To those involved: thank you. Thanks to Becs, for running up my phone bill with text messages about the contents of Don Flack's kitchen cupboards, and thanks to my wonderful beta delga for her insight and for being brilliant where I am not. I don't own these characters, but if anyone's offering, I'd love a Flack of my very own.
I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends.
One night in the blue light
I sat there all alone
and I tried to remember
the smell of your coat
Vonda Shepard - Sunset Marquis
It's getting late. The silver watch around her wrist taunts her. She releases the clasp and shoves it in her purse. The chain around her neck chokes her; it follows the watch. She'll find them later. The clear liquid in the glass in her hand stopped burning her throat some hours ago; now it just fills her entire body with delicious warmth. She drinks the last two mouthfuls in one and slams the glass down on the bar. He used to fill her with warmth like that. She signals for a refill.
The bartender fills her glass with tonic water, as he has for the past half hour.
The bar is empty. The owner quietly stacks chairs and wipes tables. The clock above the door signals two-thirty; the road outside is eerily quiet, even for a Monday night. He's piling up the final chairs when the door opens. A dark-haired man walks in and sighs deeply. He thanks the bartender and supports his very drunk friend as they stumble to his car. She falls asleep as soon as she hits the backseat and snores like a drunken sailor. He can't help but smile fondly.
"What am I doing here?" The confusion isn't helping the pounding in her head. She looks around the unfamiliar bedroom for a sign and finds it in the form of a makeshift wardrobe heaped on a chair. Those ties are unmistakable. The door creaks open and a glass of water, a steaming mug of coffee, and a bottle of Tylenol are thrust at her.
"Flack? Why am I in your bed?" The sunlight shines through the blinds and she squints. She ignores the water and washes the pills down with coffee, draining the mug in just a few mouthfuls.
"Hangover from hell?" Flack smirks. "Can't hold your liquor, Monroe. Bartender called me 'cause I was on your recent calls list." The revelation – or perhaps the memory of the previous night – is too much and she bolts for the door. "Down the hall and to the right!" he yells after her.
"You're so lucky I'm on lates this week, Monroe," he hands his friend a plate of dry toast and sits across the table from her. "And that you didn't make a mess of my bathroom." The silence is strained. He can hardly stand to sit and watch her pick at her food. "Wanna tell me what's going on?"
"Why don't you ask Danny? Or better yet, ask his neighbour." She fights to restrain her fury. She doesn't need to: this is Flack, and he knows her better than almost anyone else. Flack stares blankly. It has not occurred to her that he might not have a clue what has been going on. "He's fucking that woman. Rikki." She spits out the name as she spells out Danny's extra-curricular activities. Flack doesn't seem surprised. "Did you know?"
"I knew he'd talked to her since the kid died," Flack answers carefully. He tactfully omits the part where he told Danny to talk to his grieving friend.
"You knew," Lindsay concludes. "You knew and you didn't tell me. I thought you were more than that, Flack."
"I told him to talk to you," he finally admits after a pregnant pause. "I told him that if he respected you at all, he'd stop being a douche and talk to you."
"I can't believe you." He has never seen Lindsay so angry. She rounds the table and stands over him. For a moment, she seems twelve-feet tall and he feels like a mouse. "You have the nerve to give him relationship advice and you don't have the balls to tell me my boyfriend is cheating on me?"
He stares helplessly. The only words he can offer are, "I'm sorry," but she brushes them aside almost as soon as they're out of his mouth.
"You just helped my boyfriend to cheat on me."
"Spare me, Lindsay. You're hardly blameless and I think you know that. In fact, I know you know that. Maybe you didn't cheat but you're just as much to blame for this breakdown as Danny is." Flack's words hit like a basketball to the stomach. Lindsay sits down hard. It takes her a full five minutes to respond.
"Maybe you're right," she says slowly, quietly. He can barely hear her. She stands quickly and straightens her clothes. She combs her hair with her fingers. "I should talk to him, shouldn't I?" Flack looks at her with a raised eyebrow. His expression reads yes, idiot, and she chuckles tightly.
He smiles fondly. "Your purse is on the table by the door. Your keys are on the hook. Get out of here."