More bittersweet. Don't hate me, I'm trying to make things line up somewhat for what the writer's did in Season 9.

Chapter 14

As Mac's condition steadily improved, Flack Senior's worsened. Despite trying to prepare for the inevitable, and knowing his father was in increasing amounts of pain, Don still couldn't help but feel gutted when he received the call from Grams letting him know Henry was gone.

He supposed there was some relief there, not to mention gratitude that he was able to clear any bad blood between him and his Pops, largely thanks to Gus pushing him to go over there on his off days reminding him that time wasn't guaranteed. He felt he had made good with both father figures in his life, Mac and his namesake, something about the resolution, near loss and actual loss making him feel more like an an adult than his actual 35 years on the earth ever had.

Gus could tell this was the phone call they had been dreading but expecting since right after Easter by the look on Don's face as soon as he answered the phone. She immediately went to inform Daddino, asking him to keep it on the DL until Flack gave clearance to let the department know.

"I gotta tell Parker, because you two need to get over to Queens and he is covering your cases," Daddino said, waving her off, wondering how Junior was going to take the passing of a legend.

"You good to drive?" Gus gently asked as soon as they exited the precinct, both of them keeping silent until they were out of ear shot, not wanting to overwhelm Grams with a flood of condolences from the NYPD.

That was what Henry had requested, wanting to be quietly cremated with a small private family Mass, instructions for his old patrol buddies to throw the wake at the local Pub after with as minimal strain on Irene as possible. It was breaking with a lot of department and Irish Catholic traditions, but Don had promised Pops and he was going to see his father's last wishes respected.

Don nodded, moving them quickly to the car, finding a tiny pocket of privacy, slumping against the steering wheel, burying his head in hands. Gus was pulling him over the center console just as quickly, her words more than pat comfort, an enduring promise, "I got you, Don, always."

The arrived in Queens to a stoic Irene, the funeral home already having taken the body, Henry not wanting anybody to see him like that. Don enveloped his grandmother's small frame, trying to be a rock for the woman that had raised him more than his own mother, not able to imagine what it must feel like to have a child go before you did.

"He's not in anymore Donny, eternal rest grant unto him," she said, pulling away and making the sign of the cross, gesturing to the frocked man in the living room, "I was just about to make some tea for Father Simon."

"Sit, Grams, I've got it," Gus said, squeezing the woman on her arm and happy to have something useful to do. It was strange for her to deal with expected death, even if the loss was just as big. She wondered how Sam had taken the news, something answered a couple of hours later when the landline rang, Gus rushing to answer it and a gruff voice informing her that "little Sammy Flack" needed to be picked up at the bar on the corner before she got into anymore trouble.

Gus slipped out the back, sending a text to Don before heading to O'Neill's Pub to see what trouble the youngest Flack had gotten herself into.

She found Sam at the end of the bar being glowered at by the elderly barkeep, holding an icepack to head. Gus took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, wondering if she should pull her badge out of her bag. Sam must have seen her enter because suddenly the woman was trying to slide off the barstool, slur shouting, "Gusssssss, that's my sissss sister-in-law, she's a cop too, cops, all of 'em fucking cops, she's the bessst though!"

Gus would have put money on Sam ending up on the floor if the bartender hadn't grabbed Sam's arm, keeping her from going anywhere.

"Cop, huh?" the bartended asked, surveying her, "wouldn't have guessed that. You're married to Junior? Name's George O'Neill, what can I get you? And no Sammy, you can't have another, your Grams is already going to chew me a new one."

Gus blinked at George, taking in his rapid fire speech. "I'm good. What exactly happened?" she asked, gesturing to Sam who was now slumped over the bar.

George still turned, pulling a bottle of top shelf whiskey down, saying, "Henry was a good one," he said, placing a shot in front of her. "She has been here since, uh, it happened and was doing fine until my delivery guy got a little handsy, she cold cocked him a good one and then went ass over tea kettle into the keg he was delivering and knocked herself out."

"Damnit," Gus swore, figuring Sam probably had a concussion and shouldn't be passed out. She took the shot, figuring she was going to need it once she woke up Sleeping Beauty. She was correct, because after shaking Sam on the shoulder a few times and calling her name, Sam finally came up swinging. Gus caught the other woman's fist, not wanting to have to restrain her. Luckily, Sam wavered and Gus was able to get a grip on each of her shoulders and get a good luck at her.

Her eyes were glassy, but Gus wasn't sure if that was from the alcohol or the goose-egg on her temple. She was disheveled, hair unwashed, in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, despite the early June heat. "Okay, sugar, let's get you home and in the shower," she said, looping her arm through Sam's and leading her towards the door.

"Don't wanna, wanna stay with George, he's the bessssst," Sam replied digging her heels in, ending with a hiccup.

"I am sure he is, darling, but you've overstayed your welcome," Gus said softly, smoothing Sam's hair off her face.

Sam gave a small smile, leaning in and loudly whispering, "you're like really pretty, I see why Donny bagged you."

"Er, thanks, I think, but now, let's really get you home," Gus said, dragging her out of the pub as she tried to figure out how to tell her husband that his little sister had relapsed big time.

Don pulled out his dress blues, more because he had no clue what his father would have wanted him to wear to his non-funeral funeral. Leave it to Pops to deny half the NYPD the chance to say goodbye in their usual pomp and circumstance.

In some ways he was glad, his relationship with his father had been more than a little complicated, and while he did become a cop to carry on the legacy, he didn't have the same level of hero worship for Donald Henry Flack, Sr. that so many others did. Of course his old patrol buddies and partners didn't have to duck dishes getting thrown between his parents in their kitchen, or break up fistfights when Pop's had too much to drink at the pub, or bare the welts from his belt in order to save Sammy from taking the brunt of their father's ire.

He shook his head and the memories off, his father was resting in peace now and Don had his own peace in the form of his wife looking up at him from their bed.

Even if that peace was broken by her exclaiming, "shit! I think my dress blues are still at the cleaners and they are closed on weekends!"

Don shook his head with a smirk, "it's not a LODD funeral babe, besides Pops would much rather have you in a nice dress," he said, striding over to pull her out of bed, even though he much would have preferred joining her in it, knowing it was going to be a long day.

And a long day it was, despite the private service being short and sweet, the Flack family and all of Henry's friends almost got the Fire Marshal called down to O'Neill's. He desperately needed a moment of peace and quiet and could tell Gus did as well. They were able to slip out and back down the block while his uncle and older cousins were loudly and off-key changing the lyrics from Oh Danny to Oh Donny Boy.

He stood on his father's side of the duplex, realizing much of it had already been boxed up, his father on top of every detail of what his end of life would mean for everyone else. The place was dark and dusty, Pops never being the best housekeeper and spending a lot of time next door.

Don collapsed on the worn sofa, unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his tie, his father's dog bounding in from the backyard, jumping up next to him on the sofa, nosing at his arm to be petted.

"I gotta say, I liked it better the last time I saw you in that getup," Gus remarked, leaning against the sliding glass door with a wry grin on her face.

Don started to nod and then realized, "crap, well this is the worst one year anniversary gift ever!" he exclaimed, "I'm sorry, sunshine."

Gus shook her head, closing the distance, sitting on the side of him that Gracie wasn't occupying. "I'm pretty sure you didn't plan this, blue eyes," she said gesturing, "there will be other anniversaries and isn't the one year anniversary gift something stupid like paper?"

He shrugged, "I have no clue babe, but apparently I got us a dog," he said, gesturing at Gracie glued to his side.

"Way better than paper, Don," Gus replied, tucking into his side as he wrapped an arm around her.