DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN…BLAH…BLAH…BLAH…

A/N: USE OF ITALICS DENOTES A FLASHBACK

The Man Who Can't Be Moved

"Going Back to the corner where I first saw you
Gonna camp in my sleeping bag I'm not gonna move
Got some words on cardboard, got your picture in my hand
saying, "if you see this girl can you tell her where I am"

Some try to hand me money, they don't understand
I'm not broke I'm just a broken hearted man
I know it makes no sense but what else can I do
How can I move on when I'm still in love with you

Cause If one day you wake up and find your missing me
and your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be
Thinking maybe you'll come back here to the place that we'd meet
And you'll see me waiting for you on our corner of the street
So I'm not moving, I'm not moving

Policeman says, "son you can't stay here"
I said, "there's someone I'm waiting for If it's a day, a month, a year"
Gotta stand my ground even if it rains or snows
If she changes her mind this is the first place she will go."
-The Man Who Can't Be Moved, The Script

I wasn't as ready to return to work as I thought I was.

Physically, I'm functioning at roughly ninety percent. The re-hab has been intense and brutal; exercises to improve the strength in not only my nearly decimated abdominal muscles, but in my weakened cardiac wall. Despite my doctors insistences that take things slow, that Rome 'wasn't built in a day' and I need to give my body time to heal properly and rejuvenate itself, I've pushed myself several times to the point of severe vomiting and all out exhaustion. There's no way that I'm giving that bastard Dean Lessing the satisfaction of keeping me on the bench longer than needs be, and I'm determined that I'm going to be back in the game, all engines firing as soon as humanly possible. And if that means causing myself more agony, well then that's a small price to pay for getting back on my feet. All the professionals can really do is hold their hands up in surrender and shake their heads; baffled by my apparent incredibly fast, miraculous healing powers and the fact that I'm probably the most stubborn, pain in the ass they've ever encountered.

I've got a few more hours of re-hab to get under my belt but the docs have given me a clean bill of health. I've been told to take it easy; a bitter, difficult pill to swallow for a guy that gets his kicks, his adrenaline rush from throwing himself into the deep end of all the action. Who continuously gives his all to the job and is known to provide 'the muscle' for Mac Taylor's team. And it's hard to be confident in both my skills and my strength when I can barely jog up a flight a stairs without being completely winded half way. My chest burning and my heart threatening to explode clear out of my chest as I force myself to take a few minutes at the landing, bent over at the waist and hands on my thighs as I attempt to get my suffering, rebelling body in control. I'm worried about what will happen when it comes time to chase a perp. There's no way that I can haul ass after someone for even half a city block, let alone a few.

And there's also no way that I can admit to anyone that I've made a mistake. That coming back this soon is proving to be a total disaster. That I'm just not ready and that I'm concerned I'm going to be more a burden than a help to anyone. I admit that and my career is as good as done. The brass will get a hold of me, label me a liability and cut me loose, turfing me to a comfy, boring as all shit desk job until I'm old enough to qualify for my pension. I don't do weak. Or at least I don't let anyone see the damaged and tarnished side of me. Instead, I just smile a lot, crack a couple well-placed jokes and let fly a few of my patented wise cracks. When someone asks me how I'm holding up on my first night back, I just shrug and tell them that I'm doing just fine. And when Stella had caught me flirting with those lab techs at the Sam McFarland crime scene and had chided me about 'everyone loves a hero', I'd given a little grin, then had put up with Lindsay's smart ass remark about how many phone numbers I'd managed to score, the whole time fighting with myself not to tell either of the women about how I bad I was actually dealing with the entire thing. That there's a constant tightness in chest and a dull ache in the small of my back and lower left abdomen that never wants to go away.

And that there's a terrified, little boy inside of me that nearly jumps clear out of his shoes each time he hears a loud, sudden noise. That while I remember running back for that douche bag in those noise cancelling headphones, I can't remember his name nor do I really care to. That the last thing I remember from half a year ago is the world suddenly exploding around me and then blackness. And then waking up to excruciatingly bright lights and the sight and sound of my mother weeping inconsolably above me. At first, I'd honestly thought I was dead. That I was 'outside of myself' and witnessing her grief over losing her first born. It wasn't until the pain registered that I'd realized I was in some serious trouble. My throat was dry and every extremity ached and when I'd attempted to sit up in a moment of blind panic, an intense burning sensation had hit me square in the chest and had caused me to cry out in agony and threw me back into a lying position.

I'd been stunned when I'd found out I'd been out for nearly a month. Kept in a medically induced coma out of fear that my system was in so much shock it would never recover on it's own; that the minute the tubes and all life sustaining apparatuses were removed from my body, that my lungs would forget to draw breath and my heart would cease to function. My parents, I would learn, had made the decision to keep me the machines despite the doctors suggesting that I'd never come out of coma 'normal', if I even did at all. That the trauma to the body and lack of oxygen to the brain after I'd coded twice -once on the way to the hospital, then again on the OR table- had left me with irreversible brain damage and that my heart was simply too weak to bear the burden of beating. It had been my dad who'd fought long and hard for me. Who'd insisted that all the tubes be left in and I'd be given the chance to prove them all wrong. I was a Flack goddamnit, and Flacks just didn't give up and surrender when the chips were down. We didn't just roll over and die. We fight long and hard; we're determined and tenacious and ferociously stubborn. If we're going out, we're doing it on our own terms. Not because some doctor thinks we're a burden on an already overtaxed and exhausted system.

My dad had actually saved my life. He hadn't wanted to hear any bullshit about his boy dying or being anything but whole once again. He'd ignored all the negativity and pessimism and had vowed to never give up, and to be by my side when I finally managed make my way out of that long, dark tunnel I'd been unwillingly thrust into, and back into the world of the living.

Somehow, I'd managed to give him exactly what he wanted. And it was my dad that prevented me from giving up. He's the one that keeps me striving to be the best, to push my body to the brink of near collapse in order to prove that I'm going to be whole again. That the bombing and the damage it has done to me are nothing but slight bumps in the road. I know that he means well with his 'winners never quit and quitters never win' philosophy and that he really does have my best interests at heart when he makes me bust my ass in rehab. When he tells me to suck it up when I'm writhing in pain on the floor or throwing up into a bucket. It breaks his heart to see me suffering; to keep himself sane he goes into his full out drill sergeant mode and he cracks that whip. It's a coping mechanism for him. Not only had his first born son and namesake nearly died, but now he has to see me in sheer agony and witness my frustration and listening to me declare that I'd be better off I was dead. If he shows any form of emotion towards me, if he softens even the smallest amount, his own weaknesses show through that tough exterior. And he's old school. Where guys aren't weak and they sure as hell don't let their feelings known.

Usually paperwork is the bane of my existence, but tonight I'm thankful just to be able to sit down and take a load off. The McFarland case had been a three ring circus and had included everything from bungee sex, an unrelated suicide -the dead girl's Statue of Liberty keychain had been plunged into our vic's chest- , and elaborate wedding proposal, and the girlfriend's father serving as our perp, murdering poor Sammy boy because he was doing to dump the rich broad in order to spend always and forever with the stripper he'd gotten pregnant. Way too many twists and turns and weird shit for a guy just back on the job. Especially on in a constant state of excessive pain and refusing to take either the Percs the docs had prescribed, our the anti-depressants being tossed his way by the department shrink dispatched to deal with the post traumatic stress disorder.

Walking into the precinct two days ago at the start of my first shift back had been a culture shock. So much had changed in six months and I'd been worried that I wouldn't get back into the swing of things, that I'd flounder in the new policies and procedures and that I'd sink horrifically when it came to being in charge of a couple new faces under my command. Jessica Angell -a smoking hot brunette with the face of…well…an angel…and the body that's the worthy of a lot of guys' wet dreams- who'd been brought in to fill in for me while I recuperated from the bombing, had done well enough for the brass to create a permanent position for her. I'm usually able to keep my cool. A consummate professional. But there's something so intriguing about her, something so forbidden considering my self imposed rule to never get involved with someone I work with, that I'm barely able to keep it together when she tosses those raven locks over her shoulder or flashes that slightly flirtatious smile or flutters those long eyelashes. She's gorgeous, but deceptively deadly.

Then there's Dean Truby. Fresh off a five year stint in vice, he's worth his weight in gold. Tall and big -a good six foot four and at least two fifteen, it's pretty damn obvious why he was an all state football star at Notre Dame and why he'd been chased by three NFL teams before a torn Achilles tendon had forced him permanently onto the sidelines- he's powerful and intimidating and definitely the kind of guy I want watching my back when I'm going through the door while serving a warrant. He's headstrong and tenacious; he doesn't take shit from anyone and his eyes hold a fire and a determination that so many of the others are lacking. When he walks into work, he consistently brings his A game and never fails to impress.

The kid's going to have a long and successful career.

I bite back a wince as a sharp, burning pain grabs a hold of my stomach, and I glance around the squad room to make sure that no one is watching before I sneak my right hand in between my body and my desk and my fingers firmly massage the affected area of my body. Truby and a few of the younger guys are the back of the bull pen. It's relatively quiet and subdued in there for once, and they have their suit jackets off, the sleeves of their dress shirts rolled up to their elbows and their ties loosened as they toss around a Nerf football. Their laughter and the occasional profanity mixed in with their slightly filthy talk about the women in their lives. Truby's a newlywed, he's barely two months into the game. I've yet to see a picture of his wife, but he constantly calls her by the pet name Sunny. He says it's due to her bubbly personality and her red hair that reminds him of the sunset. Too bad he doesn't show her more respect by keeping his mouth shut about their intimate relations.

Giving a heavy sigh, I tap my pen against the papers in front of me and contemplate snagging the bottle of Percs out of my top drawer and popping a couple before the pain becomes too much to bear and I'm running for the washroom to throw up in the nearest available toilet.

"Are you hoping if you stare at it long enough the paperwork will do itself, handsome?" a familiar, yet long absent voice asks from the side of my desk.

It's been nearly five years since I'd heard the voice; we'd run into each other at a gas station near my folks' place and had ended up going out for coffee and catching up on six years that had passed since we'd last seen each other. A voice that had been such an enormous part of my life from the time I was fourteen until I was eighteen. That I'd both committed to memory and had spent far too long missing terribly. I'm also frightened to look up; that maybe she's just a figment of my imagination. Wishful thinking brought on my pain and lack of sleep. I'm worried that if I glance up from my desk, that she'll be gone and that elation sweeping through me will replaced once again my loneliness.

Yet there's a part of me that needs to look up. That's desperate to make sure that she's really there; that wants to prove that I'm not crazy. And a genuine smile spreads from ear to ear and I finally glance up. While the last five years have been incredibly unkind to me, they've been extremely gracious to Bree-Anne Douglas. My high school sweetheart, and undoubtedly the love of my life, appears has if she hasn't aged a day since we graduated. Her wavy auburn hair tumbles over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back and a charcoal grey poor boy cap sits slightly askew on the top of her head. There's a hobo style purse made from various coloured patches sewn together over her shoulder, and she wears a black knit sweater coat drawn tightly across her body, a pair of skinny jeans and black suede boots with kitten heels that stop at her knee. She's a tad eccentric and a whole lot of hot.

"Actually, I'm hoping it will disappear entirely beautiful," I drawl, then pushing my chair away from my desk, stand up and draw her into a hug.

She stiffens slightly, then wraps an arm around my neck and gradually melts into my body. I'd be lying if I said she doesn't feel good. She feels damn good. And my eyes close and I lose myself in her; in the warmth of her body pressed against mine and the scent of lavender that clings to her hair. A thousand memories and four years of history exist between us, and it's impossible to simply turn off the feelings that still linger just under the surface.

"Long time no see," my voice is just above a whisper and I press a kiss to her cheek before finally releasing her.

"Too long," she smiles, and I fight the urge to grab her and kiss her senseless right there and then.

"Hope you're here under good circumstances," I say, motioning for the chair alongside of my desk. "That you're not in trouble or anything…"

"I was just popping in to see someone and I'd run into your mom yesterday and she'd told me that you'd gone back to work," Breezy tells me, then perches herself on the edge of my cluttered desk. "I was hoping you'd be here; kill two birds with one stone."

"I'm here," I give a sigh and lower myself into my chair. "Alive and kicking. Barely for the most part."

"These things take time," she sympathizes. "It wasn't just some small injury, Donnie. You were in the hospital for a long time. You had pieces of the bomb removed from your chest and a severed artery in your stomach repaired and you…"

"I see my mom's been going around Flushing entertaining everyone with all gory details," I grin.

"It was all over the news," Breezy says. "And your dad was down at O'Toole's a few times when a couple of my brothers were hanging out and they overheard him talking about what you were going through with some of his buddies. He was worried about you and…well we were all worried about you."

I nod slowly, unable to take my eyes off of her.

"I stopped by the hospital a couple of times," she admits. "When you were in a coma. No one saw me there and I only stayed for a little while but I'd sat on the edge of your bed and held your hand and I…"

"Tucked the rosary your grandmother gave you for your sixteen birthday under my pillow," I finish for her. "I found it the morning that I came to. You're the only person I knew that had a rosary with pink beads on it. I still have it; put away in safe place at home. If you want it back I can…"

She shakes her head. "I wanted you to have it," she says. "I knew that you were in bad shape and I was scared that you weren't going to make it so I…well I guess I figured that every little bit helps, right? That I wasn't losing anything by leaving it there for you. That maybe it might do you some good."

"Well here I am," I give her a broad smile. "Must have done something."

"I think that's more to do with the fact that you had amazing doctors," Breezy gives a laugh. "The miracles of modern medicine. And probably because you're the most stubborn bastard I've ever known. I knew that you wouldn't give up, Donnie. I knew that no matter what the doctors were saying that you were going to pull through. You're a fighter; the strongest person I know."

"Outside of yourself, you mean."

She rolls her eyes at that. "You were always the tough one. You were the one that used to shoo away the garter snakes and the mice when I'd freak out because they were in your backyard. You were the one that used to calm me down and make me feel safe during really bad thunderstorms."

"Someone had to stop you from diving under the bed or hiding in the closet," I tease. "You've always underestimated yourself, Breezy. You're a lot tougher than you give yourself credit for."

"Maybe…" she gives a shrug. "I miss that, you know," she says, and smiles down at me. "I miss hearing you call me that."

"I miss saying it," I boldly admit, and our eyes lock on each other. There's a smouldering intensity, an unspoken yet long standing powerful attraction that makes it impossible for us to ever be fully free from one another.

"You're feeling okay?" she asks, and breaking the gaze, picks up my pen and twirls it between my fingers.

"Could be better," I reply. "Could be worse. I probably should have taken a couple more weeks to build up some more strength before I came back. And I still have a few more hours of rehab to clock. But the doctors say I'll be as good as new before long."

"Well don't force it," she says. "I know what you're like when it comes to being on the sidelines for too long. And it won't do you any good if you push yourself and end up making things worse. Make sure you take it easy, okay? I don't want to catch wind of anything different."

"Yes Miss Bee," I grin. "You still working at that Catholic school in Ridgewood? Your kids still call you that?" I ask.

"I'm actually at St. Patrick's in Crown Heights now," Breezy replies. "I just started there a few months ago. Teaching grade ones. But yes…they still call me that."

"Crown Heights, huh?" I give a dry laugh and shake my head. "Told you you're tougher than you give yourself credit for. You've got some stones going into Crown Heights on your own."

"Well it's a job," she says. "And the way things are looking in this city for jobs right now…" her voice trails off and I nod in understanding. A companionable silence falls between us; as if five years had never gone by since the last time we'd been in each other's company. There's always been a certain level of comfort that I've felt around her; I never have to pretend I'm something or not or worry about hiding my feelings or my thoughts. She's always accepted me as is.

"You look good," I say after a few minutes, and our eyes meet and hold once again. "Real good."

She smiles, then leans forward and taps the tip of the pen against the end of my nose. "So do you, Donnie," she says.

"How come you never came back to see me?" I ask curiously. "At the hospital. You must have heard from my folks that I'd come too; that I was pulling through. How come you never came back to see me when I was conscious? When I would have known you were there?"

"Would you have agreed to see me if I had have?" she responds with a question of her own.

"You really have to ask me that? Of course I would have seen you. Why wouldn't I?"

She gives a shrug. "I guess I was just worried that maybe I wouldn't be welcome there and that you'd…"

"I would have loved to have seen you," I tell her.

"I guess I just didn't want to feel like I was imposing," she says. "I figured that when you woke up that it was a time for you to be with your family. That they'd been so scared that they were going to lose you and that they'd gotten you back and they needed that time with you. I didn't want to take away from that, Donnie. I'm not family and I…"

"You're part of my life though," I gently interject. "You always have been. No matter how much time passes between us."

She nods and chews thoughtfully on her bottom lip.

"So who are you here to see?" I ask. "You said you were popping into see someone and…"

Before I can get the remaining words out of my mouth, Dean Truby is suddenly at the side of my desk, and I watch in shock and extreme disappointment as he lays a hand on the small of Breezy's back and presses a kiss to her cheek. She turns her face into his and gives him a tight lipped, chaste kiss, then glances down at me with an uncomfortable, almost apologetic smile on her face.

"Making friends already babe?" Dean asks, and tucks playfully on a strand of her hair. "This is my boss, Detective Don Flack Junior. He's the cop that was…"

"Caught in the explosion in Greenwich," Breezy finishes. "I know…Don and I used to…"

"We went to high school together," I finish for her, managing to speak around the lump of jealously that has settled in my throat. This is a damn bitter pill to swallow. Breezy…my Breezy…with another man. And for the first time in my life, I'm experiencing that heartache that so many guys say a woman is capable of unleashing on you.

"So you two are old friends, huh?" Dean's eyes flicker between us. And I'm worried that he's going to see something in our eyes that give away exactly what we mean to each other. What we had meant to each other.

"We go way back," I reply.

"Small world," he says. "Freaky huh? That you and my wife would know each other?"

"It's pretty…" Breezy searches for the right words. "Surreal…"

I nod in agreement, then fight back the bile that rises in my throat when Dean presses a kiss to her temple.

"I'm just going to take a few, okay boss?" he asks me. "Spend some time with the wife?"

"Take as long as you want," I reply, and turn my attention to the paperwork in front of me.

"Wanna go and grab a coffee?" Dean asks Breezy. "Get some fresh air?"

She gives a nod as a response and jumps down off my desk. "It's nice to see you again Don," she says, and lays a hand on my shoulder.

"You too," I tell her, resisting the urge to lay a hand over top of hers.

She gives my shoulder a squeeze, then steps away from my desk and heads for the bullpen exit hand in hand with her new husband.

And just like that, as the door closes behind them, as quick as she was back in my life, she's gone again.

The sound of the glass pane shuddering in the rickety screen door as it opens shoves me face first into the present, and glancing over my shoulder, I give my dad a nod as he steps out onto the back porch, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. After Breezy and I had told my folks that we were getting married, I'd gone outside to catch a few minutes to myself. My mom had reacted exactly like I'd thought she would: a lot of excited squealing, some tears and an abundance of kisses and hugs showered upon me and Breezy. My father on the other hand…well it had been hard to tell what had been going through his mind. He'd simply sat at the kitchen table, his eyes locked with mine, nodding slowly as near pandemonium broke out around us. My mother had my fiancée in a tight bear hug and kept repeating how 'this has been a long time coming' and that 'this was meant to be' while Collin excitedly skipped around the room, Luna scampering about his feet and barking noisily as he screeched about mommy and daddy getting married and how he'd get his own house and a new puppy named Sprinkles.

I'd gone out onto the porch for some fresh air, and a chance to clear my head and get a grip on the powerful surge of emotions threatening to explode my brain. While I'm ecstatic that Breezy and I are back together and we're going to finally get the ending that as eluded us for so long, I'm overwhelmed as well. It's only been a little over forty-eight hours since fate hurtled me back into Breezy's life and I discovered that I was a father. And as if realizing that I'd made a baby with her and that I was still madly and hopelessly in love with her wasn't enough, there's been a million and one other strange and surreal things that have gone down. The restraining order issued against me, Phil beating up on Breezy and manhandling my son, the show down with Dunbrook, the truth regarding Simon Cade serving as the perfect catalyst to purge my tortured soul. It's a lot for one person to deal with in such a short period of time, and I had felt the need to escape; to step outside of it all and give myself a chance to catch my breath.

"Dinner will be here in a few," my dad announces. "Your mother decided to go all out in honour of the good news and order in. Here," he leans down to tap one of the mugs against my shoulder. "Thought you could use one of these."

"Thanks…" I give a nod of appreciation as I accept the coffee from him.

"Your mother's already in there helping with plans," my dad says, and rolls his eyes as he lowers himself into a sitting position alongside of me, grumbling and profanities and his knees and back cracking noisily. "Christ…I'm getting old," he mutters. "She's going to call Father O'Shea and ask if he'll perform the ceremony," he tells me, then leans sideways to snag a rusted old tin can from the corner of the porch that he uses as an ashtray. "Don't see why he wouldn't. We've known him for years; baptized all you kids. Bree-Anne and some of her brothers too as far as I know."

"A couple of them I think," I take a sip of my coffee, then grimace. "Jesus Dad…I don't think it's supposed to be three quarters bourbon, one quarter coffee."

"The shit you've been dealing with the past year? You deserve that," he gestures to the mug clasped tightly in my hands. "Bree-Anne's parents know?" he asks, as he reaches into the breast pocket of his blue, red and white plaid shirt and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

"She left them a message at their hotel." I reply, then pluck a smoke and the lighter from the pack as he offers it to me. "Something tells me they aren't going to be happy," I say, and slipping a cigarette between my lips, spark the lighter and then inhale deeply as the smoke comes to life. "Her old man's all but been cursing me into eternal damnation for almost four years now."

"Fuck 'em," my father growls, as he lights his own cigarette. "You know, we're all entitled to believe what we want. Pray to whatever God and all the angels and saints that float our boat. I'm not going to stand here and declare the Douglas' the epitome of what the perfect Catholic family should be. And I'm not going to bitch and moan about what a bunch of bible freaks they are either. But I won't stand for them treatin' my boy like that. If I do recall correctly, there's something in the Great Book about the person with no sins casting the first stone."

"That's pretty much right," I confirm.

"We've all screwed up in our lives," my dad continues. "There's not one person on this earth that hasn't made a mistake. Some have made little ones, some have had monumental fuck ups. And I find it hard to swallow that Bree-Anne's dad is so goddamn condescending and judgemental considering the life he was leading before he found Jesus. He didn't find the big guy upstairs until he met her mother, remember? And between you and I…" he leans into me and lowers his voice. "I never told you any of this before, but when you and that pretty little gal of yours first met, I did a little checking on her old man and found a whole load of skeletons in his closet."

I sip my coffee as opposed to responding. I'm more surprised that my dad had not only run Breezy's father through the system -which back then couldn't have been an easy, quick task considering he didn't have the technology at his disposal that the department now possesses- but that he'd kept the results to himself for so long. However, I'm not shocked that my fiancée's dad as a dark past. After he'd pulled the bullshit with me following Dean's trial, I'd ran his name through the database and had been startled by the size of his rap sheet. I'd been ready to call him on it too. I was prepared to fuck up his life as much as he had mine. And the only thing that had stopped me was my love and respect for Breezy. I was pretty sure she was oblivious to his past, and I didn't want to hurt her even more by exposing him.

"Makes me sick that that SOB can sit up on some goddamn pulpit and condemn you for mistakes you made," my dad angrily declares. "And that he can treat his own daughter and his grandson…his flesh and blood…my flesh and blood, like he is. You know, God doesn't forget your past shit just 'cause you decide hiding behind Him is better than manning up and accepting responsibilities for your mistakes. And you…" he takes a drag on his smoke. "…what you're doing here is a good thing, Don. You're stepping up to take care of Bree-Anne and your boy. Takes a big man to accept all of that."

"I'm marrying her because I love her," I say. "Not because I feel obligated to. I love her. I've always loved her. And us getting married and raising Collin together? Having more kids? We would have been doing all that already if…"

"Dean Truby hadn't been a royal fuck up," my old man finishes for me. "Mind you, your mother and I didn't raise you to run around with another man's wife no matter what a pitiful excuse for a human being he may be."

"We should have handled things differently," I admit. "We should have just told him from the get go that…"

"Could have, should have, would have. You can't live in the past, Don. Your future is right in front of you. That's what you need to concentrate on. Devote yourself to."

I nod in agreement, and take a long, slow drag of my smoke.

"Look son…" my old man sighs heavily, and finishing off his cigarette, butts it out against the cement below his feet and then tosses it into the coffee can. "I know that you and I don't always see eye to eye, and that we don't have the greatest relationship…"

"That's an understatement," I mumble.

"And I also know I haven't been the best father to you. Or to Chris and Sammie. And I'm the first to admit that I'm a complete disaster when it comes to being a dad and a husband. I know that. But maybe this is a second chance for us. Maybe you getting back together with Bree-Anne and bringing her and Collin back into our lives…well maybe in some way they'll fix what's wrong with us. Or at least I hope they will."

I manage a small smile. "I hope so too, dad."

"You know…" he takes a swig of coffee. "You're an incredible cop, Don. I'm always amazed at how far you've come at such a young age. And at how much you keep growing and achieving within the department. But at the end of the day…well at the end of the day a man isn't measured by the amount of arrests he'd made or the high profile busts under his belt or how fast he climbs the ranks. A man…a real man…is measured by what he achieves in his life. By how many other lives he touches, how many people he loves, how many love him in return. And just by that alone…well you've got me beat hands down, son. You're a far bigger and better man that I could ever hope to be. And that's what makes me most proud of you."

My eyes widen and bear the unmistakable burn of tears as a lump of emotion forms in my throat. It's the first time that my dad has ever said the coveted P word. I've been working my ass off for years; giving my all to the job and to the city. I've shed blood, sweat and tears for the NYPD. And most of all for him. So that I'd one day have him slap me on the back or hug me and tell me that he was proud of me. That I've done good. I've spent so long trying to make him notice me and to work my way out for underneath his shadow that I sometimes barely know myself anymore. While struggling for an identity, I'd somehow manage to lose most of what I'd already had.

The screen door creaks open once again and I look back towards the house, feeling a smile spread across my face as Breezy steps out onto the porch in her bare feet.

"Sorry for interrupting boys," she says. "But the food's here and Patty wants you both in there as of yesterday."

"And you know what your mother is like when you don't snap to attention when she wants something," my dad mutters, nudging me playfully with his elbow before he struggles to his feet. "Besides, I want to get my grandson into the sweet and sour sauce before his mommy or nana tell him he's not allowed that many goodies," he picks up his mug, gives Breezy a wink, pecks her cheek then disappears inside.

"Is it just me or is he really taking to the whole grandfather thing exceptionally well," she comments, a smile on her face as she watches him go.

"I don't know who that…" I jerk my head towards the house as I butt out and dispose of my cigarette. "...is or what he's done with my father, but I think he should stick around."

Breezy nods in agreement, and then graces me with a soft smile as I stand up. "Are you okay, handsome?" she asks. "You seem a little…"

"I'm fine," I assure her, and laying my hands alongside of her delicate face, press a kiss to her forehead. "I missed that, you know," I tell her, as I allow my hands to slip down to her shoulders and then trail my fingers all the way down her arms and over the tops of her hands. "Hearing you call me that."

"It was the only pet name you'd let me use," she reminds me, and runs the nails on both index fingers along my palms before taking my hands in hers. "And you know what? I missed calling you that."

"Yeah? Well you've got about…I don't know…fifty years…to call me that."

"Fifty years?" she asks, and I place my lips against the space between her eyes and nod. "No…that doesn't seem long enough to me."

"Sixty?" I try. "That would make us ninety five."

"Nope…" she shakes her head again, and giggles against my mouth as I brush my lips against hers but pull back slightly when she tries to kiss me. "Still not long enough," she says.

"Well unless we live to a hundred and five…"

"I was thinking more along the lines of an eternity," she tells me.

"Sounds good to me," I say, then holding her arms down at her side, tighten my grip on her hands and lean in for a proper kiss. It's long, soft and sweet. And bears the promise of so much more to come. A symbol of the lifetime of kisses that we still have ahead of us.

There's a grimace on her face when the need for air becomes a dire necessity and I finally draw away from her.

"I know…" I sigh. "It's like licking an ashtray. I'll quit, okay? I already promised you that I would."

"It's actually the booze," she says, and brings her shoulder up to her mouth in order to wipe it clean. "You get into the good stuff and you don't bother to invite me to the party?"

"Trust me, I've got access to enough booze for us to have a very good time tomorrow night," I promise.

Her eyes sparkle flirtatious. "I had another idea of a good time in mind for tomorrow," she says.

"Yeah?" I drop her hands and wrap my arms around her. "And does this good time involve something lacy and naughty?" I ask.

"It could," she replies, and I cover her mouth with mine in another kiss. This time much more aggressive, demanding and needy.

"You know what I want for dessert, nanny?" we hear Collin ask from inside. "I want putang pie!"

There's the distinct clatter of silverware and a mutter of "Jesus Mary and Joseph!" from my old man. And as my mother questions as to what putang pie actually is, my dad tells her not to worry about it, that she doesn't need to know.

Breezy gives a loud snort in shock and amusement and her laughter brings an abrupt end to our kiss.

"You really have to watch what you say around him," she scolds me. "He's a sponge. And he repeats everything."

"I have cherry pie or peach pie," my mom tells her grandson. "But no putang pie. I'll have to look that up later."

"Pat…" my father sighs. "I told you that you didn't need to know."

"I'd like some putang pie later," a devilish grin tugs at my lips as I run my hands slowly over my fiancee's ass. "Wouldn't mind getting a taste of yours when we're alone."

She rolls her eyes, then stands on her tiptoes and brushes a kiss against my lips. "If you're good," she says, then slips out of my embrace and heads for the door.

"Baby, I can be a freaking angel when it comes to you," I declare, and she gives me a smile and a wink over her shoulder before disappearing into house.

I can be a lot of things when it comes to you, I think.

I just hope that they're what you want me to be.

Thanks to everyone that is reading, reviewing and even just lurking! I appreciate all of the support and I am truly humbled!!!

Special thanks to:

Afrozenheart412

CSINYMinute

Andorian Ice Princess -AIP

Hope4sall

xSamiliciousx

wolfeylady

Soleil Mar

Nienna Tinehtele

Blue Eyed Author

Forest Angel

JonasBROSgirl8816

x3sunnydaay

Soccer-bitch