This story is dedicated to our lovely, wonderfully talented Rosabelle - HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I hope you're having a great day of celebrations! And thank you for being so awesome and writing all of the best things and sharing all of my brainwaves ;).

Note: this not-so-little oneshot takes place a little before season 3 starts, when Rusty isvery close to, but not yet eighteen.

One Long Night

Rusty awoke knowing that something was wrong.

He had no idea what it was. Maybe it was that the light was too bright – had Sharon pulled open the curtains on him again? He wished that she'd close them back up. Or maybe someone could turn off the light...

There was a weird taste in his mouth. When he tried to clear his throat, all that came out was a dry croak.

What…?

And so. damn. bright.

Rusty didn't really want to open his eyes, but he didn't figure that out until they were already open. Everything looked all sorts of fuzzy. Had Sharon painted his bedroom? Wait… why would she do that without telling him? No, this didn't look like his room at all.

Something was wrong.

He didn't know where he was, but something was very, very wrong

His head whipped to the side and a dull ache bloomed behind his temples. A pulsing, heavy ache, strong enough to make him nauseous. But the next moment he forgot all about it, as his dry eyes landed on a familiar shape. He turned instinctively further toward her – Sharon.

She was there, he could see her now, a few feet away to his left; although Rusty's vision was still plenty blurry he could tell that it was Sharon, from the shapes and the colors, from the way her fuzzy form moved. Her voice was in the air around him, too, but so hard to make out the words… What was she saying? Why wasn't she telling him what was wrong?

Suddenly he became terrified that she was going to leave.

He tried to get up, and that was when the unexpected pain shot through him.

His body froze in surprise, then tensed involuntarily, and that only made it hurt more. It was a sharp, spreading pain, that made everything else fade, until all Rusty could think of was how to keep still so it would stop hurting so much. His limbs were hot and cold at the same time, and he could feel his skin brushing against an unfamiliar texture. What was happening? A strangled little whimper rang oddly in his ears...

Sharon? He couldn't get her name out. Sharon – Sharon! He was calling out in his head, but she wasn't coming any closer, and why wasn't she answering? A lump rose in his throat; he didn't want her to leave, she couldn't leave, please, please… The fear made his heart beat louder. Sharon, don't go, please.

Rusty tried to move again toward her, and the pain that had faded to a diffuse discomfort flared up once more. He cried out. His head hurt too, and the shapes around him felt all wrong, and he didn't understand what was going on. Where was Sharon? He thought that he could still make out her silhouette somewhere to the side, and despite the pain he tried again to roll over, because he had to get to her before she left. His stomach hurt so bad. His throat was sore. What was going on…?

Sharon?

His body felt too heavy.

Please don't leave.

"What's happening to him?" Sharon demanded in an agitated voice.

The recovery room nurse gave Rusty another quick glance. "It's okay – he's gonna be a little out of it while he comes out of anesthesia. It's normal, just keep talking to him so he wakes up… Honey, settle down," she put a hand on the boy's shoulder, "stop trying to move, we don't want you to jostle yourself too much… It's normal for him to a be little confused," she assured Sharon.

'A little confused'? Sharon could have throttled the woman. Rusty looked miserable, his eyes fluttering open and shut, and those painful little moans were breaking her heart. She was trying to talk him into calming down but it. wasn't. working! Obviously! There was a tear running down his cheek now, and she was about to start crying, herself.

"He's obviously in distress – "

But the nurse continued to look frustratingly placid. "He's just coming around," she repeated. "Don't worry, he'll be fine in a few minutes… just keep talking to him, okay?"

But it had already been a few minutes, more than that really, and he'd only grown more agitated, and how were these people so incompetent?! With a forcedly long breath, Sharon tried to calm herself, because fine, maybe the medical staff knew what they were talking about – but one more pathetic whimper from her son and she'd be ready to go drag that doctor down here herself, at gunpoint if needed. "Can't you give him something for the pain? Please!"

"He's already on painkillers," the nurse pointed to the IV in his arm, "we can't adjust the dose until he wakes up completely and tells us where the pain is at. Don't worry – the surgery went fine, he'll be okay in just a minute."

Rusty muttered her name again, and she passed a gentle hand through his hair, smoothing it down. More than anything else in the world right now she wished that she could fix this for him. Take the pain away. She'd have switched places with him in an instant if she could have… but all she could do was wait for anesthesia to wear off completely, and hold in her tears at the sight of his scared, lost expression.

It had been around two a.m. the night before when she'd first realized that something was wrong. Something had woken her up – a noise, maybe, or a draft, or maybe it had been that sixth sense that mothers have about their children. She'd blinked a few times and absently listened, in the silence of the condo, for signs of a trouble she didn't yet know.

Everything had seemed quiet at first, but then she'd heard some indistinct noise from the hallway, a door banging, heavy shuffling down the hall – slow, too slow almost, the pace of it a little off even to her drowsy senses. Rusty's door had never creaked shut, she thought. Had he gone to the kitchen? Was he having trouble sleeping?

More muffled rustling, and still no sound from his room. Not the squeak of the door hinges, not the groaning of his bed springs as Rusty launched himself on top of the mattress as he usually did. Was he still in the bathroom? Sharon couldn't see a sliver of light underneath the door. She might've fallen back to sleep – her mind had been half-asleep still, anyway – but there had just been something about the noises, their rhythm all wrong, the absence of familiar sounds, that had left her…uncomfortable.

She'd pushed off the covers and sat up.

The night before…

She opened her bedroom door slowly, quietly, not wanting to startle the boy if he was awake and roaming the house. Her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness; it was hard to see anything in the hallway, but she could hear the sound of his breathing.

That sounded… off, too.

She called his name quietly, "Rusty…?", as his silhouette shifted the shadows. He stood by the bathroom door, one shoulder against the wall, back hunched ever so slightly. Stepping closer, Sharon put a hand on his arm. "What's wrong?"

He cringed a bit, almost trying to scramble away. "Nothing, I'm fine… just… stomach ache." There was pain in his voice, the words punctuated by imperceptible little grunts.

Sharon touched his forehead. "You have a fever." For a second she hesitated, unable to tell which direction he'd been coming from. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

The boy shook his head.

"Okay," she murmured calmly, "let's get you back to bed. I'll bring you some stomach medicine and a tea. Alright? Rusty…?" She could feel his slight resistance when she wanted to lead him down the hall. "What is it? Are you too sick to walk?"

"No…," came his weak denial.

Sharon's lips pressed together, but she tried not to let her worry show too much. "You're probably a little dehydrated… come on, I'll help you get back to your room, don't worry." She tried to get him to lean on her, but they took one step and then he groaned loudly, and his weight suddenly pressed down on her as he doubled over. "Rusty!" He let out another muffled moan. "Okay, okay honey, just sit down – " with shaking hands, Sharon helped him slide down the wall, " – let's give it a minute. Okay…? Better…?"

Shivering slightly, the boy gave a half-nod. "Sorry…"

Her heart pounded in her chest, and suddenly Sharon felt the inexplicable need to yell at him – how had he allowed himself to get to this point without waking her? But she held it in, because yelling wouldn't help now.

"I'm going to get you some water."

She was back in thirty seconds, and as she handed him the glass she touched his forehead again, growing even more worried. His skin burned against her cold palm. "What hurts, Rusty?" Even her quiet words echoed strangely in the stillness of the condo.

He gave her a vague shrug. His hand shook a little as he gripped the glass, and Sharon put her own hand out to steady it; she resisted when he tried to push the glass away. "No, drink that. If you're dehydrated, it's going to help. Just take small sips," she told him, and watched carefully as he did so. "Do you feel like you're going to throw up?"

Another vague shrug, and the unreasonable irritation flared up again inside her. How could he be so …

"Rusty. I need to know what's going on," she pressed on patiently. "Where does it hurt? I know you don't want to talk right now, but you need to tell me so I know how to help you."

His shoulders hunched a little further as he mumbled back, "Stomach…I don't know. I don't feel good, Sharon," he said pleadingly.

"Did you throw up earlier?"

Rusty shook his head.

"Do you have an upset stomach?"

A nod, this time.

Sharon smoothed his hair from his forehead, trying to keep the worry from her face. "I'm going to get the thermometer," she told him quietly, then handed him back the glass. "Have a little more water. Then we'll try to get you to bed again."

He just sat there quietly while she took his temperature, and the unusual lethargy had her even more worried; her concern only grew as she saw the readout.

"Alright." She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "That's a pretty high fever, it's probably why you're feeling so sick. Can you try to stand up again? It'll be a little better once you're in bed. Okay, take it slow," she instructed as he moved to stand up. "Slow, Rusty –"

But he'd barely righted himself and taken one step down the hall, when he let out another cry of pain and doubled over again.

Sharon kept him upright while panic spread through her like wildfire. "Rusty," she breathed soothingly. "What's going on? No – honey, don't sit down again, come on, let's try to make it to your room."

He whimpered as he tried to do what she said, pausing after a couple of steps to take a breath, his face set in a painful grimace. But this time, as they'd moved, she'd noticed something else –

"Does it hurt when you walk?"

The boy nodded.

Her grip on his arm tightened involuntarily. "Rusty, where? Where does it hurt?"

He shivered again. "Leg… stomach…I don't know–"

"Show me."

Rusty's hand wavered uncertainly in the general direction of his abdomen and upper right leg, and Sharon's heart beat faster still.

She forced herself to adopt a calm tone, because she could feel him trembling and see the beginnings of panic in his expression. "Alright. It's just a few more steps," she murmured, changing topics. "We'll go slowly. Small steps."

It seemed to take forever to finally get him into bed, although it was probably less than a minute. She helped him lie down and covered his legs with the comforter, then sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to hurt him.

"Rusty, how long have you been feeling sick?"

He muttered something that sounded like 'I don't know' again, and she felt ready to cry with frustration. "Earlier..." he got out eventually. "Dinner…?"

What? But he'd eaten normally, she'd have noticed if he'd been feeling like this over dinner, wouldn't she…? God, dinner had been what, over eight hours before. He'd been feeling unwell then, and getting consistently sicker, and he hadn't even told her. What if she hadn't woken up…?

She forced those thoughts away to focus on the present.

"Show me again where it hurts."

Rusty moved a shaking hand over his abdomen again; when she tentatively pressed down on the area he yelped in protest and tried to push her hand off.

Sharon swallowed and took her hand away, letting it rest on his knee instead, "Okay. Alright…" She took a deep breath as her mind raced frantically. His phone was on the nightstand, the clock display reading 2:40 a.m.. God. "Rusty. We're going to go to the hospital," she told him in a calm voice, and tried to ignore the way that his eyes widened in panic. "I don't think you're in any condition to get to the car, so I'm going to call an ambulance. I'll be right back, alright?"

"What…? No – Sharon…!" He almost scrambled after her as she stood, and she had to put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He was wincing in pain even as he fidgeted in bed. "No… I – we don't have to – wait – hold on, I'm fine… I don't want a hospital…"

"This isn't up for debate," she cut him off gently. His shaky breath continued to send shivers of dread down her spine. "Honey, you're sick. I think you might have appendicitis." They didn't have time for this, but that frightened expression on his face… "Rusty – everything's going to be fine, but you need to have a doctor look at you, okay? This isn't the end of the world. People get appendicitis all the time," she reassured, and tried not to think of how pale he looked. This really wasn't the time to sit around and argue; she stood up again. "Now stay here, be still, and don't worry. I'll be right back."

"No…?" he tried again.

But she was already out of the room.

It took about fifteen minutes for the ambulance to arrive, during which Sharon changed into jeans and a shirt, and hastily pulled on a black-and-white sweater. She also packed an overnight bag for Rusty with a spare pajama and anything else he might need, because – despite the reassurances that he'd begged for, that maybe he didn't have appendicitis, and she wasn't a doctor, what did she know – she was fairly certain that he was going to be admitted.

She was almost hoping by now that it was just appendicitis, because she'd worked herself into a state of panic. A panic which she tried really hard not to show Rusty – he watched her with eyes the size of saucers, white-faced and fevered – as she kept telling him that it was all going to be just fine, but her own hands had grown cold with fear and she almost had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from starting to chatter.

They were at the hospital within another fifteen - twenty minutes, and the doctors there quickly confirmed that she'd been right. Rusty did have appendicitis; worse, they thought that something might have ruptured in there that wasn't supposed to rupture, and before she could recover Sharon found herself with a pile of consent forms that she needed to sign, and all she could think of was that the last time she'd signed consent forms for him, he'd nearly ended up dead. But there was no stalling or going around it this time, because to hesitate would be to waste his time, and so she put her signature down with a shaky hand and made sure that the doctors all knew that she led the Major Crimes division of the LAPD and carried a gun, because if they damaged so much as a hair on her son's body, she was going to end them.

And then with one last flurry of reassurances – Rusty swore that nothing hurt anymore, but it was too late to turn back, far too late – she smoothed his hair down again and smiled calmly and promised that she'd see him as soon as he was out, and that he wouldn't even be able to tell that any time had passed at all… And then the medical team got him ready for surgery, and Sharon was forced to wait outside, even though all of her just wanted to be in there with him. Or instead of him.

She sank down into one of the rickety plastic chairs in the waiting area, joined her hands in a prayer-like gesture and started making deals with God in her head.

It had been just past four a.m. when they'd taken him into the OR. At seven they hadn't come out yet, and Sharon knew that these things weren't supposed to take three hours. Trying to tell herself to be rational had failed completely somewhere around the two hour mark. This wasn't something that she'd ever really gone through before: with the exception of a couple of ear infections, and many athletic but not life-threatening injuries, her older children had never needed a hospital, let alone an emergency trip in the middle of the night…

She'd waited on, every minute getting longer and scarier, until her heart had felt ready to burst out of her chest with anxiety.

The doctor had finally come to her around seven-fifteen, and she couldn't even remember standing from the chair or walking up to meet him, just that he'd suddenly been right there in front of her saying that everything had gone fine, that Rusty was in recovery...and the first thing that Sharon had been able to think of was good, she wouldn't have to arrest any of them, then.

After which, she'd bullied her way into the post-op recovery area with some nervous snap about material witnesses and special circumstances, and despite rules or policy or whatever, the staff had let her through – which was fortunate for everyone, because if they'd tried to keep her from her child for another second, blood might have been spilled.

And now here she was, and Rusty was taking so long to come out of anesthesia, and all that anxiety that had eased somewhat after speaking to the doctor was swelling in her chest again. He looked so pale, God, it was terrifying. But she kept repeating to herself that he was fine, that it was all fine, that the worst of it was over and he'd soon wake up properly and stop looking so pitiful and be fine, fine, fine.

She didn't know what he was thinking, that was making him so agitated. She squeezed his arm when he squirmed again, and then somehow Rusty jostled himself enough to make it hurt, and his groan of pain mixed with a half-formed mumble of her name. Sharon swallowed hard and touched his cheek and said for the tenth time that everything was okay, that he should open his eyes and look at her, which he was obviously trying to do but it was slow-going, so slow going…

Her phone began to ring. It hadn't even occurred to Sharon to silence it, earlier – in fact, she didn't even remember having taken it with her. She dug it out of her purse just to turn it off, because she didn't care who got murdered at seven-thirty a.m., today she wasn't moving from here if half the city was out on the streets bleeding. Pressing the power button with shaking fingers, she waited until the screen went blank and tossed the phone back into her bag; then she went back to whispering quietly to Rusty, urging him again to open his eyes and look at her, and when he finally did, she was so relieved that her knees felt a little weak.

They moved him out of recovery into an actual room around eight or so, and though Rusty was still pretty out of it, at least he managed to focus on her whenever he opened his eyes, and he seemed a little more aware. He asked her what happened, and when Sharon reminded him that he'd had surgery, he was a little confused again.

"It was your appendix," she explained quietly. "They had to take it out."

"…where?"

She smiled and patted his shoulder and told him to not worry about that now, and to get some rest.

Despite her urging, Rusty still fidgeted more than he should have. He blinked up at her, "'m thirsty."

The nurse had said not to give him any water yet, but she'd left a little bowl of ice chips on the bedside table, so Sharon fed him some of that, and silently worried the whole time that she was giving him too much or too little.

She couldn't even remember the last time that she'd felt this uncertain. Whatever parenting practice she'd thought she'd recovered over the past couple of years, it did nothing at all against the chilling insecurity, when her child wasn't well, that she didn't know the right ways to help. She knew it was an unwarranted worry, now – or at least, the rational part of her knew. But the memory of the frightful past night still lingered. Everything was fine now, she kept repeating to herself – but the anxiety coiled tight in her stomach was slow to disperse.

Rusty fell back to sleep soon afterwards, and Sharon stood watching him for a while, making sure he was breathing okay and that he wasn't fidgeting too much. A few minutes in, she called a nurse over, to double check that everything looked fine and to ask about the ice chips and any others instructions. She didn't appreciate the condescending shoulder pat that she got in return, but when the nurse left, at least Sharon was reassured that for the next hour or so Rusty would be all good.

She pulled the plastic chair in the corner as close to his bed as she could and sank into it with a tired sigh. Her hand reached to move an errant lock of hair from his forehead; in doing so she allowed her fingers to rest for a few moments against his temple. He didn't have a fever anymore. If anything, his skin now felt a little too clammy.

Sharon brushed her hand lightly against the boy's hair again before pulling back. She didn't want to wake him. With a quiet sigh, she shifted in her chair and glanced absently at her watch. It had been about seven hours since she'd first found him in the hallway, but it felt like days in the toll it had taken on her. Lowering her forehead against her clasped hands, she took a few deep breaths, and thanked every power in the universe that he was okay.

She didn't know how long she sat there, but eventually she straightened herself, lifting her head and lowering her hands, letting her searching gaze sweep over Rusty's still form again. He looked a little more relaxed. Far better than when he'd come out of surgery, but still too pale for her liking. Sharon wondered when the doctor would come in and check up on him. The nurse might've told her, earlier, but it was hard to remember...With another sigh, she rubbed her neck and leaned back in the chair, feeling a fevered sort of tiredness seep through her body.

It occurred to her, then, to check her phone; it was nine forty-five, far past her usual time to come into work – and hadn't Lt. Provenza called her earlier, too? Now might be as good a time as any to return the call and tell him that she wouldn't be in that day.

Digging the phone out, she placed her bag on the chair and stood up, walking to the door. She paused right outside the room – just far enough that a quiet conversation wouldn't bother Rusty, but close enough that she still had him in her line of sight.

Provenza picked up on the first ring. "Sharon – where are you?"

She was a little surprised at the alert in his tone, until her brain processed that if they'd tried to reach her earlier and she'd just rejected the first call and then turned off her phone, that might've been some cause for concern.

But she had no energy to explain too much, so she just said, "Rusty had to have his appendix taken out last night," and decided to save the details for some later time. Or never. She didn't want to think about those moments anymore. "Yes, he is now. He's sleeping."

She was a little touched when the lieutenant asked about her as well. She assured him that she was also fine, then gave him the hospital name, and took her eyes off Rusty just long enough to check the room number. Provenza didn't need her to tell him that she wouldn't come in to the office that day. After he gave her and Rusty everyone's best and assured that they'd all try to visit later, they said goodbye, and only after the call had ended did it occur to Sharon that she'd never asked the lieutenant why he'd called earlier. He hadn't told her, either. Whatever it was, the team would be able to take care of it.

Slipping the phone into her pocket, she walked back to the plastic chair and sat down again, and continued to watch Rusty's chest rise and fall.

"Sharon?"

She tilted her head and gave him a warm smile. "Hi, honey."

"…time is it?"

Sharon checker her watch. "Just past four-thirty."

He'd been sleeping on and off for most of the day, waking up only briefly around eleven when the doctor had come to check on him (everything looked good), and again around two, when he'd asked for more water and expressed his surprise that she was wearing an 'inside' sweater outside of the condo, and then he'd promptly gone back to sleep.

Sharon had been content just to watch him sleep, doing not much else. She'd paced the room for a while. Adjusted his blanket about fifty times. Around noon Lt. Provenza had called again to check in and let her know that they'd try to make it over to the hospital sometime soon, but they had a case; she'd absently asked what kind of case and he'd said 'the murder kind' and told her to forget about it – which had worked fine for both of them.

The rest of the time she'd spent sitting by Rusty's bedside. Wondering absently if there was even a shred left of their original guardianship arrangement...or rather, at which point that had turned entirely into her just doing the parenting thing all over again.

As she looked at him now, she found that she didn't really care about when or how it had happened.

"I'm thirsty…?" Rusty said again, sounding not entirely certain. He yawned, and grimaced immediately at whatever painful twinge that must've caused.

The nurse had said that it was okay to give him a little water, now, since it had been almost twelve hours since the surgery, so Sharon poured some into a small plastic cup and helped him with it. She had to remind him not to move too much and to take small sips.

When he finished the cup and looked at her pleadingly for more, she promised more in a few minutes. Rusty nodded, then fidgeted a little on his pillow, still looking somewhere between uncomfortable and fascinated. He studied the canula in his hand, and followed the line up to the IV drip hanging by the bed.

"What's that for, again?"

The glucose solution was because he wasn't allowed to eat for the first twenty-four hours. The doctor had explained to her how the surgery had been a little complicated, and they hadn't been able to do a laparoscopy – and if she really tried, Sharon could remember the details of his explanations, since she'd pretty much memorized every word... but at the moment, all she cared about from that conversation were the doctor's assurances that Rusty would be fine. The details involved something about a couple of days' longer recovery time, and some dietary restrictions for those first few days.

"It's to keep you hydrated," she answered.

Which was true, though not the full truth – but the second that she mentioned the 'no food' bit would be the second that Rusty would start thinking about being hungry. The glucose was supposed to make sure that he wouldn't feel hungry, and she doubted that he'd figure out that his stomach was empty on his own, given everything else that was going on. So there was no reason to point it out to him. She didn't want him needlessly unhappy about the fact that he couldn't eat for a little while.

"Cool." Then he poked at the bandage under the blanket again, and Sharon tried to narrow her eyes at him; but it was nearly impossible to even think about making him the smallest reproach at the moment.

"Leave that," she said patiently for the twelfth time. "You don't want to hurt yourself."

"Am I gonna have a scar?"

"A small one, probably."

He seemed almost excited at the prospect.

"Hey Sharon – did you have your appendix taken out?"

She smiled at him, the simple fact that he was making conversation filling her with joy. She'd already told him about her own appendicitis scare, back before the surgery, when he'd been sick and terrified and she'd tried to reassure him, but she didn't mind in the least telling the story again.

"In my sophomore year of college," she nodded slowly. "It was the week right before spring break, and my friends had decided that we should go sailing for the weekend …"

Now that Rusty was more alert, the thorny problem of the restroom soon arose. After consulting with the nurse and enlisting her help (Rusty had protested, but Sharon wasn't taking any chances), they decided it was okay to help him out of bed and down the ten steps to the little bathroom adjacent to the room.

Sharon had warned him that it would hurt, but the boy's expression when he hurried to sit up too quickly and strained his incision broke her heart. He let out a strangled yelp and immediately tried to double over; the nurse had to repeat her instructions about five times before he finally found a position that hurt less.

"It's not always gonna be like this, right?" He'd looked so panicked that Sharon had felt tears stinging at her eyes all over again.

"No. In a few days it won't hurt like this anymore," she promised. "In a couple of weeks it won't hurt at all."

"That long…?"

She touched a hand to his cheek, and urged him to get off the bed and try to walk over to the bathroom. "It'll get better soon," she encouraged.

It took them a good couple of minutes to shuffle the ten steps over, but they did eventually, and then she found a whole new set of reasons to be panicked while he was inside the restroom. What if he got dizzy or sick, what if he moved wrong and fell down and hurt himself?

But he was fine. After a little while she heard the sink go off, and then she was grateful to see Rusty come back out in one piece, a piece she was more than relieved to tuck right back into bed.

The whole thing hadn't taken fifteen minutes, but it had been enough to wear him out. He dozed off a little while later, after complaining a few more times that it would take forever to get better and couldn't they like, do something about that?

If anything, she was relieved to hear him whining.

By the time lieutenants Provenza and Flynn poked their heads in through the door shortly before seven, Rusty was sleeping again and Sharon herself was just in the process of stifling a yawn. She stood up to greet them, and signaled them to keep their voices down; after the two lieutenants had also assured themselves that the boy was indeed more or less intact, and not looking half-dead, they all took a few steps away from the bed so they could have a hushed conversation.

"How's he doing?" asked Andy.

"He's okay." Even just saying it out loud made her heart lighter. "He'll be fine. Walking hurts… it'll get better."

"So what happened?" The lieutenant looked appropriately alarmed.

Sharon recounted a brief version of the story, relaying only the main facts and leaving out the terror that she'd gone through – although, judging by Provenza's uncharacteristically warm expression, he might've read that part between the lines.

"Did they say when they'll let him out?"

"Day after tomorrow, probably. Maybe the day after that. The doctor will be back tomorrow morning and give me another estimate."

She wasn't entirely sure why the two lieutenants exchanged a glance, though they seemed to understand each other just fine.

"We left Sanchez and Sykes wrapping up some details for tomorrow," said Provenza, "but they should be able to drop by soon, too."

"So you know," Andy picked up, "if you need to go home, grab some things or anything – we've got this."

Sharon smiled. "I packed a change of clothes when we left the condo last night. Thank you."

They exchanged another glance.

"What Flynn's trying to say is, if you want to go shower, or catch a nap, we can look after Rusty for a couple of hours."

"Or more," Andy offered quickly. "We've got nowhere to be."

Sharon shook her head. It was nice of them to offer, but…

"Go on," Flynn insisted. "You've been here all day. We can keep an eye on the kid."

"I realize that we might not have the best track record with these things," Provenza added wryly, "but I promise you Captain, at the very least he'll still be here when you get back."

"You're leaving…?"

Rusty's panicked voice reached them, and Sharon spared the two men a fleeting but meaningful glance, before taking a couple of steps back over toward his bed.

"The lieutenants are," she explained smoothly. "They just dropped by to say hello and see how you were doing."

He glanced at the two men for about half a second before fixing his anxious gaze right back on her.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sharon assured him. And only then did the boy look back to the lieutenants.

"I'm afraid we're not invited to this slumber party," said Provenza.

Rusty craned his neck. "Buzz didn't come?" He tried not to sound too disappointed.

"Buzz," came a familiar voice from the doorway, "was parking the car." The civilian stepped into the room, sparing Flynn and Provenza an accusing glare. "And observing the norms of polite conduct," he added dryly, as he walked over to the bed.

Rusty smirked. "You brought me a balloon?"

"I'm sorry, did you prefer the teddy bear?"

The boy snickered. "Balloon's good, thanks." In all honesty, his smirk looked less wry and more happy.

"At least yours says 'Get Well Soon'," said Andy. "When I was in your place, he," (a nod to Provenza) "got me one that said… what did it say, 'Congratulations, It's a Boy?'"

"Actually, I'm pretty sure it was 'It's a Girl'," Buzz put in.

"Usually is, with Flynn," noted Provenza, and his partner rolled his eyes and grumbled:

"Yeah, meanwhile, I'm not the one who was married five times…"

"Wait, when you were in my place? So like, you got your appendix taken out, too?" Rusty asked.

A brief silence followed his question.

Finally Flynn nodded, "Sort of. Some guy tried to take it out with a butcher knife on a street corner."

"Lieutenant."

Andy cleared his throat. This was an inappropriate story...? "Oh – uh…"

"See, that's why you should always get good insurance," Provenza advised Rusty in a wise tone. "Much better procedures."

After another few minutes of conversation, Sharon began to notice that Rusty's eyelids were drooping slightly, and he'd grown a little pale again. She gave the lieutenants a pointed look and a restrained smile, and it wasn't long before they took the hint and segued into taking their leave.

Rusty of course was disappointed to see them go, even though he'd yawned four times in the last two minutes.

"Everyone will be back to say hello tomorrow," Sharon assured him as she got up from the chair. Seeing her stand, Rusty immediately began to look alarmed. "I'm just going to walk the lieutenants and Buzz out. I'll be right back."

Flynn and Provenza exchanged another look.

With one last long round of goodbyes and get-betters, after Andy promised some sort of balloon for the next day and Buzz relented to maybe telling how he'd once had to have minor surgery after his sister had tried to staple his fingers together because he'd mocked her ninja costume, they all finally headed out.

At the door, Sharon had to ask Provenza about the case that they'd caught.

"As far as you're concerned, it's over," he told her plainly. "Oh – here…" He pulled a couple of folded papers from the pocket of his jacket. "We got Sykes to fill these out, you just have to sign them and you're officially on emergency personal leave for the next forty-eight hours."

A small smile fluttered across her lips. "Thank you," she said quietly, and taking the pen that Buzz had offered, scribbled her signature at the bottom of two pages.

"We'll file these tomorrow," said Flynn, and Sharon nodded her gratitude again.

"Captain," Buzz frowned, and glanced back over to Rusty's bed, "If you need someone to stay with Rusty for a while, I can stick around…"

Having missed the earlier exchange, he didn't know that they'd been over that already.

Sharon appreciated the offer, and the thought behind it. And yes, Rusty was a little better now, and he'd be fine with Buzz or the lieutenants – or even on his own, for a while, certainly he was old enough. Plus, really, it would be night soon, and he'd probably be asleep and not know whether she was there or not, anyway… but…

"That's alright Buzz, thank you. I'll stay for a while longer."

"Did you at least get to eat something?" sighed Andy. "Actually – the cafeteria's gonna close soon, we can run down and grab you some food, bring it back…"

Sharon smiled at him again but waved off that offer, too; honestly, she wasn't feeling all that hungry yet. Particularly not for hospital food. "There's a sandwich machine just down the hall. I can get something from there in a little while."

Provenza rolled his eyes. The day that Sharon Raydor ate a sandwich from a vending machine would be the day that the apocalypse finally happened. But they couldn't force feed her, either; instead, he made a mental note to stop by the next morning with some sort of breakfast that she'd actually eat. Although who even knew what the woman ate for breakfast? Little children?

The lieutenant sighed: his heart wasn't nearly as into that little jab as it could've been.

Sometimes he missed the old days.

Something else occurred to him as the three of them were walking toward the elevator. "Buzz," he instructed the younger man, "you go on ahead. Flynn and I are gonna make a little detour before we leave."

"We are?" His partner's eyebrows rose.

"Come on," said Provenza.

There had to be at least one comfortable armchair in a lounge or waiting area in that hospital, right? And if there was, the LAPD was going to requisition it for the night.

And if there wasn't... well then Buzz was possibly gonna have to take an Ikea trip.

As soon as she stepped back into his room, Sharon noticed Rusty's uncomfortable wincing; she walked over to the bed, putting a hand on his knee over the blanket. "Are you hurting?"

He looked like he couldn't entirely decide. "No…? I don't know… like, not if I don't move…"

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Try to stay still."

But it was like asking him to try to fly. The boy fidgeted a little more, then his face scrunched up in a half-yawn. "It was nice of Buzz and the lieutenants to come, right…?"

Sharon nodded, "Everyone was very concerned when they heard what happened."

He'd asked the question in a casual tone, but he couldn't hide his content expression at her confirmation. Sharon hoped that one day, he might stop looking so surprised to hear that people worried about him.

She sat down again. For a few moments, Rusty looked away, absently reaching a hand to play with the string of the balloon that she'd tied to the drawer handle of his bedside table; then his thoughts visibly switched tracks:

"Oh – hey, do you know where my phone is?"

Sharon paused. "At home, I think." She wasn't sure; that really hadn't been her first priority in those panic-filled minutes when she'd packed the overnight bag for the hospital. "If you'd like to talk to your friends, you can use mine for a couple of minutes."

She'd started to reach for the purse on the back of the chair, but Rusty just shrugged and mumbled, "'s okay," and gave another half-stifled yawn. He shifted and winced again, and with some confusion complained, "I don't get why I'm so tired...!"

She gave him a sympathetic look as she explained, "Any surgery – even something as routine as having your appendix removed – is still a physical trauma. Your body is going to need a little time to recover from it."

"But like… I'll go back to normal, right? You're sure." He tried to sound flippant, but she could see a trace of real worry in his eyes. With another gentle pat on his knee, she nodded:

"I'm sure. Just give it a couple of weeks."

Rusty was visibly disappointed to hear how long it would take, but he didn't say anything else. Instead he shifted yet again, tentatively rotating his torso about ten degrees before giving up with a sigh. "What time is it?"

"Eight." Though it felt like much later.

It had been a very, very long eighteen hours.

Rusty looked tired and a little pale still, and Sharon imagined that she didn't make a much better sight, herself. Unless the doctor decided to release Rusty tomorrow, which was unlikely, she'd have to take Buzz up on his offer to take over for a few hours, after all…

She sighed as the boy yawned again, and gently tugged his blanket a little higher. "Try to go to sleep if you're tired," she said softly. "You'll feel better tomorrow morning."

But he didn't seem inclined to listen. He fiddled with the edges of the thin blanket for a few seconds, then looked around the small room, glancing from the door to the window, and back to her. A small crease deepened between his eyebrows. He blinked a few times, slowly, then surveyed the room again and fidgeted some more.

"Do you have a case…? I thought I heard you and the lieutenants talking, before they left," he explained at her somewhat confused expression.

"Ah." Sharon did feel a little surprised at his out of the blue question, but she confirmed, "There's a case, yes. Lt. Provenza is taking the lead for now."

"Oh…" Somehow, Rusty didn't seem entirely satisfied by the answer, though she couldn't tell why. But his slight frown had remained in place. Maybe it was from the pain?

"If you're uncomfortable, we can ask a nurse for some mild painkillers," she reminded him. "The pain shouldn't keep you from being able to rest."

The boy pondered for a few seconds, before shaking his head. "No, it doesn't hurt that much. Uhm…" Another glance around the room.

"What's on your mind, then…?"

But Rusty just grimaced again, "Nothing. Uh – so do you know, like, how long I have to stay here…?"

Oh God, was it possible that he was getting restless already? It had been barely half a day since his surgery… "Probably another day, maybe two. The doctor will tell us when he checks on you again tomorrow morning."

"Oh." His eyes wandered aimlessly around the room for the third time, and then he rested them on her again, still blinking slowly…

"Rusty," Sharon leaned forward, and quietly repeated, "go to sleep if you're tired."

"'m not tired," he mumbled through another yawn, then paused at the look she was giving him. With a dejected sigh, he gave up, and, shifting under the blanket, let his eyes close for a few seconds. "Sharon…" He opened his eyes again to look at her. "Can you tell me, before you leave?"

What…?

She must've looked disconcerted again, because Rusty swallowed and continued to fix her with an awkward, half-pleading stare. "Yeah, uh – do you mind waking me up to tell me when you leave…? Just so I like, know…? I mean, I'd rather not wa –"

"Rusty, I'm not going anywhere," she clarified before he could begin to explain himself further – and then it was the boy's turn to look confused:

"What…?"

"I'll be here until tomorrow morning," said Sharon matter-of-factly. "So there's going to be no need to wake you up. Now, go to sleep."

"But –" He paused, and frowned. "Sharon…" He looked so obviously torn. "You should go home," he mumbled half-heartedly after a few moments. "I don't…like, where are you gonna sleep?" He glanced around the room, as if hopeful that some answer would present itself.

She leaned back against the chair, her lips curling faintly in a hint of a smile. "You should concern yourself more with your sleeping situation, young man," she informed him, "and less with mine."

But Rusty wasn't feeling particularly humorous. He gave her that long, searching look that he had sometimes, the one that tried to say a lot of things without words. "You should go home, Sharon," he repeated earnestly. "I don't want you to have to stay here because of me."

Sharon sighed. He looked so tired that she didn't even want to continue the debate. "Alright," she said instead. "How about this: I'll stay a little longer, for now," she offered, "and you try to get some rest. Later on, if I consider that I should go home," she dipped her head in a conceding manner, "then I will wake you up and let you know. Deal?"

Rusty paused, thinking over her words, and then he pulled a displeased face, "Sharon –"

She placed a hand on his arm in a gentle command, " That's enough, honey. Go to sleep."

"But –" He fell silent as her fingers lightly squeezed his arm.

Sharon adjusted his blanket again, and glanced up at his IV drip in an instinctive check. As far as she could tell, everything looked fine.

Rusty was still watching her with a somewhat conflicted gaze, but at least he wasn't arguing anymore, and he lifted his head and arms and let her tug and fluff and hover without protest, as she tried to get everything just in the right position for him. It took a few moments until she was satisfied that he looked about as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and then she met his eyes again and smiled warmly.

"I'm thirsty," Rusty informed her.

And despite how exhausted she was, Sharon couldn't help a muffled snort.

Through efforts of some magnitude, I managed to keep this under 10k words. Victory! (I do apologize for the length, still. I'm sorry I'm incapable of actually writing normal-sized oneshots.)

Happy birthday again Rosabelle :)!