Quid Pro Quo

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. I'm just passing a little time in this universe on a break from my own.

Author's Note: All opinions are those of the character, and do not represent the management. Also, I know that Monty Python isn't a person. And some of my best friends are lawyers.

Summary: A witness to the date at Marino's (yes, it's a big crazy coincidence, but sometimes those happen) – the woman got into my head and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. Let's call it AU, in case we ever get any more backstory on Luke's divorce. Rating is for language.

She sat at the bar and studied her manicure – one nail chipped already. She'd thought yesterday that Thuy was skimping on the base coat, but hadn't wanted to say anything. Why make a fuss? She knew her colleagues (not to mention her opponents) would never believe it of her, but she didn't like to cause a stir unless it was absolutely necessary, and in this case it certainly wasn't necessary. There were dozens of perfectly good nail salons around, all virtually identical, and if one didn't satisfy you simply found another the next time. She wasn't like some of her friends, blindly loyal to one mediocre shop or manicurist for fear that the next place would be even worse. Thuy had been nice at first, and a refreshing change from Desiree's constant chatter, but the honeymoon was clearly over.

She resumed drumming her fingers against the bar and made a show of looking at her watch. Jennifer was late, of course, after guilt-tripping her into coming all the way out here to fulfill some crazy apple martini craving. And today of all days, when she'd had to field two phone calls from Taylor Doose, despite the fact that she no longer handled any of his legal work, and hadn't for nearly a year. Two phone calls. On a Sunday. Who did the man think he was?

"You are not to call my cell any more, Taylor; I'm no longer your attorney," she'd declared before hanging up the first time.

He'd called back immediately with, "Just this one tiny little question about my lease…."

"I'm going to bill you for a full hour, Taylor," she'd replied, and had the satisfaction of hearing him hang up almost before she'd finished speaking. She'd told Jennifer about the phone calls, how they were just the culmination of a long, miserable, seventy-hour work week, and how Connecticut was the last place she wanted to spend one of her only free evenings, but her friend had stood firm.

"Marino's makes the best apple martinis in the world, and I've been wanting one for days. And you forgot my birthday, so you owe me. And you need closure; spending an evening in Connecticut will help give you closure." Jennifer could give Taylor lessons in persistence.

"Closure, my ass," she muttered. She looked at her watch again, less to check the time than to check the potential advances of the guy who was watching her from the other end of the bar. He looked like a first year law clerk, she thought, with his blue sport shirt, buzzed hair, and big sloppy grin that made it obvious he'd been here for hours. Or maybe a newly minted actuary, looking for someone to go home with tonight and unsure how to manage it now that there weren't any frat parties involved. She could picture him in a tall hat with a plume, wearing a too-big marching band uniform and clutching a clarinet, mesmerized by the little blonde head cheerleader who didn't even know he existed. She could see the wheels turning in his teenaged mind; how he was determined that someday the head cheerleader would notice him, want him, instead of the big dumb jock who would end up working at the gas station all his life. How law school or actuarial studies was only a means to an end…so to speak…because if he couldn't get the head cheerleader with his looks, he could certainly get her with money and power.

She almost smiled at him. She almost took pity and told him that she wasn't the girl he was trying to find. She almost confided in him that she hadn't been the head cheerleader with the tight body and the golden hair, but the chubby little dishwater-blonde piccolo player who spent the football games studying her class notes and wishing the quarterback would finally notice her. She almost explained to him that she understood how it was with the money and the power and the means to an end, but that the head cheerleader was probably married and fat and had half-a-dozen whiny kids by now and he should set his sights higher. Almost…but why encourage him? She didn't need a law clerk or an actuary; now she could have anyone she wanted…most of the time.

She sighed and looked at her watch again, remembering belatedly that there was a fine line between looking like you were waiting for someone and looking like you'd been stood up. Seconds later, he was standing beside her.

"This taken?" he demanded, gesturing at the stool next to hers.

"I'm meeting someone here," she replied without looking at him.

"Well, yeah," he smiled, "Right now you're meeting me."

She glanced up at him, ready to put him in his place, and finally got a good look. The smile wasn't bad, she thought, and was probably what had gotten him laid during college. But now he was spending too much time behind a desk during the day and perched at a bar at night and his puffy face and bleary eyes were aging him prematurely.

Her perusal had taken too long – he deposited himself on the barstool he'd indicated and leaned in to her, still smiling. "Like what you see?"

She rolled her eyes and planted her hands on the bar. "Listen," she began, "I really am waiting for someone, and I don't need any company." She looked toward the door of the restaurant. "I'm sure she'll be here any…."

It was the dress that caught her eye first – hers, and most of the other patrons', including her now-silent neighbor. The dress captured the dim light, reflected it, made the woman wearing it appear to shimmer and dance before her eyes. Then she realized that the woman was dancing – well, bouncing, at least – and peering around the dining room as she waited for the hostess to get to…. Oh, no. Not today. Not her, after two phone calls from goddamned Taylor and having to schlep all the way out to goddamned Connecticut and being hit on by some goddamned law clerk because goddamned Jennifer couldn't be on time for once in her goddamned life. Not that lunatic Amazon who couldn't keep her hands to herself – just look at the way she was pawing at her companion's arm around her waist, leaning in to speak to him as she pointed to – of course – the dessert cart. Greedy bitch. Well, she'd clearly managed to wrap yet another one around her little finger; her latest conquest was pulling her closer and murmuring into her ear and…. No. No, no, no. Not him, too.

"Is that the 'someone' you're waiting for?" came the voice of the law clerk, "Because he seems kind of 'preoccupied', if you know what I mean." He winked broadly at her.

Great. She was stuck watching her ex-husband on what was clearly a date with the home wrecking slut who'd ruined her marriage, and Law Clerk here thought he was Monty Python. "Vodka, neat," she ordered the bartender, and then plastered a big fake smile on her face because, God help her, the hostess was motioning them to the bar and then they…he…were turning and looking right at her and Coming This Way and then she held her breath….

And then they…he…looked right past her, and then the hostess was calling them back because their table was ready after all and then her eyes welled up with tears of relief and she blinked them away. She sensed movement beside her and realized that Law Clerk had retreated to the other side of the bar; clearly her behavior had set off his Woman With Baggage alarm and he wanted none of it. Thank God for small favors.

"Here you go," the bartender put down a napkin and set her glass on top.

She pushed it back towards him. "Make it a double." He raised his eyebrows and complied. It wasn't until she'd taken her first couple of sips of the much-stronger-than-she-was-accustomed-to drink that she was able to look back at the dining room. She could just see them from here; the lunatic was in the process of moving her entire table setting one place over, all the better to continue pawing him throughout the meal, of course. She was surprised when, after taking their seats, he was the first to make contact, laying his hand on his companion's arm and rubbing it gently as she spoke to him. What? This wasn't the way he behaved; he was barely demonstrative in private, never mind in the middle of a restaurant. It had never bothered her, not being a very touchy-feely person herself; she hadn't even minded at first when their sex life had slowed down to once or twice a week – hadn't noticed it right away, actually, she was so busy with work and decorating the house. But when it had been weeks since her so-called husband had wanted to have sex, never mind spent the night at "their" house, even she had to pay attention.

So she'd begun to revisit the subject of closing or selling the diner and opening a new restaurant – a real restaurant – elsewhere. Anything to get him away from that awful little town and started on the path of living up to his potential. He had a lot of potential – she'd seen it the moment she'd met him – but he also needed a lot of work. She had been encouraged by his willingness to wear the clothes she picked out for him and go along with the plans she made for their dates, even if he still refused to accompany her to most of the social engagements she was expected to attend. He even shaved when she reminded him to. But he'd held his ground on the diner, no matter how she cajoled.

"You're very talented; you could go to culinary school and be a chef instead of making burgers and pouring coffee all your life!" She had argued one evening after dinner.

"I like making burgers, and people like to eat them. People like my coffee. And I don't need to go back to school."

People, right. She'd rolled her eyes. "But you could open a restaurant – somewhere close to Hartford, so you get noticed."

"I already own a restaurant. I don't care about being noticed; I just want to make food people want to eat, and I want to do it in my diner."

She had abandoned the discussion there and he had claimed to have an early delivery in the morning and left her with a kiss on the cheek. On the cheek! "People like my burgers…People like my coffee," she'd muttered while preparing for bed, and then the light had dawned and she'd stared wide-eyed at her reflection in the mirror. Her. She had made some calls the next day, and received her answer by the end of the week. Only then had she used the phone number Paul had slipped into her hand at a party months before. Quid Pro Quo.

"Quid Pro Quo?" Luke had asked during their final telephone conversation.

"It means…"

"It means 'this for that'. I know what it means. I own a business, we have a sexual harassment policy, I've heard the phrase. I just don't understand how it applies in this situation…." His voice had grown rougher then, "Wait – did this guy force you…."

"No, he didn't force me," she'd sighed, frustrated. "I was just…leveling the playing field; making things equal."

"Making things…. Do you think I cheated on you? Is that what you're saying – you were trying to get back at me?" He had begun shouting into the phone. "And then what, we'd start over for the third time and live happily ever after?"

"I don't think you were cheating; I know what you did," her voice had been low but firm; she hadn't thought he'd continue to lie after being called on his behavior.

He had taken a deep breath then, obviously struggling to regain control of his temper. "Nicole, I really don't know what you're talking about. I never cheated on you, and I don't know where you got the idea that I did." He'd sounded really tired, and she had wanted to tell him all was forgiven and maybe they could start over again. But he would have to stop playing dumb first.

"I know about the money, Luke."

There had been a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm not even going to ask how you know about the money, Nicole; I'm going to assume you called in some favors. I just want you to explain to me what it has to do with anything."

At least this time he hadn't tried to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. "You gave her thirty thousand dollars, Luke…."

"I loaned it to her. She needed the money, she's my friend, I helped her out – end of story."

"People don't loan their friends that kind of money…."

"Maybe 'people' don't, but I do. Jeez, Nicole, I must've told you a thousand times that…."

"That…?"

"That we're just friends." His voice had suddenly become very soft and distant. "Friends," he had repeated more firmly. "Always have been, always will be. I'm sorry you couldn't understand that, Nicole, but there's nothing I can do about it. And you've obviously made your choice, now, so I think we should just proceed with the divorce the way we'd originally planned."

She'd started to protest, but he'd ridden right over her. "I'm not coming back to Litchfield. I don't think I left anything important at the house, so you can either box up what's there and mail it to me or just throw it away – it's up to you."

"Luke, please – this isn't what I wanted to happen…."

"Isn't it? Look, I get that you think I deserved this, but I don't understand how you thought we were going to stay together afterwards. I'm sorry, Nicole – we probably should have just gone through with the divorce the first time." He had hung up then, and except for receiving the divorce papers she hadn't seen or heard from him again until tonight.

Tonight. She came out of her reverie to discover her glass was empty and signaled to the bartender for a refill. Where the hell was Jennifer? Deliberately averting her eyes from the dining room, she began to rummage in her purse for her cell phone, kicking herself for not thinking of it earlier. No sooner had she laid her hand on the phone, however, than she heard a familiar voice behind her calling for an apple martini. She turned bleary eyes on her friend and tried to force a smile.

"Wow, you look like shit!" Jennifer announced cheerfully. "Who ran over your dog?"

She scowled and tossed her head in the direction of the dining room. "They did."

"They…?" Jennifer squinted in the direction of the tables. "Am I supposed to know who we're talking about?"

She sat up. "First of all, put your glasses on," she slurred, and sipped her drink as Jennifer complied. "Next, look over there: the table with the woman who has the fashion sense of a drag queen."

"A few sequins never hurt anybody," Jennifer responded blandly, peering through her glasses. "Again – am I supposed to know these people? Have I met them? Why is she steering her dinner roll around the table with a fork?"

"Not them – him. And for God's sake, could you be less subtle?" she plunked her elbow on the bar and leaned her chin on her hand. It was getting warm in here. Was it getting warm in here? "Is it getting warm in here?"

"You know," Jennifer ignored her question, "I only met him the one time, but that guy kind of looks like….Ohhhh."

"Oh, indeed," she drained her glass and signaled to the bartender again, but Jennifer quickly caught his eye and drew a hand across her neck, shaking her head. He nodded and turned to another customer.

"Okay," Jennifer enthused, "we're going to settle up and blow this pop stand!" She dug in her purse for her wallet and dropped some money on the bar. Hopping up, she pulled on her jacket and nudged her friend. "Come on, Nicole. Can you walk?"

"Course I can walk," she scoffed, but suddenly found herself without enough hands to manage her jacket. Jennifer grabbed it and stepped behind her to assist. "It's the smile," she added.

"What? What smile?" Jennifer grunted. "Hey, watch the flailing, please."

"Why you didn't recognize him right away." Having gained mastery over her outerwear at last, she was inordinately proud of herself for only swaying a little as she clutched her purse to her chest and descended from her perch. "I didn't recognize him right away, either," she whispered loudly, "and then I realized it was the smile; I'd never seen it before."

"Okay." Jennifer planted a hand on her back and steered her well away from the dining room and out of the building. "My car's just over here."

Seconds later, it seemed, they were on the way to 15 and Jennifer's house in Meriden, and she realized that she'd been asleep. Jennifer had turned on the radio and was gently bobbing her head and singing along softly with a song by one of those boy bands: "She will be loved…She will be lo-o-oved…."

"Change the station, please," she rasped, and licked her dry lips.

Jennifer started. "It's a CD," she explained, turning the music off. "Sunday night is eighties night in the world of Connecticut radio, and I know how much you hate that kind of music."

"Good call….Wait, it's Sunday night – I have to work tomorrow! I have to go back and get my car so I can go to work tomorrow!"

"You can get your car in the morning. You have clothes at the office; I know you have at least two suits at the office, you told me."

"Three."

"There you go. You'll be fine. Hung over, but fine."

They drove on through the darkness of the Parkway in silence for a few minutes until Jennifer opened her mouth and took a breath as if to speak, then closed it again.

"What?"

"Hmmm?"

"What were you going to say?"

"Say…?" Jennifer glanced over her shoulder and changed lanes on the empty highway.

She waited. Jennifer sighed.

"I just don't understand, Nicole – if you were so into him, why did you hook up with what's-his-name?"

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window, enjoying the cold; enjoying the jarring of her forehead against the glass as Jennifer managed to hit every pothole in the road. She thought of Paul, and smiled to herself. Paul had been dull as dirt, but he'd made it perfectly clear from the moment they'd met that he wanted her. He didn't care that she was married – stopped calling as soon as he found out she was getting divorced, as a matter of fact – but that was okay. He'd wanted her. Wanted her. And when he was there, with her, in her bed – their bed – he'd never closed his eyes. Not once.

"Say Quid Pro Quo," she'd smiled up at him.

"Excuse me?" Paul had laughed, looking into her eyes – into her eyes! "Is this some kind of kinky lawyer thing?"

"Just say it. Come on: Quid Pro Quo."

"Quid Pro Quo," he'd complied. "Quid Pro Quo."

"What?" Jennifer asked, opening the car door for her. "Guess you fell asleep again, Nic – let's get you inside before you pass out in the driveway."

She began to laugh as she allowed her friend to steer her into the house and put her to bed. "Closure, my ass," she giggled as Jennifer tried to help her into a borrowed pair of pajamas. "Quid Pro Quo, that's what it's all about. Goddamned Connecticut…."