouring onto the street below. Well, as much so as a 40 watt bulb would allow.

Glancing at herself in the mirror, she knew that she couldn't allow guests into the house looking as she did. Scarpering into her bedroom, she pulled out a fresh jumper from her draw, hastily pulling the other off as she sprinkled her fruity sweet perfume, another Revlon product called Charlie, over her skin. She wanted to at least look - and smell - the part, even if she didn't feel like the perfect hostess.

Pulling her locks into a tight ribbon, she rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over her lengthily jeans. Knowing her luck, by the time she managed to answer the door, Sam would be long gone. Back to his flat. Back to Annie.

DI Tyler wasn't use to doing a house call alone; he usually had his DCI stood beside him, grunting at how long the occupant was taking to acknowledge their presence at the door. He had to admit to himself though that he was getting a little irritated at how long he was left standing on the doorstop for, amongst cracked flower pots and scraped gnomes. His mind was becoming increasingly aware at the area he was in; that poor, rough part of Manchester that brought misery to the station, having to solve petty cases of theft and burglaries.

Eventually, the door swung open, the blonde girl stood before him. She looked pleasant, even nice; her sandy hair was away from her eyes, although they looked to have seen better days. Days without tears and pain.

"Hi, Sam, I mean, DI Ty-"

"It's ok, just call me Sam," he smiled, almost apologetically.

They stood examining one another for a few seconds that felt like a lifetime to her. "Would you like to come in?" she asked, leaning against the chipped door frame, once a bright shade of white. Now, it was turning yellow, like a cigarette smoker's teeth.

"Yes, if that's ok?"

"Sure, I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it."

Sam stepped inside the grotty semi-detached house. He was tempted to think that his place looked like a palace compared to this one; sprawled everywhere were outdated news paper, magazines from the sixties and empty alcohol bottles. The Inspector could tell that his latest recruit was at least a little embarrassed by it all.

"Sorry that it's not very tidy," she spoke, lifting and shuffling papers from the sofa. "Here, take a seat."

Surprisingly, the sofa was clean underneath the mountain of magazines. As Casey dropped them to the ground, a cloud of dust erupted in the air. Sam stifled a chocked laugh.

"Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No, honestly, I'm fine thanks."

Casey frowned a little. "Are you sure? I've got liquors if you want one of my special coffees?"

Sam noted the look of hope in her eyes. How could he possibly refuse? "Um, ok then, thanks. Just a small one."

Nodding now contently to herself, Casey made her way into the pokey kitchen, rummaging for the clean kettle from the cupboard. Her Mother had purchased it for when they had 'special guest' come round for a drink or even a meal. In other words, someone who isn't a paying customer. Just for a change.

Rinsing out the kettle, she filled it half way with fresh, cold water, ignoring her Boss' original request of a miniscule amount.

Making her way back into the dimly lit living room, Casey switched on another lamp. It didn't make that much of a difference but enough so that he could be seen behind the curtain of blackness.

"What would you like? I've got Vodka, Whisky..."

"Whisky will be great," Tyler interrupted hastily. "Thank you."

Sam watched the young woman venture back into the other room, her slender frame only just managing to support the jeans she was wearing. Her sweater was a mile too big for her but he figured it was probably necessary, with the house being as cold as it was. Perhaps it was a good idea he'd requested that coffee after all.

She returned a few minutes later, a broad but exaggerated grin capturing her face. "Here you go, hope you like it!"

Sam took the steaming cup from her. "Thank you."

Mimicking her actions from just a minute ago, Casey lugged the vintage newspapers from the seat diagonally away from her Inspector. She sat down, watching him drink the coffee. The way his lips formed into a gentle 'o' as he cautiously sipped the coffee, trying not to inhale too much in case he burnt his tongue.

"Blimey, there's a lot of Whisky in this!" he spluttered.

Casey smirked. "Is it ok because I can make you another one? It's just I thought after the day you'd had you might be in need of something a little stronger than usual?"

"That's very thoughtful of you," Sam acknowledge, taking a smaller, more graceful drop.

The room became silent once again.

"So, what did happen after DCI Hunt told me to bugger off home?" Casey enquired, not sure if she really wanted to hear the answer.

Sam's eyebrows pressed together. "Well, going to Boyd's house was more or less a waste of time. I'll show you the files tomorrow, so that you can get up to speed with it all. You will be in tomorrow, I take it?"

To Casey's youthful ears, that sounded like a request rather than a question. "Sure, unless he surrounds the building with rabid dogs when I get anywhere within fifty yards of the place."

Sam chuckled. "You know, it will get better."

"How?" she whispered, unsure of his response.

He thought about his response carefully, wanting the young woman to understand but at the same time, not attempting to fill her with false hopes that couldn't possibly be met. At least not by the Gene Genie. "He'll eventually accept that you are now a part of the team and treat you like one of us. It was like than when I originally promoted Annie, but it all got better."

'There he goes again, mentioning her,' Casey gritted her teeth, sealing her thoughts to the confines of her mind.

"I dunno. I should be use to feeling rejected by now. It's happened a lot in my life."

Sam plonked down the mug, awash with guilt. "Hey, don't talk like that," he urged. "Your Dad does care for you; he's just not here to show it."

"No change there then!" Casey spat bitterly.

He rubbed a hand over his tiring face. Yep, he was suddenly beginning to wish that he hadn't bothered. "You know, you've got a lot to prove down the station," Sam warned, making himself more comfortable in the upholstery. "There are a lot of people that doubt you, think that the Gov made a stupid decision when he hired you. But I don't think he did."

Casey's face glanced up, relieved that someone was on her side. "Really?"

"Really."

"Why?"

"I dunno, but something tells me that you're going to be a good copper one day."

"I hope so, to prove everyone wrong."

Sam offered a sympathetic but inquisitive look. "Who do you want to prove wrong?"

"Him and Mother."

"You're making it sound like they are on the same page."

She shook her head lightly. "I'm not saying that. But they both doubt me."

"Where is your Mum anyway?" Sam quizzed, wanting to make the conversation a little sweeter. Alas, he'd just pushed directly the wrong button.

"Where do you think?"

"At work?"

"You could say that."

As she leant back even further into her seat, the sarcasm became too great for Sam to ignore. "Wait, you mean..."

"Yep, she's with a client."

He raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Wait, but the Gov said that she'd given up with that?"

She snorted. "Oh yeah, I told him that."

The Detective Inspector shot Casey a look she imagined a Father would when they were disappointed with their Daughter's actions. "Why?"

"If I told him the truth, he would have never let me have the job, would he? I'm sure it would look really good under my next of kin's occupation...'oh yeah, prostitution'. Truth to be told, I don't know why I bothered covering up for her anymore. I've more or less accepted that's what she does and always will do. After all, a leopard never changes its spots, does it?"

"Not necessarily."

"It's always been the same with her. She's never been here for me. It's always had to be the other way round. I could never stand it when I was a kid - having to come home from school, welcomed by little more than a freezing cold house. No food warming for me on the stove. Just a new batch of sex toys to shift through, to make sure the delivery was right."

Tears began to well in her eyes; tears of anger and perpetual sadness. Sam didn't know how to confront – or even comfort - this situation.

"And it's still like that, even now. She doesn't give a fuck about me - not in the slightest."

Her voice finally cracked. Sam took a deep breath, making his way over to her. He wrapped a supportive arm around her shaking shoulders, hoping to calm her.

"Hey, hey, come on, don't cry, it won't change the situation, or make it any better," he spoke wisely, bringer her closer to his body.

She dragged herself over to him more, the scent of soap and deodorant strolling through her nostrils. "Nothing ever will."

Sam held her for a few minutes, finally finding the courage to speak up. "My Dad, he left when I was four."

"I'm sorry," she said, gazing into his hazel eyes, full of warmth and compassion.

"I never did see him again."
"Well, at least you have the memories, you know, of when you were together. As a family."

Sam exhaled thoughtfully. "In a way, it made it even worse. It made me yearn for him even more."

Feeling her body move more fluently beside his, Casey ran her fingers through his mouse brownish locks. "I'm sorry," she repeated, with more empathy than ever before.

Closing her eyes, she felt her lips pucker, travelling slowly but surely towards his.

"What the hell are you doing?" he yelped, letting go of her.

"I-I was..."

He straightened out his leather jacket. "What? You were going to kiss me?"

"B-but, I thought..."

"No, you didn't think," Sam cried, his hands scuffing over his mouth.

He fled the scene, leaving her in pieces.

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