Howdy!

Well, what'll it be Michael? Regular or Extra Crispy? - T. I don't think I have to reiterate that anymore.

He bit one of my kids, he got hit on the head, so what?- Sam and Noah for best father/son. It should be real.

Sam Gerard walked up to his room. The day had gone by quickly, and the five... No... six beers that he'd drank earlier that day weren't the best ideas in the whole world, in retrospect.

He laid down on his bed, not bothering to take his shoes off. It felt good to lay down safe. Not in a grain hopper with a gun pointed at his head. Yes, it was nice to lay down in his own, safe bed and forget about tomorrow. Admittedly, Deputy Marshal Sam Gerard loved Friday free-days.

Gerard looked up at the fan that hung... Somewhat precariously from the ceiling. It needed some tender loving care and a screwdriver. Mostly a screwdriver. Sam didn't know why he kept coming back to this place. He spent more time at the office. But he guessed that it was nice to have a place to call home. If this rickety old shack of a house could be called home.

Sam sat up on the bed. He remembered when he had first moved into this house. He was a brand-spanking-new Deputy Marshal of only twenty five with a wife (Catherine Walsh, no less) and overly high hopes to start a family. But then things changed. The miscarriage. Twice. The discovery that they would never be able to have children of their own. The death of his parents and hers. The separation... more of a divorce, really- Sam hadn't wanted to finish things outright, that is, permanently... but Catherine changed her name back, so what could he say? And all of it within five years. By the time Sam became team leader at thirty-four, no one even knew about his past.

Sam stood up and walked to the sink in the bathroom. He splashed some cold water on his face. He liked that no one knew. Curious people led to sappy relationships (was 'relationship' even a word for him anymore?), and being a Deputy Marshal meant that Sam had absolutely no time for things like that. Sam had promised himself after the separation that he would never care about anyone ever again.

A tear tried to squeeze out of his eye. He stopped it before it could escape. Now that Sam had tried to care about his team, his world was threatening to turn itself upside down again.

He walked down to get himself a glass of warm milk. It was almost 2 a.m., probably past time he ought to go to bed. He planted his foot on an exceptionally squeaky stair- the fifth one from the bottom. Sam never understood why he hadn't sold this place in favor of a nice apartment. He pulled out the half- gallon jug and a glass. Maybe it was the memories. The good and the bad, but still memories. But then, why couldn't his memories have been better? All of his memories in this house seemed to be... Disheartening. And another sour memory was added to the bunch today.

The microwave chirped what should have been an illegally cheerful note to tell him the milk was finished. He pulled out the warmed milk. Milk.

Sam stared at the milk for a long time. He hated himself right now. Newman and... The contents of his glass at this very moment. Noah always said that he had a distaste for alcohol. That was the source of all of the jests and the teasing. On occasion- on very select occasion- Noah might have a beer to celebrate, but he liked a nice coke much better for less formal.

To Sam's understanding, harder drinks were out of the question. And everybody knew, especially after that first dreadful Christmas party at Biggs' place, no one living or dead could ever get Noah drunk. Ever. Sam had laughed when Noah drank Biggs under the table for two hundred dollars offered by Cosmo, and lived to tell the tale. The kid had a surprisingly high alcohol tolerance- especially for a non-drinker. But Noah didn't want to test the limit. Cosmo made a few cracks at it, saying that if Noah ever did get into alcohol, he could probably out-drink everyone in the building, and still be sober afterwards.

Sam knew the real reason behind Noah's preference. Noah confided in him- a great honor by anyone's standard- once after a party, when Noah was driving both of them home. Sam remembered Noah telling him. He didn't recall much (that was a long time ago, after all) , but he remembered Noah saying that he didn't really like alcohol, and never wanted to be drunk because of what happened to his father.

Sam had never pressed Noah for more. One thing was for sure, though- an alcoholic father, and Noah had landed himself in a foster home? The kid had a speckled past.

Cosmo Renfro. Bobby Biggs. Savannah Cooper. The names of the team circled around in his Mind's Eye in the present. He really did care about them. And maybe that was his mistake. Don't forget Noah Newman. Don't forget him. Sam sighed. He guessed that it was time to say goodbye to Noah. It would have to get done one of these days.

Who was he kidding? Noah had been gone for a whole four days. It was way past time to say goodbye. Even the higher-ups agreed.

Noah's replacement was coming in less than a week. Some hot-off-the-press rookie named Ezra McCouliff who was lucky enough to land in Sam's team. Sam remembered reading the file earlier that morning before the press deal with Sheridan. The kid had impressive credentials for being so inexperienced. He was an expert tracker, a by-the-book officer with just a touch of maverick towards superiors, and (according to the file) seemed to enjoy scaling (or attempting to scale) any and every vertical surface that he came into contact with.

Sam remembered hurling the file, picture and all, against the far wall. He didn't want to read who would supposedly replace Noah. Because no one would ever replace that boy in their hearts. No matter how hard this new kid Ezra tried, he just would never fill Noah's shoes. Ever.

Sam blinked to clear his head. So it was official, Sam decided. He would call... the hospital's morgue tomorrow, and try to start letting things go back to somewhat normal. Normal. Ha.

He reached into his pocket. He had swiped the picture of Ezra off of the file earlier that morning. The new kid looked almost a polar opposite of Noah. Noah's eyes were very wide, almost round, while this new boy Ezra had eyes that seemed very angular. Noah had somewhat of a rounded, thin face that came down to a point. Ezra had a broad, cleft chin and a stockier face. While Noah had brown curls, Ezra had very light hair, almost a beige. And contrary to Noah's signature ponytail, Ezra's thick, shaggy hair was cut down to ear length. Sam stuffed the photo back in his pocket. He didn't want to think about how different Noah and Ezra were. He didn't want to think about how experienced or inexperienced this new Deputy Marshal was. Neither appearance nor skill would be able to replace Noah for anyone on the team. Ever.

Sam took a sip of his warmed milk, which was only slightly warm by now. He shook his head.

The next sound Sam heard was the glass shattering against the side of the sink. He cursed when he slammed his hand down on the counter and received a sharp piece of glass to the hand. A tear slid down his cheek. Deputy Marshal Sam Gerard hated milk.

Hi.

So, I have this story and another chapter story, and I'm struggling to maintain both at a readable status without running myself ragged. I will probably alternate with publishing, so if you don't see a chapter on this one for awhile, assume that I'm working on my other project, and will try to get back here ASACWA (as soon as creativity will allow)

So... If you're wondering who to think of when dealing with Ezra, think about... Hmmm. Well, the closest I could get would probably be a run for my money on Aaron Eckhart. So maybe that would help. But taller and thinner. Much taller.

Don't worry, things will only get worse from here. *grins*

Please excuse grammatical and... Time Period errors.

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