'Long time, no update. Sorry 'bout that. Here's a long chapter as a peace offering. :)

Oh, someone asked me asked me if I plan on re-doing Flight Plan. Thanks for asking. The answer: Yes and no. I plan on incorporating some elements of FP, but I don't intend on taking the same route. Confused? Sorry, I fail at giving precise answers. Things will become clearer as this story progresses. :)

For fans of "Favorite Worst Nightmare", I'm working on an update and it should be out soon.

Chapter Three: Somewhere in Between

"Let's get outta here."

"What?"

"Let's get outta here, out of New York. A buddy of mine has a vacation house up in Lake Placid, right at the foot of the Adirondack Mountains. The kids could hit Whiteface, get some serious skiing time in, and maybe take some snowboarding lessons. They even have a spa at the lodge—complete with maple butter massages, Swedish massages, salt baths, facials, manicures…"

Casey was practically salivating. "Swedish massages…"

Chester nodded, running the pads of his fingers up her bare leg enticingly. "…five star dining to satisfy your inner culinary elitist…shopping…"

"That all sounds great…"

His fingers went limp. "…but?"

She sighed at his blatant disappointment. "We don't exactly have an abundance of vacation time…"

"Oh come on. Taking a well disserved break isn't misfeasance, Casey."

She scoffed. "Tell that to Jack McCoy," she looked up at him. "And what about you? You have a mountain of active cases. Fin would knock the both of us off if you dumped them in his lap with a temporary partner to match."

"My Spidey Senses are telling me that this has absolutely nothing to do with avoiding Finn's dormant homicidal tendencies," he took a sip of beer and leveled her with his eyes. "This is moving too fast for you, isn't it?"

Casey decided to take advantage of a childless Saturday and invite Chester over for dinner. His phobia of dependence upstaged the evening, for he insisted upon cooking and setting the table, all while refusing every morsel of help she offered.

Unfortunately he burned the roast.

After a satisfying meal of pizza and suds, they retreated to the couch, each nursing a beer. They were supposed to be watching the Knicks game, but Chester's penchant for integrating profound conversation into traditionally lighthearted moments had taken the evening hostage.

"I just don't think it's a good idea," she answered after some time. "I mean, it is but it isn't." Her brow creased and her lip jutted out. Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair and rested her chin in her palm. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"No," he chuckled softly and tucked a stray blonde strand behind her ear. "But I won't hold it against you."

"If it were just me…" she still felt the need to explain despite the 'It's fine. I'm fine. Shut up' smile he was attempting to placate her with. "If it were just me: I'd go balls out…but the kids—Rafe in particular…"

"…hate me."

"I wouldn't go that far."

He frowned. Now look who was the placater. "Uh…the kid looks at me like he wants to chop me up into tiny pieces and throw my perfectly minced carcass into the East River."

She tossed a pillow at him. "Wow Lake, when persuasion and inveiglement fail, just imply that I raised a serial killer—that's a stellar way to convince me to go on vacation with you. Besides, Rafe doesn't 'hate' you…"

Chester tossed the pillow back at her. "Uh, naiveté…not aesthetically pleasing on a thirty something district attorney."

"Really, I thought all guys were hot for the unworldly, demure shtick."

He arched his brow. "Demure?"

She opted for smacking the smug bastard this go round.

He grinned. "Sucks when changing the subject doesn't go your way, huh? Okay seriously, 'hate' may have been overdramatic…but he's just not feeling the 'cop and the lawyer' routine."

"It's not you. I could bring home George Clooney and he would still bitch."

"So I'm no George Clooney?"

She pitched a grandiose sigh and continued. "Rafe didn't get the luxury of a clean break. His life went from one extreme to another. One day our house was chaotic and loud and messy and the next…the next there cold hard silence and an empty ass pothole where his father should've been. In his mind, you're trying fill the void and he's gonna do everything in his power to keep it open until Charlie can come back and fill it himself."

"And where does that leave you?" he asked softly.

After a long pull of beer, she looked over and held his eyes. "In limbo."

He didn't want to insult her with truisms or useless clichés. Instead, he sat his beer on the coffee table and pulled her to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She eased her head into his lap, her bottle blonde hair blanketing his jeans. They remained in silence, watching as they Knicks struggled to get a point on the board.

The next morning, Robin skipped into her grandparents' kitchen in search of the Burnham's maid, only to be greeted by the vision of Rafe hunched over his biology book at the kitchen table—his head burrowed in the crook of his elbow, a pencil dangling from his relaxed fingers. A bout of euphoria seized the sixth grader as she delved into the pocket of her jeans, rummaging for her cell phone. She gleefully snapped the damning image, careful to zoom in on the puddle of spit pooling under brother's gapping lips.

Unfortunately the flash roused him from his biology-induced slumber.

"Did you just take a picture of me?" he asked, groggily pawing at his eyes.

"Uh…no?"

"Liar."

"Fine, I did," she shrewdly backed out of his arm's reach and smugly turned her phone's screen around for him to see. "Feast your eyes on this. I call it: le couponde chantage. That's French for 'you're screwed'.

"A blackmail coupon? Come on, Robin. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have that phone."

"Okay, sure, you got your basketball teammates to pay me for tutoring, but you took half my profit!"

He shrugged. "What's the point of having an egghead for a sister if she can't be a fiscal asset?"

"For the record, it's the dweebs and the 'eggheads' who ultimately grow up to run industrialized nations like our own," with a sanctimonious smirk, she flounced over to the refrigerator for some Go-Gurt. "Just ask Bill Gates."

"Sometimes I cannot believe we shot out of the same womb."

"I can't believe we swam out of the same gene pool," she looked over at his open book. 'Genetic anomalies' screamed out from the page in bold letters. "Talk about 'genetic anomalies'. I mean, I'm a genius and you're a lummox."

"What the hell is a lummox?"

"A clumsy, stupid person. Possession of a vocabulary: now legal in New York."

"I'm not clumsy. And hey," he balled up a paper napkin and threw it at her. "I'm the oldest. You can't talk about me like that."

Robin rolled her eyes and plopped the portable yogurt her mouth. "One's chronological age has absolutely nothing to do with maturity level," she flapped an explanatory free hand in his direction. "Exhibit A."

"I hate you."

She stuck out her tongue.

"Hey," he pushed his book side and stretched in his chair. "Have you noticed Chester hasn't been to any more extracurricular events? Think he got the message?"

"What, the one that announced that you're a childish brat that can't handle his mom moving on?"

"No," he lashed her with a Casey-esque death glare. "That he's detective non grata around these parts and that he isn't good enough for our mother."

"Really? Because Grandma and Grandpa felt the exact same way about Mom when Dad did the world a disservice and impregnated her with you."

"You know," he tilted his head contemplatively. "If I kill you, Mom's awesome enough to get me off…"

"Who are you kidding? You're too pretty for prison. Seriously Rafe, when are you gonna get over it? He's her boyfriend. They're happy. Suck it up and get outta her way."

"Yeah? Well, you know what? One of these days Dad's gonna come back and when he does, I'm gonna make sure he's got a family to come home to."

"Oh my god!" she shouted, suddenly furious. She threw her half empty Go-Gurt tube on the floor and stamped her feet. "When are you gonna grow up? Read my lips: Dad is nev-er com-ing back! If he really wanted to be a family, he would've gotten the help he needed—like Mom wanted."

"If Mom really loved Dad, she would've stuck by him!"

"If Dad really loved Mom, he would've sought treatment instead of using her face as a punching bag...!"

"Robin! That's enough!"

Both siblings turned around to find their indignantly disgruntled grandmother scowling at them from the kitchen's entryway. Rafe had the decency to look sheepish. Robin simply folded her arms and returned Hillary Burnham's chagrined glower.

"I'll not have you slandering your father in this house, young lady."

" 'Slander' implies falsity," the child mumbled.

"Touché, Niece."

All three whirled in the direction of the whimsical voice and were met by the eldest Burnham son's roguish smirk. Stealing further into the room, Conrad Burnham ruffled Rafe's hair—deliberately demolishing the teen's perfect faux hawk, much to his nephew's chagrin—before joining Robin in the eye of Hurricane Hillary. He placed two supportive hands on the girl's shoulders and stared his mother down, grinning at her glaring annoyance.

"Long time no see, Niece. What are you now, eight?"

"I'm ten," she playfully glared up at him. "But I'll be eleven in January so you still have time to shop."

He tousled her curls. "I'll keep that in mind," he glanced at Rafe. "What about you, Nephew? Still a Lothario?"

"Still a criminal?" Rafe deadpanned.

"Touché Grandson," Hillary smirked. "And you," she scornfully pointed at Connie. "How did you get in here?"

"Hiya Mom! I'm fine, thank you," he sarcastically pulled back his lips and exposed a full spread of perfect teeth. The black sheep of the family flounced over to the table and sat down, picking an apple out of the fruit basket in the center and stealing a messy bite. The juice ran down his chin as he spoke, apple chunks obscuring his words. "Uh, to answer your question, Gracie let me in."

She scowled at his indecorous manners. "I don't know why I haven't fired her," she looked pointedly at the unseemly mistake. "She's brought nothing but trouble into this house."

Trouble winked at her. "Gracie's always had some sway with Dad."

She glared at him menacingly. "Why are you here?"

"Can't a guy drop in on his family?"

"No, you may not. Especially after you ungratefully squandered every opportunity your father and I afforded you," she ticked them off on her perfectly manicured fingers. "Exclusive secondary education, Harvard undergrad, Harvard law…do you honestly think you would've attained any of that without our influence? And what do you do? You use your legal prowess to help Eastern European mobsters skirt the law."

"What can I say? I'm good at it. Besides, it looks like I showed up just in time for another round of Canonize Charlie. Did I miss the bonus round? 'Selective Amnesia: Most Stylish Way to Whitewash Charlie's Illness?'"

"Actually, Uncle Connie, we were only in the 'Blame Casey' category."

"Sweet! Misplaced blame," he nudged Robin and tugged one of her curls. "Mom's especially good at that."

"Oh, the inculpatory evidence points directly to that gauche 'woman's' culpability. She had a duty to my son and when his situation became too arduous and he began to interfere with her insouciant lifestyle, she threw him away."

"That's a lie! He left us!"

"See! Do you see that?" she waved an evidential hand at Robin's affronted grimace. "She's even turned his own child against him! It's disgusting!"

"Oh yeah? Where were you Grandma? How come you never offered to help Mom with Dad?"

Rafe sensed the impending disaster. "Robin…"

"No, Rafe," Robin willfully ignored the flashing warning claxons were her brother's eyes should've been. "Grandma's always ragging on Mom about what she didn't do—but what did you do Grandma? Mom and Grandpa were the ones who got him into the institution the first time. Mom got him to the shrink to get diagnosed in the first place. You never lifted a finger to help my dad. You were more concerned about what the ladies in your charity guild thought about your schizo son than you were with helping him…"

The slap wasn't painful, but it was effective. The ten-year-old was successfully silenced, but it only sent Robin into higher dungeon. To her credit Hillary's mouth hung open, her blue eyes wavering between apologetic and righteous.

"I'm sorry…" she reached for Robin's smarting cheek, but the girl was already backing towards the door.

Robin stared up at her grandmother, opened her mouth to say something, but she closed it and shrugged hollowly. Her face went still as granite, her green eyes darkened to an aggrieved black as she turned on her heel, nodded her curt goodbyes and started out of the room.

She stopped a few feet away from the threshold and turned around, "You know, some scientists argue that children who grow up with critical, abusive parents are more likely to develop schizophrenia," she looked her grandmother up and down. "Maybe nurture does trump nature."

The sound of knocking was tenacious. It wouldn't give up, try as Casey might to ignore it, but it was adamant about destroying her only refuge from the megaflop that was her relationship with Chester—sleep. She unfastened her eyes a slit. The room was dull with smoggy city light. She yawned only to inhale the oily air that seemed to be exclusive to Manhattan's Upper West Side. Casey pulled her duvet over her head. The wretched knocking continued.

Groaning, she petulantly threw on her robe and headed toward the door in an agitated fog. She crossed her living room, the soft carpet licking her bare feet. She surveyed the room—frowning at the fact that it looked like a bombed out crack den—and yanked open the front door, careful to leave the safety chain in tact.

Casey glowered at the manila mound in the female intrusion's hands. "…and she comes bearing work? Next time, tequila will suffice."

Olivia Benson smirked. "Hey, you were the one who suggested we go over my testimony in the comforts of your orange matchbox."

She stepped aside and waved her friend though the door. "Must've been high at the time."

The detective's mouth stretched into a wide, knowing grin as she stepped across the transom. "Kid trouble?"

"A failtastic medley of teenage melodrama and relationship woes if we're being completely accurate," Casey rolled her eyes as she modeled her faux manners by taking the detective's coat. "Wanna beer?"

Olivia made herself at home on the couch. "Uh…a little early, isn't it?"

"Eh, it's after five somewhere," she shrugged and started for the kitchen. "Heineken or Fat Tire?"

The cop shook her head and chuckled. "Water will do. Besides, don't you think we should be sober for this?"

"Debbie Downer."

They were half way through Olivia's standard "decorated detective"—though brilliantly damning—testimony when the brunette realized she couldn't take it anymore.

"You're gonna make me beg, huh?"

Casey pretended to ponder the image. "It would be kinda hot."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "You've been sighing and panting like a virgin on prom night. Fine, hint taken. What happened between you and Chester?"

"He invited the kids and I upstate to go skiing."

"Wow, sounds indecent."

Olivia's sarcasm wasn't lost on the blonde. "Come on, you know how my son is about me…"

"…having a life outside the memory of his father?"

"I was gonna say 'dating'," she flashed a sarcastic thumb up. "Good job on the profound analysis portion of the exam."

"So you and Lake are serious, then?"

"As serious as two people can be in the confines of my 'orange matchbox'."

"Elliot mentioned something about Lake accompanying you to Robin's school…"

"…geez, does he braid your hair and paint your nails while you swap secrets…"

"…how'd that go?"

"It turned into a pissing contest between me and my almost monster-in-law. Rafe, of course, sided with the Burnhams. That woman…she totally plays on my kid's need to atone for my mistakes and Rafe's constantly tripping over himself to apologize for my failing Charlie."

"You didn't fail him, Casey."

Casey rolled her eyes at Olivia's 'victim voice'. "Regardless of whether or not I failed him—and I did fail him—it's not Rafe's job to present himself as a shiny new replacement. "

"And Rafe sees Chester as a complication."

"It's not exclusive to Chester. At this point any man who dares to breathe in my vicinity is a fly in the ointment as far as Rafe's concerned. I'm just…" she let on a dramatic groan and buried her face in her hands. "I wish I could just...gah! I don't know what I want, but what I do know is none of this is fair to Chester. He didn't sign up for this After School special I call a life and he shouldn't have to wait for me…"

"So you're quitting…"

Casey glared at the other women. "No, I'm being magnanimous."

"Sorry, but your brand of altruism looks a lot like quitting."

"Who asked you?"

"You know Mom, Detective Benson does present a cogent argument."

Neither of them heard the front door, nor were they aware they were being watched until they whirled and saw a certain sixth grader grinning mischievously at them from the corner of the room. Peeling off her red pea coat and matching beret, Robin shook out her curls and bounced over to the sofa, boldly inserting herself between the two adults.

"So," she plunked her ballet flats on the coffee table. "What am I missing?"

"Your feet if you don't get them off my coffee table," Casey pushed the aforementioned tootsies off her beloved furniture. "How'd you get here and where's your brother?"

"Uncle Connie drove me and the cretin commonly referred to as Rafe is currently in the company of our equally obtuse paternal grandmother."

"Connie Burnham…" Olivia ran the name through the Rolodex in her mind. She tilted her head, grimacing as the memory finally dawned on her. "Conrad Burnham, the mob lawyer…he's Charlie's brother?" she reached over and slapped Casey's knee. "You failed to mention that."

"It's a moot point. I've seen him a handful of times. We've never faced each other in court. Charlie rarely allowed him around our kids," she ticked the reason's off on her fingers. "Connie's generally a sore subject for the Burnhams and up until today, he was mob lawyer non grata at the Burnham asylum," she looked at her daughter. "What's up with that?"

Robin shrugged. "I dunno, he probably came to annoy my ignorantly obstinate grandmother."

"Okay, that's the second string of derogatory adjectives you've used to describe Hillary and Rafe. Wanna tell me what happened?"

She looked down at her shoes. "It was stupid."

"And that's my cue to go," Olivia stood and gathered her belongs. "It was great to see you again, Robin. And you," she pointed at her Casey. "No hasty quitting."

"So, what happened?" Casey repeated once Olivia let herself out.

"The usual. Grandma blamed you for the giant fail that is Dad's life and Rafe enabled her. Oh, and you should really lay off Uncle Connie because he stuck up for you."

"No, he antagonizes your grandmother: there's a difference."

"Anyway, it's so stupid. I'm the ten year old. It would be cute if I thought the frog would turn into a prince and you and him would get your happily ever after, but it looks retarded on a high school freshman."

Casey sighed and patted her chest, an invitation Robin wasted no time accepting. She rested her head on the girl's rumpled cluster of curls as she mulled over how to explain the complexities of schizophrenia and the intricacies of the male teenage mind to a precocious, overly left-brained ten-year-old.

Oh, the joys of single parenthood.

"Robin, do you know what pragmatic means?"

"Yeah, it means dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical consideration. So, are you saying I'm sensible and Rafe lives in a delusional seclusion from the facts and practicality of the real world?"

Casey frowned at faux naiveté in the brilliant little brat's voice. "If that was your circuitous way pointing out your brother lives in an ivory tower, major fail in the subtle department, Daughter. See this face," she swept a hand over her humorless countenance. "Not amused."

No, Dissappoving!Mom was definitely not amused. Robin knew some backpedaling was in order. "Okay, so Rafe's right brained and I lean towards the left. What does that have to do with him punishing you for stopping Dad from holding us hostage?"

Damnit.

This was the part where Casey Novak was supposed morph into the prudent and sagacious mother of the year. She was supposed to be a fountainhead of advice, spewing out plentiful showers of shrewd recommendations while the curly haired sponge eagerly sopped it up. Maternal pearls of wisdom were supposed to be nurturing and comforting, not clumps of sarcastically delivered—though extremely hilarious—crap.

Casey groaned. Fourteen years of motherhood and she was still clumsy as a june bug with her offspring. Where was the Carol Brady Guide to Ideal Motherhood when she needed it?

…crazy as a june bug? Great, now she was turning into her own mother! If she started sprouting southern slang and adages, she was going to have herself committed.

Committed. She wished Charlie could've committed to being…well, committed.

She was stalling—and she was damn good at it, thank you.

Casey looked into Robin's expectant green eyes and sighed.

She was going to have to wing it.

Was there a patron saint of inept mothers?

"Champ…" she swallowed. "Where Rafe see's his father…you see a walking list of symptoms."

"What?" came the high-pitched declaration of moral outrage. "That's not—"

"Let me finish. Rafe got to experience your dad in a totally different light. Charlie...your dad was an amazing father. He doted on your brother. Your dad was so natural at parenthood it was borderline annoying. Where I was awkward and still trying to get the hang of things, Charlie was easy and relaxed. Rafe idolized your father. Still does…"

"How come Dad didn't try harder, if not for himself than for us? He should've gotten help. It worked the first time around…"

"It's not that black and white, Champ. We got him into in-patient care and we got him on meds, but the man we got back wasn't the one we knew and loved. The meds left him lethargic and unmotivated and pretty soon, your dad got bumped down to a reoccurring role in his own life. Look Robin, Rafe…Rafe copes by holding onto his memories of the father he knew. Even while on the meds, Charlie had some great days. The four of us still managed to have some amazing times…"

"I know. I've seen the pictures in my baby book. He looked so happy and normal. I wish I could remember."

"I know…"

"But Mom, the man…the man in those pictures and in Rafe's memories…that's not my dad. My dad was so doped up that he hardly knew I existed and when my dad ditched his meds, my Dad made my life hell. My dad played the radio on full blast at night so the people 'watching' him would know he was aware of them. My dad ranted about FBI conspiracies and told me aliens were watching us through the television and that I should keep foil on my ears to keep them from stealing my thoughts. My Dad threw a bowl of cereal at me because he thought I was trying to poison him. My dad locked me and Rafe in a closet because we were evil spies sent by the government to keep him from spreading the truth. Then one day…one day…my dad attacked my mom and beat the crap outta her while Rafe and I hid under his bed. That's what I remember when I think of my Dad."

"Robin, your father…"

"My father chose to get off the meds and he chose to runaway instead of going back to the institution. Okay, yeah, so I don't know the man and I only know the disease—but Dad was driving everybody crazy. I was so scared of him, Mom. I was in kindergarten and I was already ashamed of him. I wish I could see this perfect patriarch like Rafe does, but all I see is the schizo who ruined our lives."

"Champ," Casey reached in and brushed the hot, angry tears out of the child's face. "I know you feel cheated and angry and resentful. I also know you're sad and hurting like hell. You're a very smart kid, but sometimes you use your brains to hide how vulnerable you are. I understand where you're coming from. Been there, felt it. But, Robin, I gotta tell you…you don't get to police your brother's emotions. Rafe went through it too—and he went through it longer. He watched the father he loved disintegrate into a stranger. However illogical and impractical his feelings are, they're his and you need to let him work them out."

"But why does he get to take it all out on Chester? If he keeps it up, he's gonna chase the guy off? Then what?"

"Rafe thinks I gave up on your dad. In his mind, if I had stuck it out, Charlie and everything else would've fallen back into place. At the end of the day, Rafe's a kid who wants his family back and Chester's a big ass cop standing in his way. You can't fault the kid for being a tad peeved. Now the way he's going about it, hate it. But you know what? I'm the mom and I'll take care of it."

Robin poked out her bottom lip. "You're not gonna make me apologize to Rafe and Grandma, are you?"

"Uh, yeah? That would be kinda nice and magnanimous. I'm sure Rafe and Hillary weren't feeling the whole 'Doogie Houser: Shrink Edition' routine. Try graduating from middle school before flashing your psychiatrist license and psychoanalyzing your family."

"Okay, fine, you're right: I was a jerk," she sighed as she pulled herself out off the couch. "But if he gloats I'm punching him in the nose."

"There'll be no punching, Daughter."

"You're such a mom…" she paused, suddenly becoming interested in loose snitch in her cardigan. "Hey Mom?"

"Yeah Champ?"

"Do you think…do you think Dad'll ever come back?"

"I don't know, Robin."

"I know it's a chimera, but sometimes…sometimes I hope he'll just walk through the door and everything'll go back to normal. Stupid, huh?"

Stupid? No. Unlikely? Check! However, there were days when Casey entertained the same pipedream.

What would it be like if he came back…?

It was just a castle in the sky.

Chester was real and he was there, ready to be her knight in shinning armor.

Yet she couldn't help but wonder if she was settling for security, for a safe mundanity that promised ease.

As quiet as she kept it—and it was quiet—she knew that if the beautiful opportunity presented himself—she would…

She shook the thought out of her mind.

No sense in dwelling.

Next Up: Robin makes a friend at the library. Casey and her son butt heads. Chester attempts to bond with Rafe. Connie Burnham offers to lend someone a hand and receives a surprise visitor.