Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people...
The door opened with a squeak, casting unwelcome streetlight into the shade of the small, congested tavern. Connie briefly surveyed the patrons, spotting a familiar downtrodden figure slumped over bar. She approached him with reservation, knowing that he was more than likely intoxicated, and ergo, a more formidable opponent. Why did she have to be such a kind, considerate, empathetic person? Sliding onto the stool next to him, she politely declined the bartender's query. Mike greeted her with a roll of the eyes and a cringe as he downed the last of his whiskey. "How did you find me?"
"I followed the scent of opprobrium and freshly baked humble pie," she replied sarcastically, disapproval and pity contorting her defined features. Mike Cutter went from smart and sensible to drunk and disheveled more quickly than anyone she knew. His tie was slack, his hair looked like someone had rubbed a balloon across his crown, and his eyes were bloodshot. She couldn't help but feel a hint of remorse for her borderline antagonistic remark. "And I had a hunch…as your friend. So, are you going to tell me what happened, or not?"
Signaling for a refill, he recalled Jack's commentary from earlier that night. "He really didn't even say much, but I feel so…small… He looked at me like he's my goddamn disappointed father or something. I told you, he's going to fire me. I might as well take a cab back right now and start packing up my office."
Connie sighed heavily, the fabric of her sweater bunching around her stomach as she leaned forward, resting her elbow on the bar. "If Jack fired you, he wouldn't be able to make your life a living hell. He's getting older, Mike. Sunday crosswords and making you squirm are the only joys he has left."
"I deserve it," he continued, ignoring her attempt to lighten up the somber mood. "He should get rid of me. I'm a fraud. I'm corrupt and selfish and really stupid—I nearly handed Emily Ryan my career because of that…cretin, Stuber."
"Don't beat yourself up. You'd had a rough day—Jack forced you into a corner."
"It wasn't that," he conceded, swiveling his glass of amber liquid. "Believe it or not, Connie, I do a lot of things without…thinking."
"Shocking," she responded flatly.
"He insulted you, and I lost it."
She winced at his confession. Banished to the deepest recesses of her mind, there had been that little unwritten issue of Mike's possible feelings for her. They had never actually discussed the matter, and therefore, she couldn't exactly take Marcus' words at face value. She could only trust her instinct, and it, unlike Marcus Woll, was honest and unwavering. Mike had made enough ambigious comments for her to suspect that he was interested. Admittedly, she was attracted to him; she enjoyed his company. They spent more time together in a 24-hour period than the average married couple. They finished one another's sentences, shared taxis and takeout, and created the perfect balance of brains, beauty, and sheer recklessness. But, she barely had time to do her laundry once a week, let alone work out if she was willing to risk their rapport and her reputation to explore the unknown. Reluctant to foster the subject, she dismissed, "Stuber's a textbook idiot. I was more offended by the fact that he thought his colorful language would offend me."
"I don't know how you can stand me, Connie." Again, he glossed over her remark with self-deprecation. "I'm supposed to be in charge, set the example… But, I'm not even a real lawyer."
"Mike," she pleaded, her discomfort and fatigue increasing by the second. She appreciated the fact that she was one of the only people who ever saw Mike in such a vulnerable state. It was a sign of trust and a refreshing respite from the platonic façade they wore, like overcoats, to work. But, watching him drowning in a sea of shame and loathing was unbearable. If she wanted to rescue him, she was going to have to dive off of her safe, little boat.
"If he fires me, I don't know what I'm going to do. Pushing for justice, being the hero who puts the bad guys away forever…it's…it's my life. It's the only person I want to be—the only job I've ever wanted. If I lose this…" he paused, considering the lingering consequences. "If I lose… God—what you must think of me right now—…"
His rambling dissection of the situation faded to oblivion. He could hear himself thinking words and forming sentences, yet nothing was emanating from his lips. Something, no, someone had immobilized them. The kiss was subtle and cursory, over before he could even register what had happened. He gaped at her with arrant disbelief. Grimacing, Connie scrambled to find justification for her actions. "Sorry… that…just… seemed like the only way to get you to stop talking."
A profound sobriety washed over him. His lips were numb, though he wasn't sure if the Whiskey was to blame…or Connie.
"Mike, nobody is innocent here," she offered reassurance, taking hold of his hand with her delicate, manicured fingers. "We've all made mistakes, crossed ethical lines… Jack, more than anyone, knows that no matter what you've done, your heart is always in the right place. You may be rash and...uncontrollable, but that doesn't make you a bad person. You don't need a piece of fancy paper to prove your value to the city and its people. Everything is going to be fine. Tomorrow, your desk will still be your desk, and our cases will still be our cases."
Stumbling slightly, he descended from his seat and steadied himself with the curve of her waist. She grew rigid with the terrifying thought that he might kiss her this time. It wouldn't have been the worst fate in the world, but she wasn't prepared to take that plunge just yet. It became clear that he shared her trepidation; he simply enveloped her in an embrace. "And you'll still be the wisest person I know. Thank you…"
"Yeah, well, I question the company you keep," she teased, as he fished a selection of bills from his pocket. He counted out what was needed to pay the tab, and she glanced at her watch. "Hey, I was thinking of heading to Lombardi's. I can finish a large all by myself, but considering the circumstances…I'm willing to share."
"Thanks, but… I think my evening would be better spent at St. Andrew's, praying for a miracle."
"I think you're seeking forgiveness from the wrong all-powerful, all-knowing being… It's Jack you're worried about, remember?" She frowned at his exaggeration, seeing right through the fraudulent humility. "And when's the last time you even set foot in a church?"
He fleetingly recalled the case from a year before that had found him and Connie invoking the omnipotence of God with Nathan Reese. It hadn't exactly been within the boundaries of his comfort zone. Noting the incredulous arch of her brow, he surrendered. "Good point."
Cocking her head in her typical I-have-an-idea fashion, Connie gestured toward the door. "C'mon, let's go. And if it'll make you feel better, we'll say Grace over dinner."
They walked out onto the empty sidewalk, a crisp breeze coasting up Broadway. Connie was grateful that her little Freudian slip had been consigned to the proverbial waters of Lethe, where it belonged—for now. Mike was simply grateful for…her.
AN: I've had a little issue with writer's block lately... My story will be back on track soon though. Plus, I couldn't get this little plot bunny out of my head, so that certainly didn't help. I hope nothing seems out of character for our two favorite ADAs. Thanks for reading! :)