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Scotch Thoughts
The First Time
Lee opened the door to his apartment, placed his umbrella in the corner and took off his heavy double breasted trench coat. He tossed it over a chair and walked to the wet bar to pour himself a scotch on the rocks. With the glass firmly in hand he lowered himself heavily down onto the couch and let out a huge sigh. It was good to be in the comfort of his own surroundings, messy as they were, they were his and he could relax. He would often spend some downtime on the couch with a drink after an especially difficult case. It was good practice for an agent to debrief himself. He would benefit from the time sorting through certain spots to make sure he maintained his objectivity. It was a part of his training.
This case had been a real doozy. What had begun with what should have been a simple drop and a stop to the Agency leak had turned into an all-night pursuit by the KGB, an incomplete drop and a subsequent suspension. And to top it all off he had been kidnapped and almost killed. No wonder he was so off kilter after this one. But once again the Scarecrow had landed on his feet, solved the case and was alive and well. He finished his thoughts with a cleansing breath and prepared to get off the couch to make his evening meal.
The next thought that slammed into him pushed him back into the couch. Mrs. Amanda King. She was the one who had fumbled the drop and their resulting search for the package had gotten him suspended. But he would not have solved the case or be alive and well if it hadn't been for her either. It was true, he had to acknowledge that. That woman was really something…but what? He didn't really know. And in all his years of compartmentalizing his reactions to cases he had no idea what to do with her.
Well, no matter. There was a slim chance next to none that he would ever see her again, let alone have to work with her. He chuckled sardonically at Billy's joke about finding him a partner. That would never happen. Lee liked his life just as it was thank you very much, he was a loner after all. He tipped his head back and drained the rest of the liquid from the glass. Putting the glass down on the coffee table he closed his eyes and prepared to yet again take that final cleansing breath when his senses were ambushed by the feeling of swaying to music and the sight of gazing into a face with beautiful brown eyes framed by soft brown hair. The image caused him to hold the breath without exhaling for a moment longer than necessary, but shaking his head to clear it, he continued, got up and made dinner.
Scarecrow was alive and well.