A/N: Just a little backstory about Kirsten and Sandy that's been percolating. I thought it was going somewhere else, but then it just ended its bad self. Enjoy, and please review!

April 12, 1985:

On that night at the bar (he's sitting with his law school buddies, trying to blow off a little steam before the grind of studying for upcoming exams turns them all into zombies fueled by caffeine and little else), he decides to try and strike up a conversation with the beautiful blonde who looks so out of place, yet so absorbed in the moment, in the music. She's dressed in candy-colored clothes, just like her friends, the ones who left, loudly, a minute ago. Who would leave a girl like that?

Then again, he's been watching her for a while; her squealing, "Oh! My! God!"-ing friends, with their requests for drinks with names like "sex on the beach" and "buttery nipples" seemed to irritate her more and more as she quietly sipped her Corona and focused on the music. Once, when one of them drunkenly tried to explain the concept of peach Schnapps to the uncaring waitress, he thought he saw her roll her eyes. She barely acknowledged their goodbyes as they left, trailing a series of self-dramatizing exclamations like "Ew!" and "I can't believe she wanted to come here!" in their wake.

So he's looking at her, and she's looking at the band--grizzled old black men pouring out their souls in this shitty bar, playing like it's the last gig they'll ever have. And judging from the state of them, it just may well be, but they're joyous, they're alive, and something in the girl's face convinces him that somehow, she's feeling that way too, as composed as she seems on the surface.

"Hey, Andrew." He nudges his buddy to the right. "Do you know that girl?" Andrew's the preppiest guy he knows; despite Andrew's impassioned defense of the poor and downtrodden in class, he figures, somewhat cynically, that it'll take about six months in the P.D.'s office before Andrew joins his father's white-shoe law firm. If anyone knows that girl, it'll be Andrew.

"What? Who?" Andrew's already had a bit to drink, and swivels around to stare at in the direction that he's trying to signal discreetly with his head. "Oh, yeah, her. She's, um...she looks familiar. Yeah, she's an undergrad, I think. She was in my little sister's sorority. Chrissy? Christy? No, no, wait...Kirsten, maybe? I think she's from Newport."

*******************************

Thank God they finally left! So they're mad at me, so what? They asked me what I wanted to do for my 21st birthday and I told them. It's not like we needed a place to go drink--don't they have enough peach Schnapps back in their dorm rooms? At least now I can enjoy the music in peace, without Taryn's oh-so-obvious "whispering" about the state of the bathrooms and how she "knows for a fact" that Tim scored some coke and why weren't we all at that party up in the hills at Brett's house.

She sets her beer bottle down on the now-empty table as the band takes a break. A hand grabs the bottle, and she looks up, expecting to see the waitress, but instead there's a guy. Ratty Boalt Hall sweatshirt, raggedy khaki's, and for God's sake, sandals. She moves her purse closer onto her lap and says, politely but stonily, "I wasn't done with my beer yet."

"I know. I can see. You still have half of it left. Unless you're one of those girls who just orders another one when the old one gets too warm. Or too flat." He smiles, blue eyes piercing under thick black brows.

Ohhh-kaaay. "Can I have it back, please?"

"Sure. Just let me check it for you." He takes a sip and then sighs. "Warm and flat, what a shame. Let me just get another one for you." And with that, he sits down at her table, signals the waitress, and when she arrives, he orders two Coronas. He turns to her then and says, "I'm not one to advocate alcohol abuse, but I'd advise you to drink each beer faster, and take breaks in between. If you nurse the beer, it just ends up getting...wasted." She laughs, she can't help herself, and his eyes light up as he adds, "pun not intended, but since you liked it, I've decided it's a keeper."

She sits back, and a silence falls across the table until the waitress comes back with their beers. Once the waitress is gone, she leans forward and says, "You'd 'advise' me to drink faster? What are you, my lawyer? Or just a guy that wants to see me drunk?"

His smile is broad as he replies, "Sandy Cohen, at your service. Not yet a lawyer, although I'm on my way, and as for seeing you drunk, don't you think that can wait?"

"Wait until what?" She leans back again, suddenly uncomfortably aware that she's far from her element, alone, and wondering if she has enough cab money on her for the ride back across the bay to campus.

"Well, I don't know, but I'd say at least until I know your name. I'm trying to be gentlemanly here. And if it makes you feel any better, I think you may be distantly acquainted with my friend Andrew." He points, and she swivels her head around to see her friend Analeigh's brother Andrew sitting at the bar. Andrew waves vigorously and yells, "Hey, Christy! Sandy's a real good guy!" before he turns back to the other law students.

"I'd feel a whole lot better about you if Andrew did, in fact, know my name," she says, crossing her arms.

"See! That's something we can both agree on! I'd feel a whole lot better about me if I, did in fact, know your name! I didn't believe him when he said your name was Christy...is it? Not that there's anything wrong with that name, but he just didn't sound so sure. So, well, what is your name?" He looks at her appealingly.

She has to smile again. "It's Kirsten. Kirsten Nichol."

"Well, Kirsten Nichol, it's very nice to meet you." He sticks his hand out to shake, and she takes it, amused and a little intrigued at his confidence. He carries himself with a mixture of brashness and disarming, self-deprecating humor, as if he knows that he's being a bit goofy and is totally OK with that; so different from the arrogant, chest-thumping boys she's grown up with, all posture and nothing inside.

The band returns to the stage, but instead of watching them, she observes her new table-mate. He's tapping on the table, sandaled feet shuffling a bit to the beat. He turns his head and she's caught, staring. His mouth turns up in a smile, and he leans over to shout above the music, "I like them!" Again, she smiles; his enthusiasm is so infectious that she shouts back, "So do I!", even though ladies don't shout.

*********************************

The club is emptying, the band is packing up, and all he knows is that he doesn't want the night to end. Cheesy, maybe, but he wants to know everything about this girl. As the club lights come up, he says, "Hey, I don't know about you, but I could use some coffee before I drive home. How about it?"

"I...no, I think I need to get a cab back to Berkeley. It's pretty late..."

"The cabs will still be around in a half-hour! C'mon, whaddaya say? Just a coffee, a chance to talk a little? Lawyers, even lawyers in training, love to talk, you know? I've been in agony over here! Don't get me wrong, the band was great, but being rendered speechless for over an hour is making me nervous..." He realizes he's babbling a little, but keeping her with him, if only for a few more minutes, suddenly seems like the most important thing in the world. He feels as though he's hit the jackpot when she quirks an eyebrow and says, "OK, but it's your job to find me a cab after, right?"

At this point, he'd carry her over the bridge piggy-back style if it would guarantee a few more minutes in her company. But he merely smiles and says, "It's a deal! There's a coffee shop down the street" and helps her with her coat.

*************************************

She's not sure why she agreed to go for a coffee with this guy. Sure, he's charming, if a bit shaggy, but what she really needs is to get back to her dorm room and get some sleep. She's got a test on Monday, tons of slides to review. As much as she and her father differ, they share a fierce work ethic, so blowing off studying is just not her style. Besides, making straight A's in her chosen subject, the one her father despises, is her own way of rebelling. Still, she can't deny that she's enjoying talking to Sandy, until he says,

"Art History, huh? That must really piss your father off."

Instantly, she closes down. How does he know that? Have I revealed too much? I didn't say anything about my father's disapproval; about how my mother is paying my tuition out of her own money because I chose Berkeley, and Art History, over USC and business school. She replies with a clipped, "Yeah, it does", and even though she notices Sandy's stricken look and feels for him, she needs to get out of this conversation, this situation, now.

"So, I'm gonna go...call a cab. I need to get back. It was nice meeting you, and thank you for the coffee...and the beer, earlier..." She's flustered, and that makes her want to get away; away from this guy who, it seems, can read things in her that she doesn't even want to acknowledge.

"No!" he exclaims. She does a double-take, wondering if she's made a bad decision to come to the coffee shop with him in the middle of the night. What do they always say about crazies? "He was such a nice, quiet boy..." Sandy's certainly not quiet, she's been listening to him with enjoyment for the last hour, but he does seem nice, so is that good or bad? She casts a glance at the counter, where the girl who served them seems either asleep or just indifferent to what's happening.

"No!" he says again, and puts his hand on her arm. "Our deal was that I'd get you a cab. I'm gonna go over there" he gestures to the pay phone on the wall, "and do that, right now. And I'm sorry if I upset you."

She subsides back into her chair and watches as he goes to the phone, rifles through the book, and makes the call. When he comes back to the table, he says, "They asked the destination, and I just said the Berkeley campus. Is that OK? You can tell him where exactly when you get into the cab. I'll just wait until the cab gets here, OK? Is that all right? Are you all right?"

"Yeah...I'm just...it's late, and I need...I'm sorry..."

"Hey! No more 'sorry'." He leans back, looking out the window, and then says, "Here's your cab."

She stands and gathers her coat and purse. "I'm...thank you, I'm all right. You're..."

"Charming? Annoying? Both?" He looks up at her, and she feels her face soften; the social smile that's bent her mouth into an uncomfortable grimace for the last few minutes relaxes. "Both," she replies, and as she walks out the door she tosses back, over her shoulder, "I live in Griffiths Hall, by the way."

And then she's gone.

***************************************

She's rushing out the door of Griffeth Hall, head down, already mentally going over her plan for the day. A few hours at the slide library, a meeting with the Art History Students Group about the speaker they're sponsoring next month, and then back to her room to work on that paper that's due next week. She's so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she doesn't see him at first, the scruffy figure holding the leash of an even scruffier dog.

"Oh, hello!" he says. "We were just in the neighborhood and thought we'd stop by, see if you got home OK last night."

"Oh! I...hi...um, yeah, I did, thanks."

"That's good. Where are you off to?"

"I've got a lot of studying to do..."

"On a beautiful day like this? Why don't you come to the park with us instead?"

"Us?"

"Yeah, me and Che," he says, indicating the dog at his feet. Che, although missing a back leg and half of one ear, looks up at her appealingly, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Kirsten Nichol, meet Che. Che, Kirsten." Che obligingly lifts a paw to shake and Sandy says, "He's got very good manners. I'm not sure where he learned them."

She leans down to shake the dog's paw and to hide her own smile of amusement. As she straightens up, she sees that Sandy's got the same appealing look on his face, minus the tongue lolling. She quirks an eyebrow and says, "Your dog's name is Che?"

"That's right. It seemed fitting, since I found him in the jungle in Bolivia...well, actually in the shrubbery at Tilden Park, but why quibble? Che and I are a team, like Woodward and Bernstein. Together, we're unstoppable. I'm thinking of getting us matching berets. So, the park? Some sandwiches, a bottle of wine? Che's all set, he's got his tennis ball."

"I really should study...I've got a test on Monday, and I'm supposed to meet some people later this afternoon..."

"Aw, c'mon! Che and I will have you back in time for your meeting, and you can study tomorrow."

"I'm not exactly dressed for the park..." Why am I resisting? I couldn't stop thinking about him when I got back last night, and now here he is. What is wrong with me?

"So go get changed. Che and I can wait--we're both very patient when we have to be, right, Che?" The dog gives a bark of agreement, and suddenly her mind is made up. "All right, OK! I'll go to the park with you...and your little dog, too. I'll be right back."

And, despite all of her fears, it was as simple as that.