"Amy?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"Can you help me set the table?"

"Sure." Amy rose from her seat on the sofa and slipped into the kitchen to help her mother. Lydia Sykes and Amy's younger sister, Jordan, were busy cooking Christmas dinner. Almost everything was done, Lydia was just putting things on serving dishes, and Jordan was fixing salad. Amy hadn't done much of the cooking.

Christmas was usually Amy's favorite holiday, but this year, she had a lot on her mind. She had just finished her military service, a tour in Kabul, and was feeling somewhat lost without a distinct objective to accomplish. Her family had picked her up from the airport, brought her home, and coddled her for the past two weeks. She liked being able to sleep in on Saturdays, liked playing with her nieces and nephews, liked the security of her own home, but there was still something missing.

"How many settings?" she asked.

"Sixteen," her mother replied. "Five at the children's table and twelve at the regular table. Everyone's coming over."

Sweet Jesus, Amy thought. Her sister's kids, her brothers' three, their spouses, a great-aunt, and an assortment of aunts and uncles. "Sure."

"What's on your mind, baby?" Lydia was still stirring something over the stove, and Amy couldn't see her face. Jordan picked up a tray of crackers and cheese and ducked back out to the living room.

"Just a few things," Amy replied vaguely. "Gold or rose china?"

"Let's use the gold."

Amy took the appropriate dishes out of a cabinet and began setting the table. The sounds of Michael Bublé drifted in faintly from the other room.

"I can always tell when you're thinking about something, Bunny." The use of her old pet name startled Amy. She hadn't heard the term in ages. "Tell me what it is."

Amy considered her options for a moment. She could tell her mother she wasn't thinking of anything important, or she could just tell the truth. The truth is always the best option, and she'd figure it out anyway. She opened her mouth and let the frank words spill out. "I need something to do, Mom. I mean, it's great that you've been so good about letting me stay here and do nothing, but I can't stay here forever. I just can't figure out what I want to do. Everything seems so. . ." She trailed off, at a rare loos for words. "So mundane! I felt like I was doing important work, and everything here just seems so mundane."

Lydia turned and raised her eyebrows. "That's not the Amy Sykes I know."

Amy sighed as she slid napkins under the forks. "I don't even know where to start, honestly."

Lydia began moving steamed carrots from the pan to a serving dish. As she finished, Amy took the dish and set it on the table. They continued in that fashion until everything was on the dining table.

"I'll go get everyone." Amy moved towards the living room, but her mother pulled her back.

"Amy,  I think I know just the job for you," Lydia said, eyes sparkling.

"What?" Amy looked at her curiously.

"Go call everyone in for dinner, and then ask Mickey what he wants to be when he grows up."

Mickey was Amy's youngest nephew, only four years old. He was due to start kindergarten the following year, and was looking forward to it, from what she'd heard. He and his parents had arrived late, so Amy hadn't seen the boy yet. She nodded, then walked out to the living room.

"Dinner's ready, guys!" she called over the general noise. The hubbub subsided somewhat, and everyone swirled into the dining room to take their places. Amy hung back, and side-stepped to the kids' table. "Hey, Mickey-"

"AUNT AMY!" He hugged her legs tightly, and she smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Hey, bud." She knelt down. "Gramma had a question she wanted me to ask you."

"Yeah?"

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I wanna be a please offer."

She paused. "Police officer?"

"Yeah!"

She pushed him gently towards his chair. "Thanks, Mick. Go eat your dinner, I think Sammy's waiting for you." She stood and found the last open chair at the table, next to her mother. Her father blessed the meal, and they dug in.

Lydia passed a bowl of salad down the table and turned to Amy. "So? What do you think?"

"A police officer?"

"It's not mundane. It sounds like you. And God knows, the L.A.P.D.  is always hiring people."

Amy looked down at her plate and took a sip of water. Lydia was right, policing was a lot like her last job. Maybe too much. She wasn't sure she wanted to be right back in that kind of field so soon. But at the same time, it was what she'd been looking for. "Maybe."

"Maybe not?" Lydia asked. She had read into Amy's pause.

"I don't know yet." She thought back to the letters from colleges that had greeted her from the mailbox when she'd first arrived home. "Maybe I'll try school again and see where that takes me."

"School?" Lydia sounded slightly surprised.

"Most jobs require some kind of college degree. And it's not like I don't have money saved up."

Lydia hummed noncommittally. "School might be nice for you. You could make some friends, have some fun."

"Yeah, maybe." College would be a good start. There would be any number of opportunities stemming from a college diploma. I could be anything I want, and it'll be exciting, without being too much at once. "I think I might look over some of those letters tomorrow."

"Alright."

"Julio! Ven adentro! Es hora de dormir!"

Julio Sanchez sat in his dusty backyard, near Osa's little grave, thinking. He had been sitting there for most of the evening. His parents had repeatedly called him to come in for bed, but he ignored them, choosing to stay out and plan his revenge.

For a brief while, he had contemplated finding a gun and hunting down the two guys in the car. He had memorized the plate number, and guns weren't hard to find. Then his little brother Oscar had come outside to help hold vigil for Osa. Shooting two gangsters wouldn't present a good example for Oscar, Julio decided.

He had thought about various other ways to get back: slash their tires, egg their houses. Every idea was discarded, though, generally because it would be traceable back to Julio. Gangsters didn't tolerate pain-in-the-ass thirteen-year-olds, so Julio knew his revenge had to be untraceable.

"Julio!"

"Un momento, Mama!"

"Julio!" This time, it was his father's deep voice calling him.

Julio cast one last look towards the flowers over Osa's grave, then scrambled to his feet and ran inside. "Lo siento, Papa."

His father merely shrugged slightly and squeezed his son's shoulder with one large hand. He knew his son had had some kind of deep connection with that cat, and had taken the loss hard. "It's alright. Listen to your mama now, though. Go to bed. It'll be better in the morning."

Julio nodded. "'Night, Papa. 'Night Mama."

"Buenas noches."

He ducked down the hall to the shared bathroom, brushed his teeth, went to the room he shared with Oscar, and changed into his pajamas. Oscar was already asleep, so Julio was quiet as he padded to his bed near the window. He knelt to pray, kept it simple, asked God to keep Osa safe in heaven, then, as an afterthought, asked God to help him catch Osa's killers. It might not have been the best thing to ask for, but it was what he wanted, wanted so deeply it made his heart ache.

He lay in his bed, unable to fall asleep. The moonlight crept slowly across the room through the window as the night wore on. Julio watched the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. No new ideas had sprung to mind, when suddenly, he heard sirens.

He sat up in bed, as the sirens screamed, coming closer. After a few moments, three cop cars shrieked down the street, their lights flashing through the room in a whirl of magenta and indigo. A moment later, they vanished around the corner.

Julio sat back on his bed. The L.A.P.D. was out in force tonight to catch some scumbag. "Thank you," he whispered. "Gracias a Dios. I will be a cop, Osa. I will find them."

"Look at her."

"She's a beaut," Andy agreed. He and Tim, his older brother were kneeling behind the hedge in front of their house. Their cousin, Matthew, had driven over for Sunday dinner on his new Honda CB77 motorcycle. It stood near the curb, chrome and navy trim sparkling in the sunlight.

"She'd be the only girlfriend I'd ever need."

Andy snorted. He was only twelve, but even he knew you couldn't marry a bike. Tim was sixteen, had just started high school, and seemed to have something to say about every girl that walked past.

"You can't have kids with a motorcycle, dummy."

Tim rolled his eyes. "It was a joke, Andy." He stared at the bike a moment longer, then turned to Andy, eyes shining with glee. "What if we took her for a joyride?"

Andy fell back on his heels. "Really? Would Matt let us?"

"The whole point of a joyride is for it to be secret." Tim glanced back to the bike. "Matt brought Stephanie, didn't he?"

"Yeah, I saw her go in." Stephanie was Matt's girlfriend, blonde and most certainly not of Italian heritage. It had irritated Matt's dad until he realized that Steph was a phenomenal baker. The complaints had stopped rather quickly after that. "Why?"

"We're gonna need helmets. You get the helmets and I'll get the keys."

Andy paused, halfway to the front door. "Are you sure this is okay?"

"Yeah, bro. It'll be fine."

Andy darted inside and spotted the helmets on the floor near the over-large basket of shoes his mother kept by the door. Both helmets were obviously new, maybe just a little too large for a twelve-year old. One was a gleaming navy that seemed as deep as the ocean, the other was a vibrant bubblegum pink. He snatched them both and was almost back out the door, when-

"Andy, is that you?" He recognized his mother's voice from across the house. She was in the kitchen, cooking dinner.

"I'm just going back outside with Tim. We're playing dead man." He didn't particularly like lying to his parents, but he liked it better than the consequences for some of the things he and his brothers got up to.  They'd locked Susan out on the roof once. One winter, it had snowed, and they'd busted someone's windshield with an ice-ball. On accident, of course.

"Alright." She sounded skeptical, and Andy winced. "Tell Tim that dinner's in thirty minutes. I expect both of you in here on time, okay? Steph, Matt, Uncle Luke, and Aunt Mary are all going to be here."

"Yep." He shut the door and ran back to Tim. "Mom said that we have to be in for dinner in half an hour. I think she really means it."

Tim waved him off. "Sure. Toss me the blue one."

Andy stared at the navy helmet wistfully for a moment, then passed it to Tim. "Did you get the keys?" he asked as he strapped on his own helmet.

"Yeah. Now let's get going." Tim helped Andy onto the bike. "Hold on to me." He fumbled for the ignition.

"Do you know how to drive this?"

"Sure. I've seen tons of movies. And it can't be that different from driving a car."

It took a few minutes of whispered swearing, praying, and general fiddling around before the Honda finally started. Tim eased it down the street, keeping the noise to a minimum, then turned the corner shakily.

"Let 'er rip!" Andy shrieked.

Tim grinned, revved the machine, and they sped down the road, maintaining an almost straight course.

"Buzz, please don't do this."

"But-"

Mrs. Watson stepped forward and hugged her son tightly. They were standing near the kitchen table, spread with letters of acceptance from several colleges and a lone application for the Los Angeles Police Academy. "Buzz, you're the only one I have left, and-" she choked and was quiet, refusing to let him go.

He held her tightly. Her wispy blonde hair tickled his nose. "You've got Casey."

"I know, Buzzy. I love her dearly, but it's not quite the same."

He was surprised by her frankness, but knew what she meant. He was the last tie to his father, his brother. "Mom, I want to prevent. . . things. . . from happening to people like us."

"I know, believe me, I know. There are other ways to do this, though, safer ways."

He sighed. He knew his mother would be opposed to his joining the L.A.P.D., but he had thought he'd be able to talk her around. It clearly wasn't going to happen. They had been talking, shouting, and even crying for the past hour. Casey and Ed, Buzz's stepfather, had quietly slipped out of the house, mumbling something about needing milk. They had been gone for almost fifty minutes, now, Buzz noted. He broke away from his mother and turned to look at the letters of acceptance.

There was one from USC, his first choice after the Academy. USC had accepted him for film school. He had spoken, at length, to the L.A.P.D. recruiter, and had been told that they accepted civilians for positions inside the force. They would take a guy with a film degree, the recruiter said. A cameraman could film crime scenes for departments like Robbery-Homicide, Vice and Narco, or Priority Homicide.

"Buzz?" his mother asked. She laid one hand tentatively on his shoulder and looked at the papers he held.

"I guess I'd better mail my acceptance to USC," he said finally. "They need to be post-marked by Friday, and USC has the best scholarships and teachers."

"Thank you, baby."

"Yeah." He'd get there eventually. Maybe it wasn't the most direct route, but he'd get there.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?" Jack Raydor looked up from the textbook he was reading. It lay on the coffee table of his tiny student housing apartment, with an array of notes and papers. Finals started in two days, and he wanted to make sure he was ready. There would be no second chances.

"Look at this." Sharon, his long-standing girlfriend, and (hopefully) soon-to-be fiancée, slid a newspaper across the table to him.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

She ran her slim fingers down the classifieds, reading upside-down. "The L.A.P.D is looking for new recruits. $46,583 per year. That'd pay for a lot of school."

He stared at the large ad. The Los Angeles Police Department is now recruiting. Applicants must have a high-school degree or equivalent. Starting salary is $46,583, DOE. Apply in person at Parker Center front desk. "Shar, what about your classes?"

She shrugged. "I'd rather have a job and take classes at night or over the summer and come out with less debt than graduate on time. Your costs are $40,000, including tuition and everything, and that job could cover that."

He looked down again, frowning. "What about your classes?"

She looked away. "I can go part-time, nine credit hours, one-twenty per hour. So that's-" She paused to calculate the answer in her head. "One thousand and eighty. We could manage that, I think, with your job to pay for groceries and gas."

Jack watched her. She fidgeted, twisting her auburn hair around one finger. Even a part-time law student had a lot of work to do. "Are you sure you can manage a full-time job with-"

She shook her head once, cutting him off. "I think so. Even if I can't do it, that job would get you through school."

"Shar, it's not just about me."

"You've got a better shot at being a lawyer. You've got better grades, and just. . . I can't wrap my head around cases like you can."

They were silent for several minutes. A bus passed outside, and the neighbors' bass rumbled through the wall.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." It came out as a breathy half-sigh. They both knew the likely outcome of such a deal. She wouldn't get her diploma for some time, maybe never.

"Okay. I'll drive downtown with you tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Thank you, Shar."

a/n- I'm sorry. I was watching Saving Grace and this one song came on and the idea hit me. 

Sharon stood before the full-length mirror in her bathroom, slowly doing the buttons on her navy dress uniform. The uniform was stiff, hardly worn, but its bars, buttons, and her brassy name-tag gleamed. She pinned the two silver captain's bars to her collar and straightened her tie.

Her belt was in the living room, resting on the back of the sofa with her uniform's plastic dry-cleaning bag. She walked out to get it, footsteps echoing in the silent condo. She stood, with one hand on the belt, when the silence suddenly became suffocating. She ran to the French doors to the balcony and threw them open. The noise of traffic far below filtered over her. She leaned over the railing, gasping, for a moment.

She stood stiffly, then. Her make-up was already done, her tears shed, and she didn't want to cry again. Maybe it was old-fashioned, but her team needed her to lead them, and she would never permit herself to show weakness before them. It sounded like something Rusty would say.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she stepped back inside, slamming the doors shut and grabbing the belt to thread it through her pants, then buckling it tightly. Her black shoes were by the door. She had shined them earlier, so she fetched them and pulled them on, doing the laces up without thinking.

In a flash of insight, she realized she didn't remember half of what she'd done in the past twenty-four hours. The day had passed in a fog, with only a few moments sticking out. Provenza offering her a cup of coffee back at the station. Pope, dismissing her and the team for the day, and saying they could all have the next forty-eight hours off, that Taylor would take their cases. Flynn's offer to pick her up and drive her to the funeral.

Flynn. He'd be here soon, she realized. She looked at her reflection in the window, smoothing her hair back, pressing the folds of her shirt, and donning her cap. The twin badges on her breast and the cap flashed white in the sun. She tilted her head slightly, to better see her face. It was vain, to spend so long before a mirror, but she wanted anything as a distraction. Her make-up was the darkest it had been in a while, thick eyeliner, dark mascara, but it suited her purposes. It concealed the redness of her eyes.

Someone knocked at the door, and she jumped. It was probably Flynn, on time, for once. She walked over and pulled the door open, revealing her lieutenant. He looked dapper, his uniform as neat as hers. His hair was neatly combed, and he had his hat tucked under one arm.

Flynn was slightly surprised to see Sharon looking so well to put together. But then, he thought, he'd never seen her any other way. She looked tired though, and more like the woman he remembered from FID: dark eyes, sharp angles, and a somber expression.

"Sharon," he said politely.

"Andy."

"Are you ready to go to-?" He broke off.

"Yes," she sighed. "Yes, I suppose so." She glanced around the condo, to make sure the electronics were off, and saw the chessboard sitting in its place on the bookshelf. She darted over to it, grabbed the white queen, and slipped it into her pocket. When she rejoined Flynn, he was looking down, pretending not to see anything. "Let's go."

When they were in his car, he looked at her as he turned the ignition. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

She nodded. "We all are, but there's not a thing we could have done. Not a damn thing," she murmured.

"I know. It doesn't help, though, does it?"

"No. I just keep going over it, again and again, looking for something we missed, some place we dropped the ball. Maybe-" she looked up, startled, as Flynn placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't haunt yourself with 'maybe.' Maybe we could have done this, or that, but we didn't. We did what we thought was best. No one saw it coming the way it did. He wouldn't want you spending the rest of your life wondering what you did wrong. He'd want you to keep it from happening again, to someone else."

Sharon smiled faintly. "Yes."

Flynn leaned over, across the emergency brake, and kissed her cheek chastely. "Then let's get going, Captain. And don't you worry, we'll find the bastard who did it and make him pay."

"He'll pay dearly," she replied softly. "Quite dearly."

......

Rusty had arrived home to Sharon's condo after chess club practice (The club continued to practice over winter break.) and a meeting with Dr. Joe, escorted to the doorstep by his goon platoon, as he called them. He called his cops that once, while talking to Sharon, and she had expressly told him not to call them that. Aloud, anyways. He still called them that in his head.

They left after Sharon opened the door, and he walked into the apartment to find himself nearly knocked over by the smell of lemon.

"I didn't realize you decided to start a lemon grove in here," he said, dropping his backpack near the door.