DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. I DO HOWEVER, OWN AN OC, WHOSE IDENTITY WILL BE REVEALED AT THE END OF THIS.

THIS IS DEDICATED TO THE 'SAM TEAM' . ALSO KNOWN AS MY LOYAL READER, SPANKYMCDOOGLEFACE (SAMANTHA) AND HER FRIEND, SAM. THEY SENT ME A MESSAGE SUGGESTING THE CONCEPT OF THIS ONE SHOT, AND I COULDN'T RESIST INDULGING THEM, AND MYSELF. I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS GIRLS!

Hangovers and handcuffs

"Last night, I got served a little bit too much of that poison baby
Last night, I did things I'm not proud of
And I got a little crazy
Last night, I met a guy on the dance floor and I let him call me baby
And I don't even know his last name
My momma would be so ashamed
It started off, hey cutie where you from
And then it turned into oh no, what have I done
And I don't even know his last name
And we left the club right around 3 o'clock in the mornin'
His Pinto, sitting there, in the parking lot, well it should've been a warnin'
And I had no clue what I was gettin' into
So, I'll blame it on the Cuervo
Oh, where did my manners go?."
-Last Name, Carrie Underwood

Donald Flack Jr woke with a tsunami raging through his head and a sea of beer and Jack Daniel's churning in his stomach. He cracked open one eye and groaned in agony as the bright sunshine streaming through the naked bedroom window threatened to incinerate his retinas. He felt sluggish and lazy. His limbs nothing more then useless ten ton weights as they lay useless on the rumpled sheets below him. Memories of the night before trickled through his suffering brain. Images of himself heading to Sullivan's after a long, tedious day. Anxious for alcohol to bring much needed liquid relief to his confused and frustrated mind. He had met up with Danny at the bar. He had teased his best friend about his infamous encounter with the department advocate earlier in the day. It hadn't taken long for word to trickle out that Danny had been a smart ass on the stand. In a valiant attempt to help Mac save face, the loyal yet often troubled and beleaguered CSI had instead, single handily, without using so many words, told IAB to shove their inquest up their collective asses.

"Can you read the highlighted text?" the advocate had asked, handing Danny a copy of Clay Dobson's autopsy report.

She was a stuck up, holier than thou bitch in a knock off Prada suit and bargain basement pumps that had begun grating on Flack's last nerve before she ever opened her mouth. The earlier conversation he had had with Chief of Detectives Sinclair and Deputy Inspector Gerrard had riled him. Flack would forever remember the smirk on that pompous ass Sinclair's face as he referred to him as a lowly third grade detective. And Gerrard and his "Now there's a detective with a gold head on his shoulders" and "Don knows to do the right thing" bullshit irritated Flack every time he thought about it. So the IAB witch cutting him off every time he tried to defend Mac Taylor had nearly had Flack, despite being taught at an early age that he would face eternity in hell for even so much as thinking about laying a hand on a woman, struggling with himself not to jump out of the witness box and bitch slap the woman into next week.

It pissed him off more to think she'd gotten the better of him. That she'd taken total control of the situation and had gotten the last word.

But she had seriously underestimated Danny Messer. With his bookworm looks and his slightly skittish demeanour, she had considered him a push over.

"Sure," Danny had responded to her question, and calmly and coolly accepted the report from her outstretched hand. And then he had proceeded to clear his throat and push his glasses up onto his nose and do just as she had asked. Only not as she had wanted him to.

"Out loud," she demanded in an aggravated tone.

Classic Danny Messer.

Flack remembered ribbing his best friend about it the second he'd slid onto that stool at the bar. He also remembered the bartender Frankie bringing him a glass of Guinness and he and Danny toasting. To what, Flack couldn't recall. Maybe it was in honour of their moments of sheer stupidity Maybe it was in awe of the insanity that was New York City. John McEnroe murdering someone by impaling them on a condom machine in a bar bathroom? There was no way that was remotely possible. McEnroe had an air tight alibi. But his DNA was telling them a completely different story. His blood had been found at that scene. And there was no way his blood would have gotten there without him physically present. It was impossible.

Or was it?

After a half an hour of bitching and moaning about their day and successfully polishing off a few drinks a piece, they'd ordered some more booze and took their problems to the nearest, available pool table. Flack scarcely remembered applauding his best friend for having the stones to stand up to the wicked witch of the NYPD the way he did. He also recalled, albeit in scattered bits and pieces, that they'd gotten into some deep discussion about why they chose to do the jobs they did. Flack had talked mostly bullshit. Or at least he assumed he did. By that time he would have had to much beer and JD shooters in him to be making much sense. He may have looked relatively sober on the outside, but on the inside he was on his way to being well polluted. He was pretty sure that he had said some crap along the lines of "Maybe we do the job for the one time someone thanks up for catching their kid's murderer."

Exact words and sentences were lost on him now as he lay in his bed, a forearm over his eyes as he prayed for death. Or from some instant relief from the nausea that threatened to consume him and send him springing out of bed and running for the bathroom. A quick fix for the intense, throbbing pain in his head. Lying there, motionless and quiet seemed to be the best option at the moment. And as he drew in deep breaths and let them out slowly, more of the night became to surface in his mind.

The most important parts of the night, in fact.

There'd been a girl. A woman to be more correct. A young woman. She'd been hanging out with her friends at the pool table next to him and Danny and Flack had found it impossible to keep his eyes off of her. It hadn't hurt that she seemed incapable of doing the same thing with him. It had done wonders for his ego. Dates and women interested in him had seemed few and far between since the bombing. He had given up all hope at a sex life because he was just too damn afraid of having to take his shirt off in front of someone. The scars from shrapnel that decorated his chest, along with the thick jagged one that took up residence on his lower left abdomen weren't pretty to look at it. He could barely look at them in a mirror without wanting to throw up. It had been a year since the explosion that nearly robbed him of his life and while the physical injuries were fading, the emotional scars were still raw and fresh.

So the thought of a beautiful and alluring young woman checking him out, mixed in with liquid courage, had made him braver then he had been in a long time. She was hot. No doubt about. With shimmering dark hair that reached her ass, she barely came up to his chest but she had body that could stop traffic that was on display in a pair of low riding, hip and ass hugging wide legged jeans and a pink New York Yankees crop top that gave him, and every other guy in the bar, a perfect view of the sterling silver and pink hoop through her navel and the massive tattoo of lotus flowers that covered the small of her back and stretched from hip to hip.

Danny had invited her and her friends over to join them for a few drinks. Or at least that's how Flack thought it had all went down. All he really remembered is that one moment he was simply checking out the girl's assets and the next she was standing next to him, sipping from his beer despite the fact she was already clearly intoxicated, and her big golden brown eyes wide and sparkling up at him as he told her he was a cop. The thought of him being an officer of the law obviously intrigued her. She asked him how many people he had arrested. About all of the dangerous and exciting things he had done in his career. About how many people he had had to shoot throughout the years. The last question he had thought was a little weird, but hell, he was used to strange and obscure and she was way too hot to hold it against her.

"I love cops," she'd said, staring up at him with those incredible eyes. "In fact…" she'd reached out and plucked a maraschino out of one of her friend's drinks and ran the tip of her tongue along the small, bright red object. She had a tongue ring. And that alone had Flack nearly bolting for the bar bathroom and tossing some quarters into the vending machine on the wall for a condom and suggesting they take things to the nearest dark alley. She'd sucked the cherry off the stem, then sat it on his beer coaster before slipping the stem into her mouth. His eyes widening in both surprise, and arousal, as a moment later, she stuck her tongue out to reveal the stem tied into a knot. "I have a cop fetish," she'd said, finishing her previous thought as she tucked the stem into his shirt pocket and popped the cherry into her mouth.

Flack wasn't entirely sure who had made the first move, but he distinctly remembered Danny slapping him on the back and flashing a huge grin and telling him to be safe before placing a condom he'd plucked from his own wallet into Flack's hand.

He could recall a hot and steamy make out session in the back seat of a Yellow Cab. One the driver had enjoyed as he'd watched through the rear view mirror. He remembered a near frantic dash from the elevator and down the hall to his apartment. Followed by what could only be described as a good old fashioned, uncomplicated fuck right there against his locked apartment door. Twenty minutes that had nearly woken up the entire floor and had left Flack with a vicious bite mark in the space between his neck and his shoulder and deep, painful scratch marks across his shoulders and down his back.

And he could remember, in vivid detail, that they'd taken things to the bedroom and she'd asked him where his handcuffs were. Flack had gotten them out of the top drawer of his dressers but had balked as he held them out to her. He wasn't into that kind of thing. There was no way some strange woman was going to 'cuff him to the bed and leave him there.

"That's okay," she'd said, and licking her lips suggestively, sauntered over to him in all of her glorious nakedness. Pure, unadulterated walking sex. She'd reached out and scraped her fingernails down his arm before taking the handcuffs from him. "You can use them on me."

His eyes shot open as those words echoed through his head and he removed his arm from his eyes and looked back at the headboard. The handcuffs still dangled there, but no human remained attached to them. The bed was completely empty. The sheets were wrinkled and still warm and smelled of perfume and sex.

He sighed heavily as he found himself feeling disappointed at the thought of being alone. He couldn't remember when she had left or if he'd even been aware that she had. Had she said anything to him? Someone would have had to let her out of the 'cuffs. But he couldn't remember for the life of him, setting her free or even saying goodbye to her.

Or even asking what her name was. Or even requesting her phone number.

All he had to remember her by was the souvenirs she had left behind on his body.

And a renewed sense of self confidence in himself.

"You look like death," Danny informed his best friend, as the homicide detective, his face ashen as he sipped a take out cup of black coffee, stepped off the elevator and onto the thirty-fifth floor of the New York City Crime Lab.

Mac had called a pre-shift meeting. He had made some personnel changes. Hiring a handful of new techs and a CSI fresh to New York from Phoenix, Arizona. He wanted to conduct a sort of meet and greet. Introduce the team, help the newbie make a smooth transition into their new job. All Flack wanted to do was go home and pass out in bed. Instead, he had to play nice with some stranger and then spend his day trying to figure out whether John McEnroe was capable of being a murderer or not. The thought of having to drive to Long Island to arrest the tennis great was daunting. It would be his first celebrity bust. Save for the time he wrote Fifty Cent up for public intoxication while he was still a uniform.

"I feel like death," Flack told his best friend. "I feel like I should be lying down in the basement on one of Hammerbeck's slabs."

"I thought you'd be all bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning," Danny teased. "I mean, you can't tell me that you and that hot little brunette didn't knock boots."

"Oh we did," Flack confirmed with a broad smile. "A couple of times actually."

"She as wild and crazy as she looked like she could be?" Danny asked curiously. "'Cause she had these two sides to her. One seemed all girl next door, bring home to mom and the other was all fuck me now, ask for my name later."

"She was wild and crazy," Flack confirmed. "And then some." He was half tempted to drag Danny into the locker room and strip down to the waist to show off his war wounds, but fought the urge.

"You get to play cops and robbers with her?" Danny inquired.

Flack just smirked.

"You lucky bastard," his best friend said with a heavy sigh.

The two men headed for Mac's office. Through the glass walls they could see him standing in front of his desk, his hands on his hips and a lately uncharacteristic smile on his face as he spoke to someone sitting in one of the chairs before him. A woman, dressed conservatively in a pair of charcoal grey dress pants with light pink pinstripes, black ballet flats and a pale pink blouse under a grey blazer. Her dark hair pulled back and wrapped in a tight bun. Showing off her smooth, pale cheeks and slender neck and the diamond studs that sparkled in the three holes in the lobes of each ear and the two sterling silver hoops through the cartilage in the top of the right ear.

"Here's two members of the team now," Mac said, as Danny and Flack entered the office.

The woman slowly rose to her feet and turned to face the two men.

"Holy shit…" Danny breathed, then nearly laughed at loud.

Flack's eyes widened in shock as he came face to face with the golden brown eyes he'd found so magical the night before. The woman who'd taken him and school him despite the fact she was half of his size.

She blinked. Slightly flushing as she was reunited with what she had thought was a not so regrettable one night stand.

"You two know each other?" Mac asked, as he noticed the looks that passed between the tall, dark and handsome homicide detective and the petite brunette.

"Sort of," Flack replied.

Danny laid a hand over his mouth and choked back a laugh and excused himself. Waiting until he was out in the hallway before succumbing to fits of laughter that had him bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees.

"Can someone explain to me what is going on around here?" Mac asked, perplexed.

"I'm Detective Don Flack," he said, flashing a brave smile as he offered his hand to the beautiful woman in front of him.

Composing herself quickly and seemingly effortless, she reached out and shook the hand that was offered to him.

Flack noticed how tiny her hands were. How soft and warm they were. And memories of the sheer pleasure from the night before sweeping through him.

"Hi," she chirped. "My name's Samantha."

Please R and R folks! This was just something fun I did when a loyal reader posed the concept to me! Who knows, this may develop into something more then a one shot. Only time will tell.