A/N: So I did decide to start fully reposting stuff on here but I am not really re-editing things.

Chapter 2: Welcome to the Big Apple

Gus looked at up at the sprawling 12th precinct complex. She hadn't actually been here before, Mac seeming to pretend she just didn't exist, actually he usually liked to pretend that nothing existed outside his lab.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Detective Taylor?" she asked a young man in uniform. "Dunno," he grunted and hurried off.

She tried two more uniforms, getting the same response, the directory proved as useful. "Or should I just go screw myself?" she muttered after her last attempt at yielding information from an officer, shifting her box to her hip and digging through her bag for her cell phone.

"CSI, you know 'crime scene investigation' DNA, fingerprints, solves cases," she practically screamed into the uncooperative voice activated phone directory.

"Um, who you looking for?" asked an energetic looking guy in wire rimmed glasses and plainclothes from over her shoulder.

Gus whirled dropping the phone and box, her belongings spilling onto the sidewalk. She gathered her items up, checking out the shield on his belt, "My Un..." she trailed off, the plan was to not use him, to get by on her own like always. "Detective Mac Taylor, today's my first day."

"Oh. Another newbie tech."

"Nope," Gus said, not elaborating.

"Well you can't be the new investigator because she came last week. Unless there is a mix up, but you will have to take care of that with Mac, 'cause I got nothing to do about nothing on most things around here not involving a case or the lab."

This guy seemed overly caffeinated, "No, no, I am Dr. Broussard. I'm the new staff psychologist. I believe I might be consulting on some of your cases?" She internally kicked herself for making it sound like a question, but she was feeling out of her element.

"Doctor of what?" he scoffed, "you musta got your degree outta cereal box, 'cause you don't even look old enough to drink."

This irked Gus. "Sugar," she said looking him dead in the eyes, "where I'm from, you drink when you can see over the bar."

"Heh. I like that, where you from anyway?"

Gus took a deep breathe, knowing the reaction, "New Orleans," she breathed out.

"Oh, well, um here's his office, I'm Danny by the way," he said, before wandering away. "Nice to meet you."

Gus let herself in the glass walled office.

"Dr. Broussard, I see you found your way," he said, coming from behind his desk.

"Detective Taylor," she replied giving him a firm handshake, "why yes, with a little help from your friendly staff," she nodded in Danny's direction.

"Well, I think we have you all set up. Your office will be down the hallway off the bridge", he gestured, "there's a contract for you to sign on your desk. Standard eval for discharge of weapons, pre-hire screenings and consultation of cases...Danny you need something?"

"Uh, um, no, I'm good." Danny disappeared down the corridor.

Mac cleared his throat, giving the younger detective a warning look through the glass, "as I was saying, standard."

"What departments will I be consulting with?"

"Just mine for now." Mac saw Gus rear up and before she even opened her mouth. He held his palm out, "enough. End of story. You are taking it slow until you get settled in here. You will be working through CSI and consulting with the homicide detectives assigned to us. We are a close-knit unit here, and there is an expectation that no one breaks the chain of command and that no one does anything to destroy the integrity of this lab".

Gus could tell he wasn't talking about her, so she backed down. Something had obviously happened, but as usual, she had no clue what was going on with him.

Mac laid three items down on the desk, "here are your credentials, your firearm and shield."

"No," Gus said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Pardon?" Mac raised his eyebrows.

"I haven't qualified here yet, I'm not taking them." Gus had hoped Mac would have her hired as a civilian, but she should have known better. He had been as bad as her father's old partner, trying to pressure her into being a cop. She never should have gone through qualifying in New Orleans and she sure as hell should have never taken the sergeant's exam.

Mac pushed the credentials her way more forcefully, "it's Standard Operating Procedure."

"Like hell it is, you give all your newbies firearms to go shooting themselves in the foot in the lab, people don't know how to hold anything other than a microscope?"

"This is different. You worked with the feds, the NOPD, the bureau of prisons."

"That was for therapy, completely different from carrying a shield and a gun. I would have thought you of all people would have understood that." Gus remained squaring off with him, her arms still firmly planted across her chest.

"You have the clearances," Mac replied, seemingly baffled.

"When and if I qualify here, I will take them, happily. You don't have to do me any favors, Mac."

"I'm not," Mac sighed. "Listen, I know about the sergeant's exam, I know you completed training in New Orleans. Why didn't you take the job with NOPD, what happened?"

"I'm not a cop," Gus snapped, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Then quit acting like one."

Gus stormed out, attempting to slam the big glass door, only managing to have it quietly swoosh shut on foot. "Dammit".

"Language," he called after her, feeling like he was suddenly caught in a time machine.

Some things never change. She fought the urge to stick out her tongue before she walked down the hall. The hallway appeared to be the bridge between the new crime lab wing and the old precinct. She bet her office was an old broom closet. Which was fine by her, she had worked in worse and besides, she liked old and musty.

She swung open the door with her nameplate already attached and looked in to what appeared to be an office for Brass or the D.A. The freaking commissioner in New Orleans had a crappier office than this. Small, but two built-in dark cherry bookcases flanked a paneled alcove with a large desk and wing-back chair. A leather couch sat in front of the desk with a door to the right of the alcove. The ceiling was free of water stains, the carpet wasn't threadbare, the blinds on the windows that looked out onto the hallway appeared new.

"What the hell! What has he pulled now?" Forget dealing with him, she was going to other brass, one who didn't care who the hell she was, more importantly, one that didn't know who she was.

She stormed off down the hallway towards the older part of the precinct, being reminded of a hospital. She entered a large pen full of desks that didn't seem battered with what looked like fairly new desktops on top of them, some with laptops. "Well I guess Homeland made sure they were outfitted right," she whistled.

"Homicide, this is Parker," she heard someone answer the phone. The few guys that were there appeared to be swamped in case files. She figured brass was around the corner in the big office, if hers was any indication and whipped around the corner and straight into something.

Someone it turned out to be, leather, muscle, headed very quickly in the direction she had just some from. The bluest eyes she had ever seen on someone with such dark hair who wasn't a Cajun boy, the kind of eyes that got her into trouble with jerks, looked down at her about a head length. The blue eyes looked clearly annoyed.

"Can I help you?" he clipped, jaw line straight and tense.

"Aw my gaw-ad, ehm so soh-ry," she drawled, flushing at her accent.

"Yeah well, watch..." he seamed startled for a second. "You new around here?" he asked, softening slightly.

She absently fiddled with the badge clipped to her suit jacket. "Why yeah-es, eh ahm". God, maybe she should have taken the gun, so she could shoot herself right now. She straightened and stuck out her hand, "Dr. Broussard."

"Oh yeah, the new shrink from New Or-leans."

"It's psychologist, and New Or-luns, but anyway..." She didn't like how self-assured this man was, or how stupid he was making her, so of course, she bristled.

"Match Point, Dr. Broussard. I'm Detective Flack, homicide."

She stared him down, her eyes like icy emeralds. He looked away first, at the case file in his hand. "Can I help you with something?" he asked cordially.

"Actually, I was going to talk to brass about my office, I think there was a mix up."

"Oh yeah, too small, the guy here before you said it was too small, part of the reason he left for the Feds, that and no one would talk to him voluntarily, somehow don't think that's going to be a problem with you."

She ignored this, but couldn't ignore the stupid flop her stomach had done. "The one down the hall, third door before you hit the new crime lab wing?" she asked incredulously.

"Wow you don't need I tour then, yeah that's the one, I think they already put your name on the door."

"Oh well then. Um, it's fine then,I actually thought it was too big, I'm not used to so much bigness is New Orleans," she caught herself, feeling the heat climb from her neck to her ears. She swung her hair over to hide them. Shut up, you idiot, she said to herself.

"Well welcome to the Big Apple. You shrinks are well-regarded since 9/11, more of you here than at a nut house, though we probably need them more."

"Psychologist."

"Yeah got it, Doc. You let me know if you need a barricade or crowd control outside your office." With that he took off towards the crime lab, not looking back.

Gus slumped against the wall, and then wandered back to unpack. She hadn't noticed that the other boxes she had shipped to Mac's had been stacked in a corner. She had just figured they hadn't made it and she was going to have to replace everything. She was straightening diplomas and licenses, dreading taking the New York State Licensing exam, when she heard a knock on her door. She attempted to turn from her precarious perch, and managed to fall on her desk in an unladylike heap.

"Are you OK"? asked a concerned voice from the doorway.

"Yeah, I'm fine, stupid skirt, and of course I have run in my stockings now," she said to the pretty woman with the dark curls standing in her doorway.

"That's why I wear pants, no one has to know. I'm Stella. Detective Bonasera, CSI. Thought I would introduce myself because Mac will never get around to it."

"He has probably already forgotten that I am here."

Stella broke out a wide smile. "Wow, you pegged him quick, I guess that's why we hired you!"

"Heh, something like that." At least Stella didn't seem to know, maybe their relationship was a secret, of course that was something she was skilled in and Mac was the master of.

"You know someone will hang those for you, with a hammer and everything," Stella gestured towards the heel that Gus was using to hang her diplomas.

"Well, ingenuity, and I figured I wanted it done this century," Gus replied with a shrug, though she was shocked at the efficiency.

"Can't blame you there. Hey, you want to grab some lunch and then I can introduce you to the team, give you the tour, get you settled?" Stella noticed she didn't have a badge. "Do you need your credentials, I can't believe Mac would have forgotten that, of course with Aiden he has dealt with a lot-"

Gus cut her off, "I'm waiting to qualify, so if that tour could include the training facilities, I would greatly appreciate it."

"Sure, just come find me in the lab when you're done in here," Stella said with a wave before exiting, her curls bouncing with her walk.

"Whoa, Mac, it takes two hotties to replace Aiden?" Danny asked with a smirk.

"Excuse me?" Mac said sharply to his young CSI.

"Well first you bring in Montana with her corn-fed, milkmaid goodness and today we have that shrink from the swamp. She's like Jessica Rabbit meets Freud, and I just gotta say, I hope I end up on her couch. I might just have to shoot someone."

"Enough," Mac roared, making Danny jump back, this wasn't like him, he usually tolerated Danny's antics. "Right, right, got it, you saw her first," Danny said, backing away.
"Don't you have cases that need solving?" Mac growled.
"Yeah," Danny said, happy for the chance to exit.

"So go solve them," Mac said, waving him off.

Chapter 3: Meeting the Team

"Wait, didn't you co-write that paper on the effects of gang violence related PTSD on autism in children from high crime urban areas?" Sheldon Hawkes questioned the attractive young women sitting at the table.

"Hawkes, you're not speaking English again, are you going to have to go back to the basement?" Danny quipped, "besides how could someone so beautiful write something so dreadful?"

Gus rolled her eyes, "Uh yeah, I was one of the many authors and then I tried and failed to do a comparison on the effects of war and PTSD."

"Oh great another egg-head on the floor, just what we need." Danny rolled his eyes.

"Danny, shut it. Dr. Broussard is a well-respected PhD with concentration in criminal justice and forensics," Hawkes rattled off Gus' academic credentials.

"Are you stalking me?" Gus asked, her brow wrinkling. "It's a PsyD actually, I didn't like research enough to get a PhD, cut a year off the program as well."

"No, I'm not stalking you, I just had to become familiar with the subject of PTSD and children at the hospital I used to work at. I volunteer with the kids there now, was a surgeon, couldn't handle them dying."

"That's why he went to the ME's office, he couldn't kill them there. Why he is here now, I don't know," Danny interjected, wanting to keep himself in the conversation.

"I wanted to get back in the field, I missed being around real live people everyday." Hawkes shrugged matter of fact.

"That's why I didn't go into research. No offense, but I couldn't imagine being in a lab all day." Gus shuddered at the thought.

"None taken, it's why I'm not a tech." Hawkes broke out into a smile.

"Hey Montana, finally someone I can talk to without all these fancy words," Danny quipped at the woman about Gus' age who had just walked into the break room.

"Hi, I'm Lindsay. Stella said to introduce myself. I'm new too, but I am glad to have someone newer than me, these guys can be brutal. Good luck!" The woman was adorable, brown curls, doll eyes, looked like some mid-western beauty queen.

"So are you actually from Montana, or is he a complete jerk?" Gus thumbed toward Danny.

"No, I am, I've been here about three months and this one hasn't let up yet."

"Not gonna either," Danny attempted to lean back in his chair and almost dumped himself over.

Gus felt herself breaking into the first genuine smile in about 3 months. Of course at that moment, Mac decided to enter the room and nodded in her. "Dr. Broussard, are you settling in?"

"Fine, sir," she said, clearing her throat. She saw Lindsay wince from the corner of her eye. "Carry on then, all of you."
"Don't call him sir, he hates it," Lindsay leaned down and whispered.

"Oh, I kn-" dammit, she cut off again. "Sorry, it's habit, sir and ma'am, the whole nine."

"So what's her obnoxiously rude nickname, Messer?" Lindsay asked.

"Wha- what?" Danny had been too busy staring at Lindsay to catch her barb.

"I mean 'New Orleans' is just too long and you wouldn't come up with anything as obscure as 'Evangeline' or anything and Hawkes has 'Doc' covered," Lindsay ticked through choices on her fingers.

"Beebe," he said grinning like a cat.

"What?" both women questioned.

"Letter B, Letter B."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Gus asked.

Danny broke into a lazy grin, "Easy, mon cher, " he drawled in the worst fake Cajun accent since Dennis Quaid in The Big Easy, "Bayou Babe."

"Oh jeez," Lindsay said walking out the door. "Good luck, and if you need a drink to get over these boys, you let me know."

"I will, hey nice meeting you." Gus gathered up her trash and headed out the door. "Bye boys, see you later, dawlin's," she drawled in her best Chalmette accent, that luckily sounded like it was from the Bronx.

"Damn, she's good."

"Actually Danny, a large part of the immigrant population that settled in New Orleans, specifically the Irish Channel, were from the same pool that settled here. Linguists have studied the similarities for years."

"Here we going again, with the brainiac, do you ever give it a rest, Doc?" It only took 3 days before Hawkes asked her out for coffee.

She practically glared at him, "you don't mean as a date Dr. Hawkes, do you? Because I. Don't. Date. Co- workers." Her steady and steely voice nearly froze his blood.

"No, no, not at all, I would not impose, just coffee. As a welcome to town and all that." She studied him carefully. "One cup and not from Starbucks," she answered.

The next night she found herself with Stella and Lindsay at a Mexican restaurant with a pitcher of margaritas. Apparently this had become a ritual for the two of them in the three months Lindsay had worked in New York. She felt like an intruder, often slightly awkward around other women, but they insisted. More importantly, they acted nothing like the fluffy ladies who lunch back in New Orleans.

"So, I heard you and Doc went for coffee yesterday," Stella started a very serious look on her face.

Gus knocked over her glass. Sopping it up she squeaked, "wow, news travels fast. Yes, in broad daylight, 3pm I think, and as friends. I don't get involved with co-workers. Its bad if I have to evaluate them. And it's just messy."

"Good," was all Stella replied.

"So how many times have you been asked out?" Lindsay inquired.

Gus debated if it was a competitive question, but realized her question was curious. "Probably about as many as you," she answered, "though I would say propositioned more than 'asked out' per se."

"Actually, I'm pretty safe in the lab and all," Lindsay sighed gratefully.
"Except from Danny," Stella interceded, "of course no one is safe from Danny."

"Yeah, well the uniforms wandering by certainly like dropping by my office and if I hear one more couch joke..." Gus shrugged, "well what are you gonna do, I knew what I was getting myself into."

"So why New York?" Stella asked pouring them another round.

"Not New Orleans." Seeing they wanted more she tacked on, "figured y'all knew all about having home destroyed, figured I would be less of a freak here." They both nodded, sympathetically. Luckily it shut them down, like she had found it did with nearly everyone in the city. No one wanted to discuss the elephant in the room, which was fine by her, and she didn't have to tell any of her secrets. "So," she said changing the subject, "what's up with tall, dark, and surly?"

"You mean Mac?" Stella wrinkled her brow.

Gus hid a snort, obviously they had no clue who she was or who she was related to. "Nah, the detective that works with you all from the precinct. I don't think he likes therapists."

"Oh, Don Flack. He's not surly. He's old school, long line of cops, sarcastic, maybe even shy, but not surly." "Shy," scoffed Gus, "yeah right."

"He's pretty nice once he gets to know you," Lindsay added, "took him 2 days working a case to really talk to me, but he is really open to forensics, which is unusual for a lot of them."

"Yeah, I figured, I can feel you on that, no one wants me to be shrinking them, they all shut up when I walk by, afraid I am going to analyze them and tell their Cap. Well, I'm glad to know Flack isn't a jerk."

"Nah, he's a good one," Stella replied.

Right before Christmas, Gus was wading through mail, mostly from FEMA and the insurance company. Luckily both wanted to settle quickly. Gus didn't care, she never wanted to set foot in her old place again. Too many memories. Gage didn't have any ties to it, the house was only in her name, bought from her trust when she was 18. The house had quadrupled in value in the past 10 years, and now people were drooling over the land value and she just had to pick one of the many offers her realtor had sent her. "Sure tear down another piece of history what does it matter?" she muttered.

Then she saw it, a card postmarked from Natchez, Mississippi. Where Gage's mother was from and where she always wanted her son to return to. The only place more possibly steeped in debutante tradition than New Orleans. "I can't believe he send me a freaking Christmas card, how did he even find me?" She flipped the envelope over and noticed it was forwarded from her New Orleans address, he hadn't found her, hadn't even bothered. She tore open the envelope and drew out a piece of heavy cream card stock:

'Dr. and Mrs. Edwin Jefferson Davis Blanchard are pleased to announce the union of their daughter, Cordelia Elizabeth-Ann Blanchard to Mr. Ulysses Grant 'Gage' Fontentot...' the card fell from her hand. She walked shakily towards the bar, poured a double neat and knocked it back. It was then she noticed the slip of paper that fell to the floor.

She skimmed the scrawled letter that was enclosed. Augusta, it began stiffly, I figured you should hear this from me. Daddy and mother relocated here and I was reintroduced to an old childhood friend. Something happened between Bitsy , dear God, Bitsy? Gus dry heaved into her mouth. That spark you were always talking about, I didn't think it existed. We want different things, you and I both know that. No one was happy. I do wish you the best in your future endeavors. Take care. Best Regards, G P.S. You may keep the ring Gus hurled the glass to the floor. Mac, of course, walked right in as it shattered.

"Rough day?" he asked staring at the broken pile of glass.

"What else is new, just some bad news from the swamp." Gus felt dejected.

"Insurance problems? We can talk to an attorney, I heard there are already several lawsuits, I can't sue the Corps though, frowned upon and all." Mac tried to be helpful, but was at a loss about how to deal with his niece.

"No, no," Gus said picking up the glass and gashing her hand in the process, "they want to settle. Just...personal. I'm good."

"Well, um, if you ever need to talk," Mac paused and rubbed his hand over his face and dryly stated "Stella is an excellent listener."

Gus rolled her eyes and glanced down at the check in her hand and did some quick calculations, "I'll be fine, actually I think I'll be outta your hair by Christmas."

Chapter 4: Welcome Home

Gus moved fast to find her own place, which she did in only three days. A decrepit pre-war cooperative in the midst of building renovations and gleaming new projects by Gramercy Park. The board was desperate for buyers as many of their elderly owners sold out when the building had to undergo major structural repairs. The board called it the 'Florida shuffle'. It had the great bones of two studios converted into one larger space, an original cast iron tub and endless piles of dust and tarps. The previous owners' son had worked on it. As he was an electrician, it had been re-wired and plastered, but that was about it. Gus didn't care about that as much as she did having a place to call her own and getting off Mac's couch. She moved in her five whole boxes on December 19th, mostly due to her hefty down payment. While she didn't really feel lucky, she was better off than most from New Orleans in getting her insurance payments and selling her old house quickly, not to mention her hunk of coal engagement ring from Gage turned out to be worth a pretty penny.

The next day the supposedly shy and not surly Don Flack dropped by her office on the way to the lab. "Hey, you did nice with this place, doesn't look nearly like a shrink's office," Flack said surveying the space.

"Probably because I am not a shrink." Gus hated when people called her a shrink, why could they not get it? Having to describe her nontraditional degree was almost enough to make her wish she had enjoyed research enough to get a PhD.

"I know," he replied, looking down at his shoes.

Gus suddenly got the idea that maybe Stella was telling the truth. She decided to treat him like one of her adolescent clients and just politely ignored him while catching up on her case notes.

"I got a sister-in-law who is a nurse, they work a lot with you guys at Children's. I got a cousin who's a social worker. She said you might kick my ass if I kept calling you a shrink, you won't will you?" He was rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

She didn't raise her head, looking up through her eyelashes, continuing to chart. She also ignored the twist in her stomach at the thought of him talking to his cousin about her. They had exchanged about 10 sentences is the few weeks she had been here.

"I'll let you pass this time," she stated evenly.

A silence hung, she expected him to leave, but he said, "I heard you were looking to buy a place, that's pretty brave."

"Um, actually I closed on a place yesterday. I don't think it is any braver than owning a place below sea level," Gus cracked with a wry smile.

He stopped studying her ceiling and gave her an almost smile. "Well congratulations then. I, uh, gotta get to the lab."

As soon as he left, Gus found herself doing deep breathing exercises in her chair. "Keep it cool Broussard, don't let the eyes fool you and he's a cop remember?" She continued charting, just now noticing her pen had leaked the entire time. She checked her compact and noticed the fingerprints in ink on her forehead. She shook her head in disgust and muttered "figures."

Upon arriving at the 'home' she still couldn't believe was all hers that evening, she stumbled over something in the dark hallway. Praying it wasn't a rat, she flicked on the penlight on her keys. There sat a small houseplant, nondescript plastic pot, no bow. Assuming it was from her uncle, she plopped it down in the sink and forgot about it until later that night when awakened from her air mattress by another nightmare as she went to go pour herself a drink. Flipping on the bare bulb in what would one day be a kitchen again with its utility sink, mini fridge and lone cabinet, she noticed a card sticking out of the leaves. "Welcome home," was all it said with no signature.

She studied it and flipped it over, because while her uncle was known for his cryptic tendencies, this was weird even for him, "Detective Donald H. Flack, Jr. " she read aloud, as she fingered the embossed NYPD logo, "crap." "Sorry little guy," she said, chucking the plant into the trash can, "but I'm not touching that with a ten foot pirogue pole, no matter how gorgeous his blue eyes are."

The next morning while about to dump out her coffee grounds, Gus picked the plant out of the trash, looking around as if she is afraid of someone seeing her change of heart. "No one has to know, right?" she told the plant as she carried it to the windowsill.

That day stretched into infinity, most of it spent in the field working a case about a rich recluse, they wanted her decode his paranoia like she was a magician. Gus felt like he probably wasn't truly paranoid, seeing as he wound up dead. Not to mention that his doctor was a piece of work. The day got longer when Danny got himself locked in the hermit's panic room and started freaking out. Gus promised herself to be professional enough to not use this against him at a later date, though she couldn't fully promise herself that she wouldn't. She also spent most of the day attempting to avoid Flack, which was damn hard considering he was the only detective on the scene other than the CSIs. As they were leaving the crime scene, she felt her southern manners override her logic.

"Detective Flack," she called after him, "thank you kindly." Kindly, who said kindly? Gus chastised herself. She was channeling some fluffy Barbie Southern Debutante apparently and was half waiting for herself to curtsy.

He looked at her quizzically and for a brief second she wondered if someone had played a joke on her, after all the card wasn't signed and she didn't know his handwriting. Then she realized he was trying to not laugh at her southern belle routine. "Well, you are mighty welcome ma'am, don't want you think all of us New Yorkers are rude." He shook his head and closed the cruisers door.

Gus turned and slapped herself on the forehead, "idiot."

"What, you did a great job in there, you are pretty handy in the field," Stella said from behind her.

"Oh, um, thanks." Gus was beyond flustered.

"So Mac and I were talking and we were thinking you and Lindsay and perhaps Sheldon could all join us for dinner on Christmas Eve, sort of 'orphaned in the city' thing unless you have plans."

Gus turned pale at the thought of her 'secret' relationship with Mac coming to light.

Stella misunderstood, knowing that Gus was in fact an orphan, but not knowing if Gus knew that she knew. "Oh, I am so sorry. I mean listen, I grew up in foster homes and I know how hard it can be not having family at the holidays especially being in a new place, but no pressure."

Gus sighed, safe again, not that she was ashamed of her family, but seeing as how he was her only family and that was only because her mother's sister happened to marry him, she didn't want people thinking she only got where she was because of his favors. "Yeah, that would be great but isn't Lindsay going home to Montana?"

"She doesn't have leave and Christmas gets pretty crazy in the city, so we need all hands on deck."

"All right then, sounds great. Take care, see you tomorrow."

Later that night, while she was ripping up the nasty linoleum tiles in the bathroom, her cell phone chirped. Seeing a NYC area code, but not recognizing it, she answered it in a huff, "Broussard!" she snapped.

"Um, sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?"

"I was just ripping up tile, good aggression release, who is this, you better not be a telemarketer, because I don't want any, I don't care and I am not donating to your fund and no I am damn well not giving to the Red Cross for Hurricane Relief, but I have seen first hand how that has not helped!"

"Whoa, sorry, it's Don."

Don, Don who? Gus paused, "Don...Flack?"

"Uh yea, just calling to see how the plant was doing."

"Not dead yet, amazingly enough, I'll try not to kill it but I make no guar-on-tees." She caught herself slipping into Bayou speak.

"Well, no worries. So you are already ripping up tile on a place you just bought?"

"It's more of a shell really, the whole building was practically falling down. But it is historic, so they couldn't tear it down for a condo tower, but it is definitely a handyman's special, or woman's as the case may be."

"It's a great location, they must pay you shrin- psychologists well."

"Not so much, but I had a house in New Orleans, luckily it was well insured and had land value," Gus sighed, not wanting to seem like a spoiled trust fund kid, like so many of the people she knew and disliked in New Orleans.

"Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting." His tone was heavy enough that Gus wanted to rescue him/
"Better than being pitied I suppose. People still do that to y'all 4 years later, I hope it is less for me."

The silence stretched, but Gus knew better than to break it, she got some of the best information from her clients that way. "So..." he started.

"Hmm?" she answered, continuing to pull up the tiles.

"So I was wondering if you had anyplace to go for Christmas Eve because my grandmother always cooks for an army and doesn't mind if anyone brings anyone extra, it's pretty informal like an open house kind of thing, people just come and go and eat and drink too much." He was rambling and wanted desperately to shut up.

Knowing he wasn't a client, she stopped being a therapist for once and stepped in to save him. "You aren't in the habit of bringing home strays, are you, Don Flack?" Gus teased.

"No, no, it just I know its your first Christmas here, and I uh-"

"Oh, so is Lindsay going to come by then?" She couldn't help but dig, she knew he would squirm.

"Lindsay? Montana Lindsay? Well I guess she could, I hadn't really... but Danny usually stops by, has to escape his family at some point."

"Ah, well, thanks for the invite, but I'm OK. I'm doing Christmas Eve dinner with Mac and Stella and I will probably go to Midnight Mass somewhere after. Don't you have to work?"

"Oh yeah, the orphaned in the city thing. I'm on call."

Gus hoped that Flack didn't know about her background and wasn't just taking pity on her. She breathed deep, "thanks though," she said, finally, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach.

"Mass huh, you're Catholic?"
" Does the Pope wear a dress? Yeah why?"
"Nothing."
More silence, she almost thought he had hung up on her, wondered if it was bad being Catholic in New York. "Hey you are one of those fuzzy-wuzzy types right?" asked Flack, suddenly.

Realizing Flack didn't know a damn thing about her or her past she snorted in laughter. "What because I am a therapist? I guess if you stereotyped me, I would be. But then you would have to be some macho self- absorbed cocky cop who would most certainly never leave a plant on someone's doorstep as a welcome gift."

Flack sounded wounded, "no offense meant, down girl, I was just about to ask if you wanted to come help out with some kids at the community center I volunteer at. They always are looking for volunteers on Christmas day, pass out toys, sing carols, you know that kind of stuff."

"That kind of stuff?" Gus repeated the words, something wasn't matching up here for her, hot loner cop from a line of cops who volunteers at a community center? She paused, but was considering it, mostly because she had to see this to believe it. "Sure, why not?" she answered. Flack told her the details and she hung up shaking her head in disbelief spending most of the rest of the night getting rid of tiles and trying to not severely injure herself.