By the time Andy makes it back to the office, it's late enough that he's sure the place will be a ghost town. Striding into the bull-pen, he is unpleasantly surprised by the sight of his partner propped up sleepily on her desk, attempting to finish the search for the retired Mr. DeLuca.
Sharon can feel her eyes sliding shut against her will, but that doesn't mean that she's going to allow herself to give in. Inhaling deeply, she stretches the muscles in her neck before resting her head against her closed fist. She continues to scroll through the information on her computer screen, unaware of her partner's entrance into their office space.
"What the hell are you still doing here, Raydor?" asks Andy disapprovingly.
"Huh?" she starts, her heart thumping at the sight of Andy standing over her. "Shit, you scared the crap out of me, Flynn! Don't sneak up on me like that," she groans, mortified when she yawns widely.
"You're obviously dead on your feet, Sharon. Go home," he instructs her firmly, "and I don't want to have to tell you again." He smiles slightly at this, wanting to soften his last comment.
"I still haven't managed to track down DeLuca," she protests in response, "I'm staying until I do."
"Track him down tomorrow, when you've had a night's sleep," insists Andy.
"And are you going to sleep on the desk again?" asks Sharon disapprovingly.
"No, I'll go home. In fact, just to make sure that we both go home tonight, I'll drive you and then take myself home. Deal?"
"You don't have to drop me off home, Andy. I'm capable of driving myself," she sniffs, irritated.
"I want to – you know as well as I do that a tired driver can be worse than a drunk driver. You're my partner; I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"Fine," she concedes, too tired to keep arguing with him, anyway.
"There we go," smirks Andy smugly.
"Don't give me that look – it's not what you said. I'm just tired," glares Sharon, unable to stop herself from breaking into a grin moments later at the amused expression on her partner's face.
Together they wait until the computer has shut down completely – a process that seems to take a lifetime – before leaving the office.
Reaching the car, Andy stops to open the door for Sharon before letting himself in to the driver's side.
"You're staying late a lot, recently," observes Andy quietly.
"I guess I am," agrees Sharon cautiously, "but you know how caught up I get when we have a new case."
"Is that it, though?"
"Well, yeah. I don't enjoy staying late at the office – you know that." Sharon stifles another yawn with the back of her hand.
"Don't think anyone does," grunts Andy in agreement, hardly able to stop himself from yawning, too. "It's just…is everything okay with you, y'know, at home?" he asks concernedly. He glances over to his partner to gauge her reaction and sees her face has slipped into her impassive mask; the one she uses when she would rather avoid the conversation at all costs.
"We're fine, Andy. Nothing remarkable to report, really," grinds out Sharon tensely.
The temperature in the car seems to have dropped several degrees.
"How's Emily doing?" he asks lightly, hoping to regain levity in their conversation.
"She's good," she breaks into a small smile, her lips quirking upwards fondly. "Super proud of herself right now, actually," she laughs softly.
"Yeah? What did she do?"
"This morning she hid mommy's keys, making her a full half-hour late leaving home, giving her an extra half-hour with mommy before school," she smirks, eliciting chuckles from her partner.
"She's getting sneaky, like her mom," chortles Andy.
"Hey! I'm not sneaky. She gets all that from Jack," replies Sharon, the laughter fading from her face.
"You okay?" asks Andy perceptively.
"Yeah. He's been at home with Emily when I've needed him there."
"Then what's the matter?" he presses softly.
It takes Sharon a while before she finally responds: "He reeks of booze, Andy. And I have to wonder if that's something he's doing while my daughter is still awake, or if he starts just after bed time." Concern pulls the corners of her mouth down until she's biting one of her lips.
"You think he's getting smashed around Emily?"
"I don't know. I mean, I understand that law school is hard, and that my being home late doesn't help, but things have been pretty rough lately," she admits wearily.
"Shit, Sharon. I'm sorry," replies Andy sincerely. "If I can ever help you and Emily out, you know you just have to let me know, right?" Bringing the car to a stop in front of Sharon's home, he turns to her, noting the worry and distress in her expression.
"Thanks, Andy. I appreciate the offer," she smiles lightly, attempting to reassure him.
"Anytime, Rulebook. You know that," he grins, patting her hand softly over the centre console.
Waving her thanks and goodbye, Sharon leaves the car and makes her way to her front door. Andy waits until he's seen her entering the house and shutting the door behind her before pulling away from the kerb.
As she gets ready for bed, Sharon considers her conversation with her partner, wondering whether she should have divulged as much about herself as she did. Rationally she knows that, as partners, they should have this kind of trust between them. Still, being so open with someone other than her husband – rather, more open with someone who isn't her husband – is disconcerting. She's glad that he has her back, though, and she'd have his in the same way if he ever needed her.
After a few hours of sleep in his own bed, Andy wakes and returns to the office, hoping to lighten some of Sharon's load come morning. Cracking the joints in his fingers, he reopens Sharon's latest search on her computer and begins scrolling through the records himself, thankful at least that his partner had managed to obtain the subpoena earlier in the day. With his eyes never leaving the screen, Andy leans back and readjusts his position to one of more comfort, settling himself in for the long-haul. Damn this lawyer received a lot of calls…
It takes the better part of the small hours of the morning, but Andy thinks that he might have finally found the number that corresponds to the call placed by the tipster.
'Thank God,' he thinks, before allowing his eyes to slide shut.
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