A/N: I'm not sure where I'm going with this one so ...

Reconciliation in the Never After

"Linds, yeah, it's me. He brought her in."

"How is he?"

"Bad, Linds real bad. Still tripping out on guilt," yanking the coat off the back of the office chair, twirling it above his head, spearing an arm through a sleeve, "Couple years ago I might have expected something like this but …,"

"But what?"

Switching the cell to his other ear, "Look, you gotta talk to him."

"I can't, I mean I've tried … he shuts me out every time."

Spearing the other arm through and pushing through the precinct doors, "Well all I know is for the past couple years he's been towing the mark, keeping his nose clean and –"

"Don, it hasn't been good between us since Ruben –"

"Linds, I've been on his ass all day long," waving down a taxi, sliding into the backseat, "and I've gotten nowhere and now he's gone off half-cocked again – hang on a sec."

Pressing the phone to his chest, "See that Harley, I want you to follow it. Don't let it out of your sight. There's an extra fifty in it for you if you can keep it in your sights." Pressing the phone back to his ear, "Linds, you still there?

"I'm still here."

I'm in a cab tailing him. Where are you?

"At my apartment."

Okay get a cab and then call me back. I should have a better idea of where he's heading then.

"I'm on my way downstairs now."

-----------------

Taxis released, their eyes resting on the Harley, riderless, but still steaming from the hard drive. Eyes rivet upward by the squawk of a sign swinging in the chill breeze.

"Timpone's – Pint and Slice. You know this place, Don?"

"No, you?"

"No"

Pivoting, leaning back against the bricks, turning his collar up, cramming his hands deep into his pockets, inching his chin deeper into his coat, "I better stay out here," willing to take the chill over the heat this time, "but if you need me …"

Squeezing his arm, quelling trepidation with a cleansing breath, "Thanks Don, but it's my turn now."

------------------

Simple wooden booths line the narrow space along one brick wall, austerity mixed with rich, and delicious aromas slipping from pizza ovens lining the opposite wall. A bar, surrounding the ovens, guarding them, as well as the rack of well stocked liquor bottles.

Alone, at the end of the bar, a drink already in his hands, the brooding patron amongst the crowd.

"Danny"

Choking, "Montana?" looking at her but only briefly, "What the hell? How'd you find me?" his eyes latching back onto his drink.

Shrugging, sliding in between the bar stools, sitting sideways, noting every angle of his profile, the hair awry, the two-day old stubble hugging his jaw, the sagging droop of his eyelids almost meeting the swelling bags under his eyes.

Gripping the glass a little tighter causing it to shift and slosh, "Oh, I get it that bastard of a mother hen, Flack," throwing back a swallow, thumping the glass down, sloshing again.

Hoping to create a connection and broach a topic she knew everything about but felt wholly inadequate to discuss, she laid a hand on his arm. "We just want to help, Danny."

"Well in that case," flipping her hand off his arm as he raised it into the air, bobbing his head towards Lindsay, "Dino, she'll have what I'm having."

Dino flicked a cool glance at Lindsay as he set the drink in front her, "Smoothest scotch around but best when savored slowly," looking pointedly at Danny then back at her. "Know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean, thanks."

"Mind your own business, Dino."

"I am minding my business, Messer."

Staring into the glass, swirling it, stalling, fully aware of how her body revolts against scotch, regardless of how smooth it is. "Danny, I understand what you're going through."

Throwing back the remainder, shaking his head, issuing an exaggerated smack and a sigh, hailing it high into the air. "Dino, another … actually make it a double."

Pushing her glass away, drawing her bar stool closer to him, trying again. "Danny, I … I … know you feel Ruben's death is your fault … that … that it's wrong that you survived and he didn't, but it –"

"It what?" Rebelliously blank eyes framed by a mocking sneer, "It isn't my fault?"

"I know you think it is but you can't let that drive you, I know, I've been there."

Dino replacing the empty glass with the double scotch.

"No, you haven't … not like I have."

"Yes- I- have! You know I have. My friends were murdered – right in front of me – and I couldn't do a thing to save them!"

"Dammit, you were just a kid; there was nothing you could have done." Suddenly standing, thrusting the stool out behind him, fingers spread eagled across his chest. "Don't you see the difference? I'm an adult, a police officer, his friend, he trusted me. Dammit, his mother trusted me. And now he's gone."

His eyes holding hers, her mouth cottoning and her throat lumping, his words drifting around them, settling the issue in the presence of her silence. Reaching for his double scotch, tossing it back with abandon, sliding the glass back onto the bar, turning and striding toward the door.

Her voice out of commission but not her feet, she catches him, outside, astride his Harley, turning the key.

"Danny, wait!"

Gunning the engine, blocking her plea.

Desperate, no Flack in sight, the element of surprise playing to her advantage, reaching between the handle bars, turning the key and yanking it out.

"Dammit, give that back to me," demanding in his scotch soaked voice.

Stepping back, holding it high above her head, hardly knowing what to do with the upper hand, breath trapped in her throat.

"No"

"This isn't a game, Lindsay," suddenly and surprisingly calm.

"You're damn right it isn't a game, Danny," returning with equal levity.

Dropping his head, staring at his hands and nodding.

Swaying in the moment of peace, exhaling a breath held too long, "Enough is enough, Danny. All you can think about is yourself, because that is how guilt is," taking a step in as the hand safeguarding the keys falls to her shoulder, "It eats you up from the inside, leaving nothing for anyone on the outside …" a plea softening her voice, "but you have to begin to step away from that."

His eyes slide sideways as his hands run up and down his thighs in readiness. She reads the feint; he's quick but she's quicker, tossing the keys before he grabs her wrist. The keys clank between the sewer grate, their subsequent plinks echoing their increasing inaccessibility.

Yanking her close, the snarl on his face curling his lip, hawking his nose, "Damn you! Is this what you want to be close to? Look at me!"

Not only looking but challenging, "I'm looking. What do you want to show me?"

Rummaging around in the pockets of his leather jacket, flashing a glint of silver, "This," slipping it into the ignition, releasing her wrist, gunning the engine as Flack rounds the corner of the building, calling out, "Everything okay?"

Things are not okay.

There are times when the body reacts to an idea even before it becomes a conscious thought. Astride the Harley as it lurches forward, hands gripping the slick leather of his jacket, she realizes this as one of those moments. She's going to go the distance for him.

By going the distance with him.