A/N: So coming off an incredible few months of almost daily writing on Body Count, I figured I couldn't stop so here's a short one about a lonely Detective on a Friday night.

Inspired by Adriana Evans - Looking for your love and written for SWWoman, Killer Mike's Biggest Fan, Aqua95 and QueenJessicaPearson who've reminded me that it' not a choice to write, it's just who I am.

As always, enjoy x

Friday 17th April 2014, 7.45pm, 8th Precinct

It had been a month since she walked through those hallowed doors to regain her gun and badge. Initially greeted by whispers, hushed voices and avoidant glances about the Death of HR and the War on Carter, it seemed the buzz was dying down like the story had in the newspapers. She thought she'd made it through the day without hearing about it until someone made the mistake of murmuring the name Simmons in her presence. Without thinking she dropped the paper cup of black coffee at the machine, staining her tan leather boots. Sure, Fusco had brought him into custody, but the broken ribs and dislocated jaw were deemed excessive and according to the visiting Detective with the big mouth, word on the cell block was, it wasn't over. All she knew of his location was he was out of state in a maximum security prison, not that she asked. She slept much better at night knowing that, the last thing she needed to hear was rumours about another HR uprising.

"You okay, Carter?" Fusco asked, glaring at Detective Jordan who he recognised from the days when he was on the take.

"I'm fine." She replied, wiping off her boots at her desk. "Maybe it's a sign I should give up coffee."

"No, it's a sign you should get outta here while you still can." He suggested, knowing if she didn't leave before him she'd probably stay all night. He didn't bother asking her if she had any plans for the night; he knew she was flying solo as usual.

She tossed the damp napkins in the waste bin and looked over her latest report; when the same sentence appeared three times and she knew it was time to throw in the towel. "I guess you're right." She threw her gym bag over her shoulder and turned in for the night.

She fished around in her pocket for her car keys but it was no use, the car door was already slightly wedged open. Looking around the well-lit street, she couldn't see anyone suspicious. There was no visible damage under the hood either. She sat in the front seat but didn't turn on the ignition; she listened silently for the ticking sound of a bomb when all she heard was the light ticking of a watch. "John," She called. "When I said I always saw you in the back seat of my car, this isn't what I meant."

She caught his signature smirk and stare in the rear-view mirror. "What? No handcuffs?"

She rolled her eyes and didn't respond. "I was heading home. You need a ride?"

"No. I came to help you out, Carter."

She turned her head to face him. "And what makes you think I need help?"

"They tell me you haven't been out or had any fun since you got back on the streets."

She raised an eyebrow. "Who told you? Finch? Fusco? Shaw?"

He smiled, he knew she'd react this way. "I know what it's like trying to get back into civilian life. I came to help you out. It's still Friday night, we could do something."

"You came to ask me out?" She asked, hopefully.

"I came to keep you company." He replied.

For some reason, she felt let down by his response. "Thanks, John, but I'm okay. And Paul's dropping Taylor off on Saturday so I'll be fine."

He reached for the car handle. "I'll leave you alone if you want. But something tells me that you don't."

"Carter." She said, simply. "You still call me Carter, but you want to spend the night with me?"

There went that smirk again, whenever it appeared she felt like she was in on the joke with him, a willing accomplice in a juvenile prank. "I never said anything about spending the night but if that's what you want, I'll oblige."

"Get out of my car, John." She said, looking away and turning the ignition.

For once he did as she asked, but he wasn't giving up that easily.