DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. I DO HOWEVER OWN SAMANTHA ROSS (SOON TO BE FLACK. ONLY TWO AND A BIT MORE WEEKS FOR THEM PEEPS!) AND BABY KIERAN (SOON FOR HIS DEBUT TOO!)
A/N: Special thanks to Aphina and hope4sall
Going for Broke
"Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air
Can't live, can't breathe with no air
It's how I feel whenever you ain't there
It's no air, no air
Got me out here in the water so deep
Tell me how you gon' be without me
If you ain't here, I just can't breathe
It's no air, no air
I walked, I ran, I jumped, I flew
Right off the ground to float to you
There's no gravity to hold me down for real
But somehow I'm still alive inside
You took my breath, but I survived
I don't know how, but I don't even care."
-No Air, Jordin Sparks & Chris Brown
Mac knew as soon as he neared his office and saw assistant district attorney James Powell waiting in a chair inside, that the young, vibrant and phenomenally talented Harvard grad wasn't there on a social call. Powell was barely out of his twenties and stood close to six foot five and was built like an NFL linebacker. His wore his blond hair in a military style brush cut and he had chubby, rosy cheeks that made him look younger than he actually was and intense grey eyes that could spark fear in the most hardened of criminals when it came to courtroom battles.
Mac could easily see the kid having an outstanding career as the district attorney one day. With clients and law personnel he was gracious and patient and laid back. In the courtroom, he was a pit bull. He hammered home the facts and got in defensive witnesses' face and didn't back down from anyone. The DA was grooming the young man for bigger and better things so it was of no surprise to Mac to find Powell in his office. What alarmed him slightly, as he slipped into the room, was the uncharacteristically way the ADA was shaking his legs back and forth anxiously and the beads of nervous sweat that dotted the young man's forehead.
"Something tells me you're not here with good news," Mac commented, shutting his office door behind him.
"I wish I could say I was, Detective Taylor. But I'm afraid we've hit a stumbling block with Mathew Stobbard's parole hearing. A massive stumbling block to be exact."
Mac frowned at the sound of that. He journeyed behind his desk and removed his holster from the waist of his pants . Bending down, he pressed a set of numbers on the key pad on the front of the small safe on the back wall. He placed the holster and weapon inside and locked it up right.
"You make me nervous when you say things like that, James," he commented, pulling out his leather chair and taking a seat. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Stobbard's parole hearing is in three days.. And the DA was just informed today, by Stobbard's defence attorney and the parole board that there's an issue with that report you submitted a few days ago. The one detailing Stobbard's behaviour in prison and his apparent lack of remorse for what he did."
"An issue?" Mac cocked an eyebrow. "That report was filed by one of my best people who went there and got exactly what the DA wanted and needed from Stobbard to ensure he remained behind bars. I read and checked that report myself and I saw no problems and issues with it whatsoever. If I had, I would have had my CSI re-write it."
"It's not the report itself," Powell told him. "The report itself was flawless and everything we wanted and more to keep Stobbard behind bars where he belongs. The DA was more than pleased with it and the results he knew it would bring."
"So than what's the problem?" Mac asked. "I submitted it before the deadline set forth by both the DA and the defence."
"You're not the issue, Detective Taylor. It's your employee that you sent to Sing-Sing to interview Stobbard," Powell flipped open the folder in his hands and referred to a paper inside. "A Detective Samantha Ross."
"I know who wrote it," Mac said irritably. "She has a B.A. in profiling. She was perfect for the job."
"Her credentials aren't in question. But her background is."
"Her background? What does her background have to do with how well she does her job"
Powell sighed and leaned forward in his chair. "Detective Taylor, you know the defence plays hard ball. And that they will go to whatever extent they have to, to guarantee their client's release."
"You're talking in riddles, James," Mac snapped. "You're not telling me what Samantha Ross' background has to do with anything."
"The defence did their research," the young man said. "They uncovered evidence that Samantha Ross was a battered spouse."
"She was beaten by an ex fiance who came to New York City to inflict more physical and emotional damage on her," Mac informed the lawyer. "He came to my lab, with a gun, with all intents and purposes to bring her suffering. He was sent back to Arizona and died in prison. What does that have to do with her report?"
"The defence took the matter to the parole board. And they won a ruling based on the fact that her personal history causes her to be too emotionally involved with the nature of Stobbard's crime. That she may have fabricated some parts of the interview so the report highlights only negative aspects of Stobbard's personality."
"That's a load of shit!" Mac exclaimed. "Her personal life does not affect how she does her job. She wrote exactly what happened at that jail and paints Stobbard in his true light. A cold and calculated threat to not only his ex-wife, but society in general. What happened to Samantha Ross in the past has no bearing on how she does her job."
"I understand that. I do. But it wasn't the own reason the defence went on the attack."
"And what are these other reasons?" Mac asked angrily.
"You never told us that this Samantha Ross was a colleague and roommate of Miss Devine."
"I didn't see what that mattered," Mac defended himself. "What does it matter if they're close friends and live together?"
"And you also never told us that Samantha Ross is the fiancee of Detective Don Flack. Or that she's expecting a child with him. The same Detective Don Flack who was the arresting officer the night Stobbard attempted to kill his ex-wife. The same Detective Don Flack who is testifying for us at the hearing."
"Well excuse me, James, if I didn't think the personal lives of my people were any business of the DA's office, the defence or the parole board," Mac snapped.
"Conflict of interest!" the young man argued back. "You've been in law enforcement a long time and you can't tell me that you didn't realize there was a possibility that the defence would play the conflict of interest card!"
Mac sighed and nodded slowly. "I realized it. I just took the gamble that the report would be solid enough that their personal lives wouldn't affect the outcome."
"Well it did, Detective Taylor. Because you took a gamble…" sarcasm and disgust dripped from James' voice. "…this report…" he held it up "…is useless. It's inadmissible!"
The young lawyer stood up and angrily tossed the folder in the direction of the waste paper basket at the side of Mac's desk. The folder was shy of its mark and hit the edge of the can, sending papers tumbling to the floor.
"It's garbage!" James yelled. "All because you decided to take a chance! Do yourself a favour, Detective Taylor," he said, as he gathered up his trench coat and briefcase that lay on the chair beside the one he'd been sitting in.
"What's that?" Mac asked.
"Don't ever go to Atlantic City or Vegas," James suggested as he stalked to the door. "Because you're a damn lousy gambler."
Mac said nothing in return and simply stared after the young man that stormed from the office, slamming the door with such force that the glass rattled and threatened to break.
The head of the New York City crime lab sighed heavily and swivelled his chair around and gazed out the window at the dreary December sky.
He'd laid all his cards on the table and went for broke.
And lost.
The Manhattan office of the New York City Clerk was located on One Centre Street. Diagonally across the street from City Hall and its respective park. At eleven thirty in the morning, Sam and Flack parked in the underground lot and took the short elevator ride to the second floor. Second floor south, the instructions, in Flack's hand writing, said on the small piece of yellow sticky note paper he held in his nervous, trembling hand. The fingers of his other equally as shaking hand, entwined tightly with the fingers with his soon to be wife. Who was getting quite the kick out of him being so damn petrified as they stepped off the elevator and hung a left and journeyed down the hall to their destination.
The Wedding Licence Bureau.
"You can always back out," Sam suggested, as he reached for the handle on the glass door in front of them.
"No way in hell," Flack declared. "I managed to find you and somehow hold on to you. Not a chance I'm bailing now. Why? You thinking of bailing on me?"
"Once or twice," she said with a grin, her eyes sparkling up at him.
He smirked. "Very goddamn funny. I swear, you better not stand me up Christmas Eve. You don't show up and I'm hunting you down."
"Where am I going to go?" she laughed. "Look at me. I'm a beached whale. I can't go to the corner store without getting winded. It's highly unlikely I'm going to hope the next Greyhound out of the city."
"Better hope not," he said, opening the door and motioning for her to go ahead of him. "'Cause I want the ring back if you're planning on taking off."
"Are you crazy? I'm finding the closest pawn shop and getting some money from this sucker."
There was a small line up of people waiting to be served by half a dozen city clerks. Several other couples were filling out the required forms and information in a cluster of chairs in the middle of the spacious, well lit room. Sam yanked off her hat and gloves and shoved them into her jacket pocket before untying her scarf and unbuttoning her coat as they waited in line. Christmas carols were being piped through speakers in the ceiling and in the far corner someone had erected a looming tree with nothing but silver, white, and blue balls and garland. It had obviously been decorated by a professional. Sam didn't know anyone that could get a Christmas tree to look that perfect and organized. Other than the decorators down at Macy's and Martha Stewart herself.
"How come our tree doesn't look like that?" she asked Flack, nodding in the direction of the enormous Christmas tree.
"Maybe because ours is like three feet tall so you could reach the top of it," he teased, than dodged an elbow to the stomach. "I mean, how much decorations can you put on a midget tree?"
"You're mean," she pouted dramatically.
"Come here," he said, reaching out and laying a hand on the back of her neck and pulling her into him. "I'm just kidding, baby," he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "And I'm sorry you're the size of a twelve year old boy."
"Screw you, Don Flack," she said, her face buried in his chest, an arm sneaking underneath his coat and around his waist. "I'm tired," she complained with a noisy yawn. "I really wish your son would take it easy on me at night. I can only get away with taking naps in my office for so long."
"Once we're done here, we can go get some lunch and than I'll take you home. You can sleep all day if you want. You know it was a good thing, right? Going down to part time hours?"
She nodded. "Makes me feel pretty useless, though," she said with a sigh. "I didn't think being pregnant would wipe me out this badly. But it has just kicked my ass."
"Not too much longer," he assured her, laying a hand on her stomach and rubbing it in slow, smooth circles.
"Too bad we couldn't have babies in six months," she said, inching forward as the line progressed. "I mean, why nine months? Why so long? Whose idea was making the process last forty weeks?"
"The big man upstairs," Flack said. "Guess he just figured you women needed to be tortured for making Adam eat that apple so he said here, pregnant for three quarters of a year. Boom."
"You have been friends with Danny way too long," Sam informed him. "You're even using his catch phrase now."
"I'll have you know that I've been using it probably longer than he is. Few years ago, we had this case where blood was dripping through the ceiling of this apartment, which was rented to a former Miss Iowa. Paige something or other. Anyway, we're going about our business doing a second search of the apartment when it turns out that the DB, who was missing when we first got there and than found stuffed down the garbage chute, was actually Paige's friend. Can't remember her name off hand. But Danny and I were talking about how you can get anything delivered in New York City. I was telling him how if I wanted one, I could get a pastrami sandwich from the Korean deli by my old place, delivered to me. And I said, BOOM, done at the end of my story."
"Are you telling me that you can remember talking about pastrami sandwiches four years ago but you can't remember the supposed victim's or the actual victim's, names?"
Flack nodded.
"Wow…I mean I know you love to eat, Don. But that's just a tad bit strange."
"Not as strange as me finding you watching tv last night at one in the morning and eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich with relish on it. Now that was gross."
"I told you not to bite into it."
"Relish, Sam," he grimaced. "With peanut butter and banana? I mean, come on."
"Hey, it's what your son wanted. Talk to him. Do you have all of our stuff?"
He nodded and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a white envelope. Inside of which was their birth certificates to use as identification. Two pieces were required to obtain a marriage licence in the state of New York, and their employee I.D. cards could be used as the second.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked, noticing his hands were still trembling. "You're really freaked out."
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "This is a huge step, Samantha," he said in an uneasy voice.
"Donnie, if you don't feel you're ready for this so suddenly, I already told you that that's okay," she reminded him, her voice gentle and soothing. "I mean, I'll be disappointed and a little hurt, but I don't want you to feel like you're being forced into anything. If you think it's better to wait until after the baby is born and we get the whole parenting thing under our belts…."
He shook his head. "I don't want to wait. I'm ready for this. I want to get married. I'd marry you tomorrow if I could. Shit, I'd find Bloomberg himself and force him to marry us right this second if it was possible. It's just…it's a massive step and it's freaking me out a bit. Other than deciding to join the academy, I've never made a decision this big. Honestly…I'm scared."
She smiled and hugged his arm. "So am I," she told him. "It's normal to be scared. We're going to be spending the rest of our lives together. That's just a little freaky."
"Do you want to back out?" he asked, taking a tentative step and finding himself at the front of the line.
She shook her head. "That doesn't mean you can't," she quickly added.
"I'm too far gone to back out, Sam. I just…I worry that we're going to end up like my parents. Their marriage was over a long time ago. They're still together, but whatever they had was dead a long time ago. And I'm terrified one morning you'll wake up and realize this wasn't for you. Being married to a cop. When you could have had so much better."
"You're wrong, Donnie. I already have who I want and what I want. And nothing will ever change that. How do you know that somewhere down the road you're not going to be tired of me and wish you'd never hooked up with me."
"Never going to happen, Sam. I've told you that a million times."
"Next please!" the clerk at the far end called out.
"Tell me now, Don," Sam said, grabbing a hold of his hand and squeezing it tightly. "Nothing is signed. We can just walk out and do this when you're ready."
He sighed heavily and looked down at the envelope he was holding and than at the engagement ring and band of diamonds that adorned the love of his life's finger.
"Next please!" the clerk repeated in an annoyed tone.
"Donnie," Sam pressed, wanting and needing an answer. A reaction.
He nodded as if coming to a decision in his mind and leaned down to kiss her quickly.
"I'm ready," he said.
It took less than half an hour to fill out the paperwork and have it processed. Thirty five dollars on the credit card later, Flack was now in possession of an official marriage licence and a litany of small yet important instructions from the city clerk. After the licence was completed and returned by the official performing the ceremony, the clerk would have a certificate of marriage registration sent out to them within fifteen days. The licence itself was valid for sixty days and New York City laws decreed that couples had to wait a full twenty-four hours before having a marriage ceremony.
Having that simple yet life altering paper in his hands had taken the weight of the world off of Flack's shoulders. It made it seem as if the most difficult part was over and now all he had to in less than three weeks was show up on time at that courthouse. He'd already pledged his undying and unwavering love and affection for the woman that now strolled hand in hand with him through the lightly snow covered streets. The only thing left to do was get those rings on their fingers and make the whole thing legal.
He'd seen the way Sam had paused, when, during the filling out of the application, she'd gotten to the part where it asked what she wanted her name to be legally changed to when she was married. Was she going to keep her maiden name? Hyphenate both names? Just go with his? He'd teased her about it. That Flack wasn't exactly the most appealing last name in the free world and she had every right to tell him to shove it and stick with Ross. Hell, he'd said laughing, I've even considered changing my name to Ross.
She'd smiled at the good natured teasing and leaned sideways and kissed him softly before turning back to the task at hand and quickly and confidently filling out the missing piece.
Samantha Marie Flack.
Seeing his last name attached to her first had been an almost surreal experience for him. Because never in his life had there been a woman that he had considered ever sharing his last name with.
Even now, when he ran the name through his mind and thought of her as his wife, it seemed unreal. Too good to be true, almost.
They'd left his squad in the underground lot and opted to walk a couple of blocks to the small Italian restaurant/bistro that they had passed on the drive to the clerk's office. It was a brisk December day. Half an inch of snow crackled under their feet as they walked down the sidewalk. A light, gentle snow tumbled down. Yet there was a warmth that existed between them that seemed to be burning hotter as the days got closer and closer to their wedding. And the birth of their first, but hopefully not last, child.
"You've got this goofy grin on your face," Sam commented playfully, as they stopped at the red light and she pressed the button for the cross walk.
"Can't help it," he said, dropping her hand and reached out to tighten the under the chin ties on her wool hat and tuck her scarf further into her jacket. "I'm disgustingly happy."
She smiled up at him. Looking so young and innocent and pure with no makeup on and those freckles on full display as her nose crinkled in contentment.
He couldn't resist taking her face in both of his hands and covering her lips in a slow, languid kiss.
"Still freaked out?" she asked, taking his hand once more as the light changed in their favour and they headed across the street.
He shook his head. "You?"
"A little," she admitted.
He frowned.
"I was just thinking about how I've gained more weight since we bought the rings and since I picked out my outfit and I'm worried neither will fit."
"It's all good, Samantha," he assured her, dropping her hand in favour of circling her waist with his arm. "I guess if worse comes to worse, we get the judge to come to the apartment and you get married in slippers and pyjamas."
She snorted. "Now isn't that the memory you want of your wedding ceremony. Boy, I bet when you used to think about getting married your thoughts never included a massively pregnant fiancee and six guests and a small civil ceremony."
"No, they didn't," he admitted. "But than I never thought about getting married before. So it's all new to me. And I'm not into all that fancy stuff. Tons of guests and a ten course meal and a gigantic church and all that crap. And a tux. Come on, that's just not me."
"I don't know," she said. "You look damn hot in a tux. And you've never ever thought about it? Getting married?"
He shrugged. "Maybe once or twice when I got into my late twenties. But it was more thinking about how I wanted to meet someone that I'd consider marrying and spending the rest of my life with and having kids and all that. Because the women I've dated…never mind. Devon. That's all I have to say. Your imagination can take over for there."
"She was a little bit of an airhead," Sam reasoned. "And she had that clingy, ex-girlfriend, stalkerish Single White Female thing going on. But I bet she wasn't all that bad when you were actually with her. I mean, she had to have some good points or you wouldn't have hung around that long."
"It wasn't that long. It was barely two months."
"Two months for you is a lifetime," Sam teased. "But she must have had something that you really, really liked or you would have just dumped her after you got what you wanted. Something held you there and made you keep going back for more."
"I guess," he said, and thought about just what it was that had kept him with Devon that long.
The sex wasn't that good but at least it was something and after the bombing, intimacy of any kind had been on massively short supply. Mostly because when things got down to it, women bailed because of his whole not taking his shirt of paranoia. So relatively boring, crappy sex was better than no sex for someone that was practically starving from not having it in so long. He'd liked having someone around after a long day that he could talk to. Although she did rapidly change the subject whenever he brought up a tough case or anything remotely disgusting. But at least he had someone. He wasn't alone. He had been tired of being alone.
But not tired enough that he would have ever considered marrying her. Not so she could parade him around at charity events like he was some kind of trophy. Pay his way to things. That crap got old fast and it was a serious blow to his ego to be treated like a pauper by a woman. So when the novelty of banging a blue collar guy had worn off, Devon was history. And he had missed her for a while. But never enough to call her up and hook back up with her. He figured it was far better to accept being alone than to pretend that he was in love and happy.
"I guess I just needed somebody," he said at long last. "I didn't want to be alone. I needed and wanted to feel like someone loved me."
"And did you?" Sam asked. "Feel that way?"
He nodded. "For a while. Until I realized it was more lust the two of us were feeling than love."
"And when did you realize that? Before or after you two broke up?"
"After. When I met you and things started happening so fast and I was feeling things I'd never felt before…that's when I realized what her and I had was bush league."
She laughed at that.
"What?" Flack asked, smiling at the sound of her musical laugh. "What's so funny?"
"Leave it to you to find a way to compare love, or lack there of, to sports."
"Well when you think about it, being in love with someone is a lot like hockey," he said.
She frowned. "And how's that?"
"Simple. It's all fun and games until someone looses an eye…"
"And than it's a sport," she smirked and pinched his stomach and than playfully pushed him away from her.
"It's true," he chuckled.
"You're a strange man, Don Flack," she declared, reaching out to grab a hold of his arm when her foot hit a patch of ice buried under the snow and she slipped slightly.
"But you love me," he said, smiling at her and wrapping his arm around her waist once more, keeping a tight grip on her to prevent her from falling on her ass. "Maybe we should have taken the car. Last thing I need is you wiping out and going into premature labour."
"I don't know about that," she sighed. "I was ready to have this baby yesterday. And I am almost seven and a quarter months now…so the baby would be perfectly fine if he was born now."
"How about we just leave him where he is for now? Longer he's in there, the better off he is."
"How long to you want me to be pregnant for?" she asked. "Forever?"
"No…but I was thinking that we should have another one really soon after Kieran. You know, so they're close in age and he has someone to play with and what not."
"Okay," Sam agreed, pausing as they reached the small Italian restaurant. "On one condition."
"What's that?" Flack asked.
"You carry the baby and give birth to it."
"Even if it was medically possible, babe, no way. I could never do it. I'm a wimp. I stub my toe on the end of the bed and I'm looking to have my whole foot amputated to deal with the pain. You're a hell of a lot stronger than I am. But other kids…I don't want to just have one."
"Well I'll tell you what. I'll have this one and see how traumatic it is before I decide on another one so soon. Okay? Fair enough?
"But we can still do the whole thing that leads to baby making, right? I mean, practice does make perfect."
She grinned. "Is that all you think about?"
He leaned down and kissed her gently. "It's one of two things," he told her.
"And what's the second thing?" she inquired curiously.
He smiled and pulled open the door to the restaurant. "Food," he replied simply.
She rolled her eyes and journeyed inside. "You are such a man," she complained.
They sat a quaint table for two near the back of the restaurant. Tucked away from the noisy, bustling crowd at the front of the establishment. It felt refreshing and relaxing to be able to spend some time together, just the two of them, where neither felt compelled to talk about work related issues. They stayed away from anything that involved Mathew Stobbard and the upcoming hearing. Briefly touching on Speed's vain attempts to contact Carmen and the more than three dozen messages that had been left for her on his behalf. Carmen, in Flack's opinion, was being a stubborn, immature bitch and had told her as much the night before when she went into a rage at yet another Speedle profession of undying love and support left on her cell's voice mail.
Flack sipped a double espresso while Sam nursed a decaf tea and they nibbled on a basket of fresh baked and still warm foccacia bread while waiting for their meal.
"So you know how I've always avoided the whole marriage thing like the plague," Flack said. "But we've never really touched on you."
"I was suppose to marry Zack," Sam reminded him. "And it never happened. And you know why that is."
Flack nodded. "I know he was a crazy, lying, cheating bastard. But I mean, what kind of wedding was it suppose to be?"
"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "It was a wedding. Formal, in a church. An expensive white gown I sold in the end before I came here. Fancy reception, lots of guests. "
"Lots?" he asked. "As in how many? How big was big?"
"Two hundred people."
He coughed on his sip of espresso. "Did you even know that many people?"
"I knew about forty. The rest were people Zack knew from his work and his extended family and guys he went to school and played football with. It was his idea to have a huge thing. It was all about showing off to him. Letting people know what he had and making himself look good. That everyone knew what belonged to him and they better not try and fuck that up."
"Did that include you?"
"I was a possession to him. Something that he could use as much as he wanted and treat as bad as he wanted and than clamp down on when he felt threatened that someone would try and take it. That's all I was. Just a little toy he could dress up and parade around to make himself look and feel good."
"So why did you stay? If things were that bad right from the start why'd you stick around? Lots of guys would have killed to be with you, I'm sure. If he was such a bastard how'd you wind up getting so deep involved with the guy that you came within twenty four hours of marrying him?"
"Lack of self worth, I guess. Someone says bad things for long enough, you start believing them, Donnie. He made me think that there were no other guys in the free world that would even look at me. That I was damn lucky he even bothered with me. I believed him when he said he loved me and wanted to take care of me. Most of all, I believed I was in love with him."
"And were you?"
"I don't know. I guess I was at first. Even when things started going really bad I still believed there was some good in him. That I could change him. I don't know, Donnie. Why are you asking me all of this?"
"I was just curious. I guess I just wanted to hear what is different between then and now."
"A lot is different," she said. "You and Zack are nothing alike. I didn't marry Zack and I'm marrying you. I don't see why we even have to talk about this."
"I was just wondering if maybe you were so against having a big thing with me because maybe it reminded you of Zack."
"No. That's not why I didn't want a big thing with you. I just wanted to marry you and it didn't matter to me if it was just us and the judge and a custodian as a witness or if it was in front of a priest and three hundred people. And maybe on day we can have a big thing. On an anniversary or something. I know how stressful and expensive a big wedding is. And I don't need anymore stress while I'm pregnant. Maybe somewhere down the road we might want huge thing. But right now it's no big deal and I don't know why you're turning it into one."
"I wasn't, Sam. I was just asking you about your past because you asked me about mine when we were walking here. That's it. I wasn't asking you about it to piss you off."
"I'm not…" she fought to control her voice as the waitress brought their meals. Putting on a polite, appreciative smile as the young woman set the heaping plates of pasta and salad down in front of them. "I am not pissed off," she said in a calmer tone as the waitress left. "I just don't like discussing Zack. Especially with you."
"That's fine," he said. "I wasn't asking to upset you. I was just curious. You never talk about what things were like in Arizona that's all."
"Arizona is the past," Sam told him, digging into her vegetarian lasagna. "And that's where I want to keep it."
"Fair enough," he said. "I know it's hard for you, Sam. To talk about things in your past. But I'm here for you. Always. You know that right?"
She nodded and chewed quietly on her lasagna.
Flack decided not to pursue the subject of Arizona or anything remotely related to it any further. Instead, he dug into his plate of chicken parmesan and a Caesar salad and they ate in companionable silence for several long minutes.
"I gotta start studying for that sargeant's exam on the weekend," he said, spearing a piece of romaine with his fork.
"You are such a procrastinator," she teased and winked at him as she popped a piece of bread into her mouth.
"I suck at anything that has to do with school or studying. I was horrible at exams in high school. I'd study like crazy and think I was ready and I'd get in there and just bomb completely. I am dreading this test. Because I want this so bad and I don't want to screw it up."
"I can always help you," she suggested. "Help you study. Tutor you."
A slow, wide grin spread across his face. "Tutor me, huh?"
"Yeah…why? You don't like the idea of me tutoring you?"
"Sure I do," Flack said, chewing on a piece of chicken. "You know what the best part of having you tutor me would be? If you put your hair back in a bun and wore some funky dark framed glasses and wore a tartan skirt that barely covers your ass."
She frowned. "Why is it you have this uncanny ability of twisting something around and making it perverted?"
"Oh I'm sorry," Flack said. "Did I offend you? Your virgin ears? How old are you again?"
"Apparently I look young enough to be your daughter. Or so said that guy on the street a few months back."
He smirked and pointed his fork at her. "You're a smart ass."
She just smiled.
"But come to think of it, I may take you up on that tutoring thing. I have no idea what I'm doing, Sam. And you're the scholar in the relationship and maybe you've got some tricks up your sleeve that will help me out. Like I said. I don't want to screw this up."
She sipped her tea. "I may have two or three things that may help you out."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Flash cards are always good. Write things down on them. Like sections of the penal code and you have to to tell me what number and section and context it's used in. Little pop quizzes for each section you study…"
"Okay…I can handle that."
"A yard stick so when you're a bad boy I can bend you over the table and smack your ass with it," she said casually.
He laughed. "And you call me perverted! You're far worse than I am."
"Girl's gotta have a little fun," she reasoned. "And you've been testing my patience lately and just aching for a punishment."
"I've already apologized over and over again for leaving the seat up three nights in a row," he said.
"There's something I do not find particularly pleasant about finding myself ass first in freezing cold toilet water."
"You don't find anything wrong with finding yourself ass first in…"
She balled up her napkin and tossed it at him. "Keep the comment to yourself, Detective Flack!"
"You know what Sam? Us talking like this? About sex? It's normal. Means we're totally comfortable with it and ourselves. We have healthy attitudes about it. We're open minded. And let's face it, we enjoy it and we're both damn good at it."
"You have been an outstanding teacher," she praised.
"Yeah? Well you're a very loyal and willing disciple."
They both laughed and shared a smile and a long, tender gaze across the table before going back to their meals. The waitress had cleared the table and Sam was enjoying a piece of Tiramisu when Flack's cell phone, tucked into the pocket of his winter coat draped over his chair started to ring.
"I can't say I'm surprised," Flack said with a sigh, and rummaged through his coat pockets.
"I'm surprised you actually managed to sit down with me and eat a proper meal and relax before you were called out," Sam commented. "When's the last time we had lunch or dinner and conversation while you've been working?"
"I don't know…a month? Maybe more?" he snagged his phone and pulled it out and checked the caller ID.
"Dispatch?" Sam asked.
"Mac," he replied and pressed talk. "Yeah..this is Flack…"
Sam watched curiously as he listened quietly for a few minutes before giving a curt nod.
"I'll just take Sam home and I'll right over," Flack said into the phone and hung up.
"Everything okay?" she inquired.
"Mac wants me to come and see him. Something about Mathew Stobbard's parole hearing. He didn't say much, but the tone of his voice….I could tell whatever it is, isn't good."
Sam sighed heavily. "When is it ever?" she mused.
The phone calls weren't working.
He'd left an obscene amount on both her home and cell phone. He'd sent flowers and notes to the lab and he never received a response. He'd spent nearly every waking moment since she'd walked out on him in an alcohol fuelled depression.
Push had come to shove. He wasn't taking any more of her shit and he damn sure wasn't taking no for an answer. He was going to get back what was his even if it broke him in the process.
Which was why, when Sam and Flack made the way down the hall towards their apartment from the elevator, Tim Speedle was on his ass, legs stretched out in front of him, his back leaning against their door.
"Figured it was time for a face to face," Speed said, turning soulful dark eyes up at the two figures who stood above them. "I've called her tons of times, I've sent her notes and flowers. And nothing. I come here and I bang on the door and I plead for her to answer and I pour my heart out and she ignores me! Can you believe that? Why the hell is she doing this to me?"
"Tim honey, " Sam began in a soft, understanding and compassionate voice. "Carmen isn't here."
He looked at the tiny brunette. Perplexed. "What? She's had Thursdays off for the last two months."
"When you asked Mac for some time off, she had to help Danny and Hawkes pick up the extra shifts," Sam explained. "She's not in there ignoring you. She's at work."
"She is?"
Sam nodded. "I wouldn't lie to you, Tim. And how's your eye?"
Speed touched his bruised and swollen eye tenderly. "Your boy has a hell of a left on him," he said, casting a smirk at Flack, who had his hands on his hips as he paced the width of the hall shaking his head, apparently not impressed at finding Speed on his door step.
"Why don't you come inside," Sam said, snatching Flack's keys out of his hand so she could unlock the door. "I can make you something to eat? Some coffee?"
Speed nodded and got up off of the floor. "Coffee sounds good," he said in response. "I'm not that hungry."
"That's the first time a man has said that around here," Sam teased, winking at Flack over her shoulder. "Go ahead, Tim," she said, unlocking the door. "I'll be in in a second."
"Thanks," he said, and let himself into the apartment, the door clicking closed behind him.
Sam turned to Flack and held his keys out to him.
"Think you can hunt Carmen down?" Sam asked, moving to her fiance and laying her hands on his sides.
"I can fit some time into my crazy ass schedule," he replied. "You know, to tear her another asshole."
Sam smiled. "God, I love you," she said.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, than her lips. "I'll call you and let you know how far I get with her," he said. Than handed her the envelope holding their licence and birth certificates.
"Okay," she accepted another kiss, a longer, sweeter one. Than watched as she headed down the hall towards the elevator. "Donnie!?" she called.
He paused before pressing the down button.
"Thank you," she said. "For lunch. It was nice spending some normal time with you."
He smiled and winked at her. "Just think. In nineteen days we'll be married. Nineteen days and about…" he checked his watch. "Eight hours, forty seven minutes and about, I don't know, give or take thirteen seconds."
"You're scary," Sam declared and turned to the door.
"Hey!" Flack called to her.
She glanced down the hall.
"I love you, too, Thumbelina," he said, using the nickname he'd developed for her a few days ago and he knew drove her absolutely nuts.
She smirked and disappeared into the apartment.
"What the hell do you mean we can't use it?"
Flack posed the question to Mac Taylor as he stood, in the middle of the head of the Crime Lab's office, holding the report that Samantha had busted her ass to get finished in his furiously trembling hands. The moment Mac had handed him that file and told him, with a straight face and no emotion in his voice that that report was useless as shit, Flack had felt his temper begin to simmer.
He promised himself that he wasn't going to lose it. Despite the fact he wanted to rip those papers in half and tear Mac a new one, the rational side of him told that if he wanted that promotion, not only did he have to pass that dreaded exam, he also had to show he was graceful under pressure.
"Mathew Stobbard's attorney filed a motion that that report be rule inadmissible. And the parole board reviewed the motion and agreed with him," Mac answered calmly, sitting behind his desk with his legs stretched out and his hands behind his head as if this news was of no great cause for concern.
"Why?" Flack asked. "Sam did everything right. She asked all the right questions and never once stepped over the line. She had Stobbard hook, line and sinker. She didn't do anything during that interview that the defence could call her up on."
"This has nothing to do with the way she handled herself or Stobbard," Mac responded.
"So what does it have to do with, Mac? Because from where I stand, and as the person who was in the room when that interview went down, I can tell you for a hundred percent certainty that this report alone could keep that sonofabitch in Sing-Sing where he belongs."
"The report is not what's in question, Flack. It's the person who wrote it."
"Five seconds ago you told me if had nothing to do with her!" Flack fought to keep control. "Now you're saying it does. So what is it, Mac? Do you even know."
"Conflict of interest," Mac told him.
"Okay," Flack said. "You wanna elaborate on that or am I suppose to guess?"
"The report can't be used because Samantha is a colleague of Carmen's and they have a personal relationship outside of work."
"They're roommates, Mac. Not lesbian lovers."
"And because you and Samantha are getting married and having a child and you were the first officer on the scene."
"Wait a second, Mac," Flack laughed dryly and approached the desk and tossed the report on it. He leaned forward, palms on the desk. "Are you telling me you never told the DA any of that?"
"If I did would I be talking to you about this right now?"
Flack shook his head and put a hand to his forehead as he back away from the desk. Sighing heavily he ran a hand over his face. "We needed to nail, Stobbard, Mac. That report was essential to keeping him in prison. And now you're telling me it's nothing but a piece of shit? You of all people should know that you have to disclose that kind of info to all the parties involved! I just assumed you did! 'Cause had I know you were keeping that back, I would have known we'd get nailed by the defence and I never, ever would have put Sam in the position she was. I trusted you, Mac! To have our backs in this!"
"And I did that, Flack!" Mac argued back. "I made sure the two of you were in the safest place possible!"
"Well isn't that just so gracious of you," Flack snorted, pacing the office. "I put my wife and my unborn child at risk! For the greater good! And now you're sitting here telling me it was all for nothing! Jesus Christ, Mac!"
"I understand you're upset," the older man said.
"Upset? No. I'm not upset. I'm pissed off. Livid. 'Cause if they ruled that report inadmissible, you damn well know the chances are that my testimony will be too. I might not even make it onto the stand."
Mac sighed. "I took a chance, Flack. That the defence and the parole board would overlook the relationships."
"Overlook the relationships!" Flack laughed louder this time. "Those bottom feeders don't overlook it if you pick your ass in a public place. And you expected them to think it was okay that Carmen and Sam are roommates and me and Sam are having a kid and getting married. You've got to be kidding me."
Silence fell between the two men. Flack stood in the middle of the office, one hand massaging his throbbing temples and the other on his right hip, just above his holster. Mac sat forward in his chair with his elbows on his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he watched the young man in front of him.
"So what now, Mac?" Flack asked, breaking the silence. "Where we go from here?"
"Honestly? There's nowhere to go. All we can do is hope that your testimony is allowed."
"Shit," Flack muttered. "As if the month of December isn't stressing me out as it is."
"I screwed up, Don," Mac said quietly. "I took a chance and it backfired. I screwed up. Huge."
Flack just nodded. He wasn't about to come right out and agree with the boss of the crime lab.
"I guess that's as good of an apology as any," the homicide detective said and made for the door.
"Do you want me to call Samantha and tell her?" Mac asked.
"I'll handle it," Flack replied as he opened the door to the office. "I usually am the bad guy when it comes to the relationship."
"Keep your head up, Don," Mac called, as the detective stepped out into the hallway.
Yeah, right, Flack thought.
Despite his arguments that he wasn't hungry, Tim Speedle polished off two plates of Hamburger Helper that Samantha had whipped up for him. It was far from the organic food that he coveted, but he'd been drinking more than eating as of late and his stomach was beginning to rebel against him. He needed a good meal. A few cups of strong coffee and a shower and a shave. And some peaceful, sound sleep. Something his torture mind and soul was refusing him.
Now him and Samantha sat quietly across the kitchen table from each other. He sipped a massive mug of steaming black coffee while she nursed a tumbler of white and chocolate milk mixed together and snacked on cheese and crackers.
"I need your help, Sam," Speed said in a shaky voice.
"I don't know what I can do," she told him honestly.
"Talk to her. Make her call me. Make her see me."
"Both Don and I have talked to her," Sam told him. "We've both laid into her and it's gone in one ear and out the other. It's like talking to a brick wall. She's a tough nut to crack, Tim. I think she's even worse than Don in the stubbornness department most days."
"Talk to her again, Samantha. She's your best friend. She loves you and respects you and will listen to you."
Sam sighed. Knowing she'd already hit a dead end in the attempting to smack some sense into Carmen department. But the way Tim looked at her with those pleading dark eyes and that lost little boy expression…her heart just couldn't take it.
"I'll try," she told him. "I don't know how far I will get but I'll try. It's all I can really do."
"I wouldn't be here begging like this if I wasn't out of all other options," Speed said.
"I have to admit," Sam offered up a small smile. "It does a little something to me to see a grown man beg."
Speed managed a grin. "Well, we all know you're a bit disturbed."
"I prefer insane," Sam joked.
Speed ran his palms along the side of his cup. "I told her. About us."
"There was no us, Tim. There was a moment."
"Does Flack know?"
Sam picked up the tumbler of milk and took a sip. "I told him a long time ago. When we were in couples therapy."
"What was his reaction?"
"Other than him wanting to rip your head off and shit down your throat?" she smirked. "He took it well considering. He trusts me, Tim. Explicitely. And not throwing a fit over me and you being here alone? That's a major step for him. He's trying so hard to be a better person. And so am I."
"Seems to be working," Speed commented. "For both of you."
She nodded. "We have to work really hard to keep it together. But I love him and it's all worth it. I can't imagine my life without him. I mean, it seems as if he's always been in my life. I know that sounds weird but it's how I feel. Today, at the licensing place, he was filling out his section of the papers and I looked at him and I thought for the first time, this man is going to be my husband. We're having a son together. And it was the most surreal feeling I've ever experienced in my life. Sounds corny and soap opera-ish. But that's how I felt."
Speed smiled. "Very few people find what you guys have. We all wish we could but very few do."
"You and Carmen have that," Sam told him. "And you need to do something about it to keep it that way."
He nodded and sighed heavily.
And prayed for some guidance.
Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing! And even to those who are just lurking! I appreciate all of you and look forward to the reviews! So please, drop a line if you like this! Much love, BEG75
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