Notes: I claimed the prompt "coping with the sudden death of Sharon Beck" for the closerficfest and had a rough draft written when I realized it needed to be longer than 4000 words. But since I took so long to figure that out I'm late posting it (or, I swear I didn't set out to write the worst Mother's Day story of all time), so I'm going to post it in installments instead. There are five parts, the remaining four of which I'm still editing, and possibly a companion story later. Thanks as always to SChimes for listening to my endless whining and more importantly for helping me with the title.

Holding On and Letting Go

Part I: September

On what should have been Sharon Beck's twenty-second day as a free woman, Sharon Raydor arrived home just before midnight. She slipped out of her shoes in the hallway and let herself into the condo as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake Rusty if he was asleep. That was something he'd had so little of the past few weeks.

Sleep was the least of things that seeing his mother in a coffin had robbed from him.

She saw no light coming from beneath the door at the far end of the bedroom hall and tried her best to tiptoe across the floor. It was difficult with her feet as sore as they were, but she managed. Just outside his door, Sharon stopped. She curled her fingers around the heels of her shoes and let her weight shift from foot to foot as she stood there, staring long and hard at the closed door. Even if he were awake, as she suspected, she knew that he wouldn't let her in. It was easier to come home to the silence than it was to hear almost-muffled sobs and not be allowed to comfort him.

With one last look at the door, she went to her own room and slipped into bed.

Despite her late night, she rose early.

Sharon clipped up her hair, wrapped herself in her softest robe, and went barefoot to the kitchen. She wanted to catch Rusty before he left in the morning, and she knew Rusty wanted to leave before she could catch him.

She didn't want to wake him, either, if he'd finally fallen asleep, and she was as quiet as she could be as she opened the cabinets for some bowls. A moment later, she set down the measuring cups and went looking for a recipe. They ate pancakes often enough on the weekend, but she hadn't made waffles since Rusty's last birthday.

She paused with the cookbook in her hands, remembering suddenly how Rusty had once offered to make her breakfast every morning, not because he'd really wanted to but because he'd thought it was necessary to make himself useful if he wanted her to keep him.

Dead or not, there were moments when Sharon found herself thinking of Rusty's other mother and just wanted to...

She had no idea what.

Still, there was no relief in her death, and certainly no joy. When she saw Rusty, it hurt her to look at him and see the pain he hid just below the surface. He'd had his mother back just long enough to get used to her, and Sharon Beck had done better than anyone had expected she would in jail. She'd maintained her sobriety. She'd behaved herself. She'd been making plans for what to do with her life afterwards.

If Rusty had had doubts, he'd also had hope. And there had been doubts, many of them. As much as he'd wanted to believe that this time would be different, he hadn't forgotten what had happened with rehab the summer before, his mother relapsing into her old habits as soon as she was free.

Sharon had shared his concerns.

Both of them had been worried about drugs.

Sharon Beck suffering a heart attack at thirty-six days before her release date wasn't a scenario that Sharon had lost any sleep over.

The only comfort the autopsy had offered was that she'd been clean and sober, but it was the drug use that had weakened her heart.

Still, she thought it meant something to Rusty, for all that he hadn't mentioned her since the funeral.

He hadn't said much of anything since the funeral.

It wasn't quite seven when his door opened.

Intent on sneaking out, he did it quietly, but years of being a cop and being a mother told Sharon the moment to pop her head out of the kitchen and catch him just as he reached the end of the hallway.

Rusty froze when he saw her.

"Hey," she said quietly.

He gave her his best deer in the headlights look. The fingers of one hand clenched around the strap of his backpack. In his other hand were his shoes.

"Uh... hey." He made another cautious shuffle towards the door. "You're up early."

There was an accusation there somewhere.

"So are you." She kept her tone neutral, but smiling at him was a reflex. "You heading out?"

"Yeah," he said eagerly, shooting another desperate look at the door. "On my way to the library. I've got a lot of homework to do."

"You'll do it better if you eat first," she said. "There's more than enough for both of us."

Trapped, Rusty shifted from foot to foot. "I know what you're doing," he said at last.

"All right," she said. Rusty liked to avoid for as long as possible any conversation he thought might be uncomfortable, but they couldn't tiptoe around each other forever. "Hear me out."

He braced himself visibly, his fingers tightening around the strap, but he stayed where he was. She thought he was holding his breath.

"If spending time with me right now is difficult, I understand that." She searched his face, and watched him clench his jaw. "If you're worried I'm going to ask about your mom... there have always been things I don't ask you about."

Rusty exhaled, his shoulders slumping as he looked away. "I'm not ready to talk about it yet."

"I know," she promised him. She trusted that he was in good hands with Dr. Joe. "And I understand. We don't have to talk about anything."

Rusty hesitated. "What'd you make?"

"Waffles," she said. "With chocolate chips."

Another long silence followed. It was Sharon's turn to hold her breath, hoping that he would sit down even as she resigned herself to the possibility that he would continue on his way out the door.

"I guess I could eat," he said finally, and she smiled at him in relief.

"Come on," she said. "Grab a plate."

He leaned over the back of the couch as he passed it, sliding his backpack off and setting it gently on the cushions. He dropped his shoes next to the couch, and continued into the kitchen. She'd stacked the waffles on a wire rack to cool.

"The ones on your right are warmest," she told him.

He took three.

Feeling as though she'd just won a very great victory, Sharon took two for herself. She heard Rusty rifling through the refrigerator as she fixed up her own plate and unplugged the waffle iron, but she was sitting beside him at the table before she realized that he'd grabbed the chocolate syrup instead of maple, and a jar of peanut butter to go with it.

"Just so you know," he said, "I wasn't lying about the homework."

"I know," she assured him. "I remember your booklist. Your classes are going all right, then? Not too much?"

"No," he said. "It's... I made a schedule. It helps."

She didn't know why that made his fingers tighten around a knife, or why there was suddenly naked pain on his face. The smallest things sometimes were reminders of grief.

"But, um—" He cleared his throat, and she watched him swallow several times in quick succession. "They're good. Mostly. I only missed one question on my history quiz, and I'm almost done with my English essay."

He frowned as he smoothed peanut butter across each waffle, and Sharon raised an eyebrow, uncertain if he was still thinking about whatever had upset him or if argumentative writing wasn't quite as interesting as he'd hoped it would be.

"We didn't get to pick our topics," he explained, reaching for the syrup next.

"And you don't like yours?"

He shrugged as he began pouring the chocolate syrup in the center of the waffle, spiraling out from there. When he was satisfied, he stacked a second on top and repeated the process.

Sharon watched him, amused by his precision, even as she couldn't help thinking that these five minutes were the most she'd spent with him in weeks. She'd missed him.

Rusty put the top layer onto his waffle tower and gave the bottle a hard squeeze, sending chocolate flooding across the surface and down the sides. "You want some?" he asked, righting the bottle as he offered it to her.

"I'm fine, thank you."

Rusty didn't say anything else as he picked up his fork, but he didn't rush through the meal in a hurry to get out the door, either. Content to eat in silence, Sharon didn't ask him to talk. This was enough right here.

When he was finished, Rusty took his empty plate with him to the kitchen and returned with two more. "These are really good," he said quietly, almost meeting her eyes. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said. "If you want more later, they'll be in the freezer."

He nodded, and tried to read her watch upside down.

"It's seven fifteen," she said. "I don't want to keep you if you need to be somewhere."

Rusty gave her a guilt-stricken look and stopped chewing.

"The library doesn't open until eleven," he admitted, lowering his eyes. "I was going to go to—uh, somewhere else first."

His lip quivered as he said it. Sharon was filled with the memory of what he'd looked like staring down at his mother's grave, stray tears he couldn't hold back leaking out and sliding silently down his cheeks. She'd stood with her hand on his shoulder for all of it, but he'd been feeling pain beyond comfort then.

She'd wished then, as she wished now, that there was more that she could do for him.

"Oh," she said, and tapped his arm. "Did I tell you Lieutenant Tao accidentally let slip what's happening on the next episode of Badge of Justice?"

"Wait." Rusty looked up, abandoning his fascination with his empty place. "You know?"

"I do." Sharon smiled at him. "Of course, I'd understand if you'd rather be surprised."

"Sharon."

"All right," she said. "Who's Patrick Grimes?"

"Wait, he's back?" Rusty's eyes brightened, and she saw real enthusiasm for the first time. "He's this, like, really twisted and maniacal serial killer they've been trying to catch since forever, and they almost had him last season but then as soon as they left him in his cell, he set off a bomb and everyone thought he'd committed suicide but really he just escaped to Mexico, and—" She watched him become aware of his own excitement and abruptly deflate, his hands balling themselves up into fists before he hid them in his lap. "And... yeah, that's it."

The flat tone made her heart ache. "Wait," she said, hoping he just needed a little nudge. "They put him into a holding cell but let him keep his explosives?"

He shrugged. "Lieutenant Tao said that sometimes you guys will forget to search people."

"From time to time, it happens," she admitted. "But a bomb, really?"

"It's not that complicated, Sharon." Whatever was left of his good mood faded fast, and Rusty fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. "Look, it was really nice of you to make breakfast, but I have to—I should probably..."

"I understand," she said, covering his fingers with hers when he grabbed his plate. She felt him flinch at the contact, and she withdrew her hand. "No, it's all right. I'll clean up."

"Thanks," he said quietly. "Will you be here tonight?"

She wasn't sure if he was asking because he wanted to see her or because he didn't. "I'm going out for a bit," she said. "Chief Johnson's in town from DC. I'm meeting her for a quick dinner." She assumed it would be quick. Brenda never liked to socialize. "I should be back before eight."

Rusty nodded. "Thanks again for..." He gestured at the table.

"You're welcome," she said again. "Have a good day, all right?"

"'Sure," he said darkly, pausing only to grab his things on the way out the door. He didn't stop to put his shoes on, either, and carried them out into the hall with him.

Sharon let out a long sigh as the door closed after him.