AN: Hey! So, this is a second-person one-shot of Amanda Rollins pre-Gambler's Fallacy (and I suppose, towards the end we dip into the episode as it shows the unofficial extended cut of the first scene). Anyway, this is written as a stand-alone fic but it's *really* a companion fic to Ruined By Redemption. In fact the second act of this story (the one that happens 2 months earlier), was part of chapter 4 of RBR. So if you want to see that play out from Nick's perspective, go check it out. You don't have to read RBR to understand what's going on here, but if you like this then maybe give that one a chance and give it some love, yeah?

Title and {lyrics} are from Born to Die by Lana Del Rey. Please read, enjoy, and review!

{feet don't fail me now
take me to the finish line}

Running outside after last night's downpour is a stupid idea. The rain has thawed the snow into black ice, turning the pavement into a life insurance payout. Regardless of the potential hazard, you take off as your tired legs carry you around your neighborhood. Over the six-story walk-ups and behind the gray mist, you witness the first hints of daybreak. You squint your eyes at the rays of the sun, narrowly missing the patch of ice that sends you waving your arms to maintain your balance. "Shit," you breathe out once you find your footing, mentally dusting off the embarrassment from your lack of grace and finesse. Paying more attention to the sidewalk this time, you resume with your morning jog. But when you see the unmistakable sheen of ice on your direct path, you don't slow down; in fact, you pick up your speed. On second thought, running outside in these conditions may not be the dumbest idea after all.

You could stand to learn a thing or two from your baby sister for once. Maybe she wasn't way off thinking she could profit from her abusive ex' life insurance policy. And it's not like you're hoping to slip and croak on the sidewalk… maybe, cash in on an 'accidental' injury. Lord knows you could really use the money.

You keep receiving these bank statements in the mail, even though you've set up online banking as your default. You thought ticking that option that meant going paperless, and if you didn't have to see those envelopes collect on your coffee table then you figured it'd be easier to ignore them. 'Out of sight, out of mind', right?

The letters from the bank may as well be written in red ink and all-caps just to reiterate how royally fucked you are. The sweet lady, who handles your account at Bank of America, has already called a few times about the large withdrawals from your savings account. "Ms. Rollins, I noticed some suspicious activity on your account and I'm just conducting a routine call to make sure you are aware of it." Of course you're aware of it. You're the one keying in your four-digit pin and pulling out stacks of twenties from the ATM. You're the one driving to Atlantic City with your hard-earned wage, and coming to the 1-6 the following morning with empty pockets and a killer hangover.

It wasn't always like that though. You swear there were nights you were winning – times you felt the rush after peeking at your cards and seeing them add up to 21, times when you were pulling a plastic chip from the growing stack and shuffling it between your fingers. But that euphoric high dissolved, replaced by the choking defeat that goes hand in hand with addiction.

Your usual haunt at the Jersey strip was starting to notice your losses and ignoring those sporadic wins, which were just enough to pay for gas and buy you that Venti Pike that fuelled your workday. You tried other places, but the same thing happened. They caught wind of the fact that you were in the hole, and suddenly the dealers just weren't as friendly anymore.

Whatever. It's the casinos' loss anyway. You found a spot closer to home that doesn't give a rat's ass about your track record or finances. It's an underground gambling club at this abandoned shipyard. Most people go there for the anonymity; while others, like yourself, are former Atlantic City regulars who got just a little too out of control for state-sanctioned gambling. In a way, it's a blessing in disguise because within your first few nights at the club, you feel like luck is finally back on your side. Just last week, you were on a winning streak. And while it wasn't enough to get you out of the red with your bank, it was enough to settle your debts (and settle the score) with your former GA sponsor slash ex-boyfriend.

There's a buzz to knowing you're playing cards where you shouldn't be. You're surrounded by the big boys – the serious players, who aren't just doing this as a playful pit stop before hitting the strip club for a bachelorette party. There's nothing that grinds your gears more than seeing a group of grown women, calling each other bitches and shrieking a strained falsetto when they win your money. You know these women are going to wake up at noon the next day, with their cocktail-induced hangovers, and reminisce about their fun, once-in-a-lifetime experience. Meanwhile, you're running on fumes, and hearing the shuffle of cards in your ear instead of the confession that's spilling out of your suspect's mouth. Your conscience repeats one of the twelve steps of your program (or one of Nate's empty mantras) every time you knock your knuckles on the table and say, "Hit me."

You're aware that your addiction is getting out of hand. You're a smart girl and you know, from firsthand experience, that gambling is not going to get you out of the hole. But that principled, naïve girl isn't in control right now; it's like she's outside your body, watching you squander all that progress away. She comes out when you're at work and your anxiety is through the roof – so exhaustively conscious of how the rest of the team sees you. Liv, who used to be on your case about showing up late to work, is now nit-picking about you pulling in more overtime. You just can't please her. And Fin – well, he usually has a don't-ask-don't-tell policy when it comes to your personal lives (maybe with the exception of Nate; he's made it perfectly clear he doesn't trust the guy). But he's already made a few offhand comments about how you're so strung out. A month ago, he even passed on the message that Nick was concerned you had a problem.

Nick. You hate yourself a little bit for feeling just as paranoid as the guy, but you can't help feeling that he's catching on to you. He knows something's up but he must be too much of a wimp to say it; perhaps, in fear that you'll chew him out again. Who knows, maybe he's learned his lesson about going undercover at an AA meeting and spying on your then-boyfriend. But part of you just wishes he would just come out and say what's on his mind, instead of being so goddamn well behaved and pretending everything's peachy. You know this isn't the real Nick. This is Nick post-shooting – the version of himself that sits on his hands afraid of getting into hot water with the department. But the thin veneer of professional boundaries is slowly cracking like cheap, weathered paint.

As much as you don't want to admit it, you know the only reason he's getting under your skin is because of the implicit attraction between you two. When it's just you and Nick under the dim yellow lights of The Lion's Head Tavern, there's an atmosphere of flirtation and impropriety. And although you keep telling yourself that you're not going to let him play this back-and-forth game with you and his wife, you still see him for after-hours drinks. And although you keep trying to convince yourself that the spontaneous kiss back in January would never happen again, you still keep finding yourself inches away from recreating that vivid memory. One of your mama's warnings echoes in your ears, "Mandy, y'now you shouldn't be playin' with fire, but you still keep pourin' on that gasoline."

{come and take a walk on the wild side
let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain
you like your girls insane }

Two months earlier

Painting your co-worker's stoop in the middle of a polar vortex is not how you imagined your evening panning out. But you have no complaints, because the conversation is actually quite nice and the company isn't half-bad either.

Even after facing the grand jury and having the charges dropped, Nick still hasn't had the warmest reception from the public. The squad is the only one who seems to be in his corner. He tries to put up this strong front like he's unaffected by the mud slinging, but you can see through it. In a way, you understand what it feels like to have people twist your side of the story just so it fits into their schema of how things are supposed to be and who people truly are. You know Nick probably has enough self-pity to last him for a while, but you can't help but feel sorry for him. It's a messy situation, and it's unfortunate what happened to Yusef Barre, but Nick doesn't deserve the public's scrutiny and vitriol.

So, when he nonchalantly informs you that some unidentified punk spray-painted 'KKK' on his stoop, you offer to help.

And here you are now, wearing one of his old puffy jackets from his undercover days, because he doesn't want you getting paint on your winter coat. He lives up to the idea of a chivalrous gentleman stuck in the 20th century, way too thoughtful for modern times. Nick paints over the red tag in right to left strokes. You feel your lips tug at the corners, forming an impish smirk, as you drag the roller from the left corner down to the opposite side in a defiant diagonal.

"Come on. Right to left, Amanda," he groans. "Get with the program."

"It's the first coat," you chuckle mischievously. He makes it so easy; it's fun teasing someone so tightly wound… someone who tries to be so textbook perfect all the time. "Chill, Picasso."

He runs the roller, with a thick coat of gray paint, over the mess you just made. "You know," he begins to say; and then he catches you completely off guard with the rest of his response. "Technically, your method is more like Picasso's while I was going for more of Mondrian's style."

"Who are you?"

Nick stops the project and looks up to mirror your furrowed brows. "I took an art history class in college."

"You are such a dork," you tell him; and before you can talk yourself out of your next move, you flick the paint roller in his direction. The paint streaks across his jacket, a splotch of gray landing on his left cheek. Your cheeks all the way to the tips of your ears feel like they're one fire. He opens his mouth in surprise, before he lifts his roller slowly off the ground. His dark eyes narrow at you. "Sorry," you plead, as you crinkle your nose and close your eyes, pulling away to brace yourself for Nick's revenge.

But nothing happens. And when you peek from one eye, you see Nick biting down on his bottom lip as if he's trying to suppress that rare toothy grin. You remove your gloves and throw them down on your lap. Reaching up to his face, you wipe off the paint from his cheek but you only make it worse, spreading it around to cover more area. Grimacing, you pull away slightly to study another mess you made that stands in the need of a shameful apology. But you're stunted the second you catch those deep pools staring right back at you. His head leans against the palm of your hand as your eyes thoughtlessly drift down to his slightly parted mouth. He inches in closer, slowly and carefully; waiting for the green light in your features – that inquiry of consent that's been so few and far between in your lifetime.

You don't come closer but your lashes flutter over your eyes, sealing them into darkness until the only thing you can feel is Nick's lips brushing against yours. You press a little harder on his cheek as your tongue slips into his mouth, and he tilts his head to deepen the contact. He cups your jaw and his strong chest gently pushes you up against the iron banister. The liquid heat running through your veins sharply contrasts the bitter chill of the January air. Finally, you release a satiated moan that he stifles with a kiss

"Fuck." Nick pulls away, and your chest heaves at the abrupt loss of warmth. It's like someone's just ripped the wool blanket from your chattering bones. He goes from shock to a genuine expression of apology, and that's when you realize he regrets it. You lower your head just to keep yourself from looking at his sad eyes. And, shit… Suddenly, it's so hard to breathe with your back still pressed up against the banister and his body a few inches away from yours.

"I'm so sorry," he begs and reaches out to you. Waving his hand off, you, then, cross your arms over your body and squeeze protectively over your frame. He can't touch you. No. He's not going to get to do those things to you and just leave you high and dry like some rejected fool. "Shit," he curses, running his hands over his face. "I didn't mean to do that."

"Yeah, I get it! It was a mistake."

"It's not you, Amanda…" he trails off. "You know why we can't do this." And you wish he would just stop talking - stop overthinking and rationalizing every single little thing. This is what he does. He goes in without any regard for consequences because he has the impulse control of a six-year-old child, and then wallows in his own sea of despair five seconds later because he knows he screwed up. And he proves it right when he finally tells you why, exactly, you can't be kissing your colleague on his front porch. "I can't afford to fuck up with the department again."

You laugh wryly. "Oh, so this is about you and your reputation?"

He clasps his hands behind his neck and exhales deeply, a puff of smoke floating through lips you've just tasted. "I'm sorry," he says. "That's not what I meant. What I was trying to say is that we both know we can't do this if we both want to keep our jobs. I'm looking out for your best interest, too."

And that does it. You're not going to sit here, freeze your ass off, and listen to Nick try to convince you (and himself) that he's chickening out for your best interests… for your protection. It's a crock of shit, and if he believes it then, you suppose, you were always right about underestimating him. You nod your head and start to push yourself off the steps. "I'm heading home." Turning on your heel, you look down at the stoop and see no trace of your misaligned paint stroke. He's done a fine job of fixing your mess and pretending you were never here, which is really how it's supposed to be. "Let the first layer dry before you paint over it. Don't fuck this one up too."

You walk back to your truck, turning on the ignition with no real destination in mind. You don't want to go home, which only really leaves one place. It's disappointing because you were secretly hoping that spending time with Nick would be enough of a distraction to keep you on the straight path (at least, for one night), and maybe you'd end up saving yourself from losing another couple hundred dollars. But you should know better than to gamble your spotty sobriety on the plans you make with some guy.

Nick may want to reclaim the reins on his once-spotless record at the expense of looking like a spineless jerk. That's fine. That's on him. He's not worth trying to convince otherwise; and you're not going to waste any more of your time thinking about him… or thinking about how that kiss scares the crap out of you.

Thank the gods who built the Holland Tunnel because it just makes it a lot easier to get to your destination sooner. You could really go for a smoke, a glass of whiskey, and a royal flush in your hands. Boy, are you lucky self-destruction doesn't have a curfew.

{choose your last words
this is the last tie
cause you and I
we were born to die}

"You know, I'll walk you out," Nick says, and you hear the closing of drawers and the dragging of a chair across the floor. Standing frozen in the center of the squad room, you feel as though someone's flipped the off switch on your muscles. But your brain cells keep firing, screaming at you to move it along and to make a break for the elevator before it closes. Then you hear the whip of his jacket. "I'm catching the train to DC to see Zara," he announces to no one in particular, but within earshot of everyone in the bullpen – like he wants them to know how well the restoration of his marriage is going. "Weekend!"

Pasting a smile on your face, you wait until he joins you. His brow arches in sync with a barely conspicuous smirk, which makes him appear like a cocky son of a bitch but also an infuriatingly charming son of a bitch.

You thought you made yourself clear when you announced your plans to head out early so you could beat the traffic and make it to Niagara Falls. But if Nick's expecting you to make a detour to the bar for some TGIF drinks, then he must've gotten his wires crossed, because you're getting out of here whether he likes it or not. The last thing you need is to have another confusing night of after-hours flirtation to screw with your head and sidetrack you from the next win.

But Nick has no interest in stealing you away from your 'romantic' trip with Frannie Mae. In fact, he offers you an alternate route that he promises will shave off at least an hour from your drive. He also seems more excited about this fictional trip than you, listing down all the things normal and polite people say just before seeing someone off for a vacation. "Drive safe. Bring your passport just in case you want to cross the border – and you do, because the Canadian side of the falls is much better… 'Sides, there's really nothing to do in Buffalo… Also, stay away from all the tourist traps, unless you like fudge; then, in that case, go wild."

It's not that you're a terrible liar who can't keep a straight face, but you're not exactly easing into this conversation as well you had hoped. He's asking a few questions; and maybe you could answer them with more than a shrug and an I-don't-know, if you had just bothered to take five minutes to Google 'things to do at Niagara Falls'. As annoying as it is, you can't even hate him because he's not asking to keep you under surveillance; he's genuinely interested and wants to make sure you enjoy, what he calls, 'your well-deserved trip'. Then again, you could be completely off the mark and Nick's got plans to tail your car on an unsanctioned recon mission. Who knows, maybe he's perfected his good cop routine and he's playing you right now.

The elevator stops a floor below and you take a step toward the corner to make room for the slew of people coming in. You sigh, mentally chastising yourself for being just as paranoid as Nick. Maybe he's rubbing off on you (which can't possibly be a good thing), or maybe your vice is gaining on you and threatening to expose itself. Either way, you don't like the feeling and it's only making the itch to play stronger.

Having all those people in the elevator, standing between you and Nick, suspends the conversation. Once you reach the lobby, you hope Nick is done talking your ear off about the wonders and mechanics of hydropower (how he got from talking about fudge to that is mind-boggling, but you suppose it must have something to do with Niagara). Crossing your fingers, you pray that he stops with the questions and personal anecdotes, because you don't know how much more you can take before you come clean and tell him this trip is just a cover for your gambling.

As you two dispel from the crowd, Nick picks right back up from where you left off. "There's this place you need to check out that does tours of hydroelectric power plants –"

"—Nick, uh," you interrupt him just so he drops the topic of your make-believe nature trip. "So… DC again this weekend?"

"Yeah, Zara's class has this wilderness trip tomorrow at Greenbelt Park… Maria was supposed to chaperone but she got called to work on a high-priority project," he says with equal parts skepticism and resentment. You try not to get too excited though; because, although you've seen him talk about Maria before with his voice lacking any sort of emotion, you've also watched him return to her with the simpleminded loyalty of a puppy. Getting invested in Nick's marital status is, not only, confusing for you but you're pretty sure it confuses him, too. He can't make up his damn mind about her, so he still fluctuates between calling her his wife and his ex. And you're just not here for the trials and tribulations of married men; that's never something you would willingly sign up for.

"It's nothing too outdoorsy… I mean, they're going to trek through the woods, learn which berries are safe to eat, and get some training on how to set up camp… But they're not even sleeping outside," he says with a chuckle. "Too much liability for the school… Anyway, it should be fun. Even though I'm going to be the only dad there –"

"—So if I don't see you on Monday, should I question Bambi first or the pack of overzealous soccer moms?"

"Not funny," he says, but the smile and the laugh lines around his eyes betray his words. He glances down at the time on his wrist. "Hey, aren't you trying to beat rush hour?"

"Right," you say as you tuck your hair behind your ears, completely forgetting about your strategy to cut and run as soon as you got outside. Instead, you're standing out on the precinct steps chatting with Nick about your weekend plans. "Yeah, I really need to get going."

"Have a good weekend, Amanda."

"I'll try not to have too much fun," you reply with a smile. "Try to make it back from the wilderness in one piece, ok?"

"Only if you promise to bring me back a souvenir."

"Deal," you say, ignoring that voice in your head calling you a dumbass because – news flash – you aren't actually going to Niagara Falls. You smile to yourself as you turn on your heel and walk across the lot; Nick's footsteps fading in the distance. For the first time in a while, it feels like it's going to be a good weekend. You're feeling like your luck isn't just reserved for the blackjack table anymore. That maybe the stars are aligning to give you something else that arouses the kind of thrill you used to only get from the cards.

"Amanda!"

You turn around to see him standing by his car, his arm resting on the roof. "Yeah?"

"Don't ever call me 'dad' again," he says with a smirk. Cocking your head to the side, you wonder what the hell he's talking about. And then it hits you. Back in the squad room, just a few minutes ago, when he was reminding you to bring travel documentation for Frannie – and you leaned in close to him and whispered, "I got it taken care of, dad."

Twirling your keychain around your finger, you raise your chin and rest one hand on your hip. "Sorry, Nick. But that's a promise I can't keep."