A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reading this story, and thank you to all of you leaving reviews - they are very much appreciated! I know some of you are questioning the jump in Flack and Stella's relationship, as it may have seemed to come out of left field. Just keep in mind that we are about a year and a half ahead of the show's timeline (stopping with episode 5.04, the last one to air before I started writing this), so there is a lot that has happened that we haven't seen yet. There will be plenty of flashbacks over the next few chapters - beginning with this one - so hopefully some things will start making more sense as you read those.

As always, please feel free to ask any questions you want in the reviews - I can't guarantee that I'll be able to answer all of them (I don't want to give too much away!), but sometimes knowing what you guys are most curious about helps me figure out which pieces to deal with first. For example, several of you asked about who Allie was, so I made sure to include that piece in this chapter rather than holding it back for later. So please let me know what you think, because I do take your comments into consideration!

"Married," Danny muttered as he shook his head in disbelief, watching Flack talking with a surgical nurse across the room. "Flack is married?"

"I think you said that already, Danny," Lindsay observed, shifting uncomfortably on the cold plastic seat in the surgical waiting room. "Seriously, if they know people are going to be waiting out here for hours, couldn't they at least put a cushion on these chairs?"

"We've only been here ten minutes, Lindsay," Hawkes pointed out.

"And they're already uncomfortable," Lindsay said. "That's a pretty bad sign if you ask me."

"As I recall, the waiting room down in labor and delivery isn't much better," Mac informed her. "And we sat there all day waiting for you, Lindsay."

"Well, excuse me for not pushing faster," Lindsay retorted. "Trust me, if I could have gotten it over with sooner, I would have. No one in their right mind would want twenty-nine hours of labor, Mac."

"Believe me, she's right," Danny said. "It exhausted me and all I had to do was hold her hand."

"Didn't she break two of your fingers?" Hawkes asked.

"That is completely beside the point," Lindsay said defensively.

"It was worth it, anyway," Danny assured her. "Broken fingers or not, that was the best day of my life…"

"One more push, Lindsay," the doctor said encouragingly. "You're almost there, I promise…just give me one more push."

"I can't," Lindsay moaned, shaking her head weakly. "I can't do it."

"Breathe for me, baby," Danny said, squeezing her hand gently as he grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from her brow. "I know it hurts, and I know you're tired, but you can do this."

"No, Danny," Lindsay said, shaking her head again. "I can't…I don't have anything left to give."

"Lindsay, I need you to push on the count of three," the doctor said. "You have to do this, Lindsay."

"Montana, look at me…no, not over there, at me," Danny insisted, his hand guiding her face toward his until their eyes met. "We're going to do this, okay? You and me, we're going to do this, just one last time…just focus on me. Can you do that?"

Lindsay nodded weakly, her eyes not leaving Danny's face as the doctor's count reached 'three' and she let out an agonizing scream, only stopping when her screams were met by the soft wails of a newborn child.

"Congratulations," the doctor smiled as he looked up at Danny and Lindsay. "It's a girl."

"You hear that, Montana?" Danny laughed. "You did it…we have a daughter."

"A girl," Lindsay sighed happily, her head collapsing on the pillows behind her as a nurse wrapped the baby in a blanket and brought her over for Lindsay to hold.

"Do we have a name yet?" the nurse asked. "Don't worry if you don't. We can just put 'Baby Girl Monroe' on the name card for now."

"No," Lindsay said, her eyes not leaving her baby. "She's a Messer…my baby's a Messer."

"Lindsay," Danny said softly, his voice heavy with emotion. "Are you sure? I thought you said you wanted her to be a Monroe."

"I know what I said, Danny," Lindsay said. "But…just look at her. She's the spitting image of you, Danny. This girl's a Messer."

"Alright, does 'Baby Girl Messer' have a name?" the nurse asked.

"Allison," Lindsay said. "Allison Stella Messer."

"It's about damn time," Flack said as the team stood up and crowded toward Danny when he walked into the waiting room with Allison cradled in his arms.

"Hey, watch your language, buddy," Danny scolded. "My daughter doesn't need to start learnin' to swear just yet."

"How's Lindsay?" Stella asked.

"She's good," Danny said. "Tired, but happy. They've got her restin' now. I just figured you all might like to meet Allie before they take her up to the nursery."

"Allie?" Mac asked.

"Guys, I want you to meet Allison Stella Messer," Danny said proudly.

"Danny…" Stella said softly, covering her mouth in surprise.

"You've been a real good friend to Lindsay," Danny said. "She said she couldn't think of a better way to honor that than to give Allie her godmother's name as a middle name."

"Hey, I'm the godfather," Flack said. "Does that mean if it'd been a boy, you'd have named him after me?"

"Um…no," Danny said, shaking his head as the rest of the team laughed. "Not a chance in hell, buddy…"

"I wonder if they were together then," Danny said. "For all we know, they were married already and we didn't even know it."

"They weren't," Lindsay said quietly.

"You knew?" Mac asked.

"Well, I didn't know then," Lindsay said. "Not that there was really much to know at that point, I guess. But yeah, I figured it out eventually."

Don sighed as he returned to the waiting room after checking in with the surgical nurse. The team seemed to be engrossed in conversation on the other side of the room, and he wasn't sure he wanted to interrupt them only to be deluged by questions he wasn't up to answering.

Sinking into a seat across the room from the team, he closed his eyes as he ran his fingers over the edges of Stella's wedding ring in his pocket.

"So, can I tell Mom that you got married without telling her?" Samantha asked as she slipped into the seat next to Don. "Man, her face is gonna be priceless, Don. Hell, this could even beat the time that Bobby "forgot" to tell her he was moving to California!"

"Sam…" Don sighed.

"Okay, fine," Samantha conceded. "You can tell her, then. But you'd better do it soon, because Jimmy Duncan works at the twenty-sixth and I saw him downstairs. When he hears about this and tells his mother…well, you know Mrs. Duncan won't care that it's three in the morning, she'll call Mom."

"I don't care," Don said. "Honestly, Marla Duncan and her big mouth are the least of my worries right now, Sam."

"Right," Sam nodded. "So, you really got married? Seriously?"

"Yeah," Don said. "Seriously."

"Wow," Sam marveled. "How long have I had a sister and didn't even know it?"

"Excuse me?" Don asked in confusion.

"Well, if you're married, that makes your wife my sister…well, sister-in-law, I guess, but whatever," Sam said. "I always wanted a sister, you know. Remember how you used to help me write those letters to Santa every year, begging him to bring me a sister? How long have I had one that you didn't even bother to tell me about?"

"Seven months next week," Don said.

"Seven months?!" Samantha repeated in shock. "Damn, Don…what the hell was with all the secrecy?"

"It seems stupid now," Don said. "We were worried that it would affect our work, that people would talk…well, lately it was more just me that was worried, actually. Stella was ready to tell people."

"Stella…wait, she's the one from the crime lab…the one who came to all my court dates, right?" Samantha asked. "The one with the curly hair who always sat two rows behind you?"

"Yeah, that's Stella," Don said.

"You did good with that one, Donnie," Samantha said, clearly impressed. "She seemed smart and down-to-earth…which is a hell of a lot more than I could say about most of your girlfriends. I liked her a lot. How'd you get a girl like that to go out with you, let alone marry you?"

"Very funny," Don said dryly. "For what it's worth, though, she likes you too. Well, most of the time she likes you."

"When doesn't she like me?" Samantha asked. "Is it because of that whole getting arrested thing?"

"She doesn't like you when we're fighting," Don said.

"Well that doesn't make any sense," Samantha said. "She gets mad at you, so she suddenly doesn't like me?"

"She always says you're kind of the reason we got together in the first place," Don said. "So when things are good, she likes you for that. And when they're not, she doesn't."

"I got you together with your wife?" Samantha asked, smiling slightly. "I know I'm pretty good…but how'd I pull that one off?"

"You got arrested," Don said, his mind flashing back to that fateful night…

Stella Bonasera sighed as she walked into the dimly lit bar and spotted him slumped over a table in a dark corner of the room, slowly nursing a glass of whiskey. Shaking her head, she quickly made her way across the room to him.

"Hey," she said softly, slipping in beside him in the booth.

Glancing up, Don Flack mentally kicked himself. He had known that his coworkers would come looking for him as soon as they heard the news about Samantha, but he had thought he'd come to the one bar that none of them knew he frequented. He had somehow managed to forget that he'd once brought Stella here when he'd wanted to help her unwind after a particularly difficult case without the rest of the team hovering in the background.

"What are you doing here, Stella?" he asked gruffly, turning his attention back to his drink.

"You had a rough day," Stella shrugged. "I figured you could use a friend."

"Rough?" Don scoffed. "Stella, rough doesn't even come close. My little sister is in jail right now, waiting to be arraigned on murder charges. Murder, Stella, they're charging her with first degree murder. Hellish, nightmarish, worst day of my life – those might apply. Rough, though, that would be the understatement of the year."

"I'm sorry," Stella said, at a loss for how to comfort him.

"She didn't do it, Stella," Don said quietly. "I'd still be pissed at everyone for arresting her if she had done it, but I'd understand. But she's innocent, Stella. Damn it, she didn't kill that guy…I just don't know how to get anyone to believe that."

"I believe it," Stella said, placing her hand on top of Don's.

"You do?" Don asked in surprise. "I know you, Stella – you're all about the evidence. If I were just looking at the evidence, I'd probably think she did it too. You don't have to lie to make me feel better."

"You're right, I believe in the evidence, but there are different sorts of evidence, Don," Stella said. "Sure, there's the physical evidence from the crime, but sometimes there's something more important…I believe in character evidence too."

"Right," Don said, chuckling slightly. "And what exactly has Samantha done to impress you with her good character? Loaning her car to a practical stranger who ended up being an accomplice in a bank robbery? Dating a crack dealer? Or maybe it was when the key to her apartment turned up halfway down a dead guy's throat in Jersey City?"

"I'm not talking about her character, Don," Stella clarified. "I'm talking about yours."

"Mine?" Don asked in confusion.

"You're one of the good guys, Don," Stella said. "And believe me, speaking from personal experience, there aren't too many of you left out there. I've seen you sacrifice friendship for the truth before. You've put your neck on the line to the right thing more times than I can count. I trust you, and I trust your judgment, Don. If you tell me that you don't believe Samantha killed that man, then that's what I believe."

"Stella Bonasera, I never figured you for the sentimental type," Don teased.

"Yeah, well, don't think I couldn't still kick your ass, Detective, because I could," Stella said.

"I have no doubt about that," Don said, signaling to the bartender to bring him another drink.

"Give me your keys," Stella said, calmly but with a force in her tone.

"Why?" Don asked.

"I'm not going to ask you how many of those you've had, or how many you're planning on having," Stella said. "After went you went through today, if you need to get drunk, it's not my place to stop you. As your friend, though, I'm going to take your keys and I'm going to sit here with you until you tell me you've had enough, and then I will make sure you get home safely."

"I take it you know which one's mine?" Don asked as he placed his keys in her hand.

"I know," Stella said, quickly pocketing the keys.

"You know, for a guy who had as many whiskeys as you did, you sure don't seem all that drunk," Stella commented as she and Flack waited for the elevator in his building.

"I'm Irish, what do you expect?" Don laughed. "I can hold my liquor better than most men. I'll let you in on a secret, though."

"Oh?" Stella asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm very good at not acting drunk," Don said, leaning in just a bit too close, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down Stella's spine. "But the headache I'll have in the morning would probably rival having your skull crushed by a semi."

"I'll just take your word on that," Stella said as the two of them stepped into the elevator. "Which floor are you?"

"Seven," Don said, leaning back against the elevator wall, taking a long look at Stella. In his head, she was the type of woman who was so far out of his league, he shouldn't even be bothering to look. Most days, he was surprisingly successful at quelling the thoughts before they managed to take hold in his mind. Tonight, though, he figured the alcohol must have weakened his resolve, because as he stood there watching her rock slightly from one foot to the other as the floors ticked by, it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her into his arms right there in the elevator.

The feelings didn't subside as he followed her down the hall to his apartment door and watched her slip his key into the lock. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help but think of how blissful it would be to forget everything had happened that day and just lose himself in Stella.

"Don?" Stella said gently, her voice startling him out of his thoughts. "Are you coming in?"

Stella gently placed a hand on Don's upper arm, leading him toward the door. There was no way she could have known it, but in Don's mind, the touch sent shockwaves through his body and seemed to rid him of every ounce of self-control he had left.

As he leaned toward her, Stella's startled gasp was lost as his mouth covered hers and his arms snaked their way around her waist, pulling her flush with his body.

Stella knew the moment his lips met hers that she should pull away. She knew that Don was drunk, she knew that he was in pain and she knew that if she let things escalate, he would regret her in the morning.

"Don…" she gasped as they pulled apart, both breathless from the sheer intensity of the kiss. "We shouldn't…"

Don bent his head down and once again captured her lips with his, effectively silencing her as his tongue ravenously explored her mouth. "I need this, Stella," he whispered in a pleading tone that made Stella's heart break. "Please, help me forget."

Stella's mind worked in overdrive as she tried to process her options. Don was her friend, sure, but she'd have had to deny her own womanhood to say that she'd never fantasized about him. They worked together, though, and as much as they both might want this, she couldn't think of anything that made a working relationship more awkward than a messy one night stand. She briefly considered the fact that the last time she'd been with a man, it had been nearly two years earlier, back when she still thought Frankie Mala was a good guy. But as Don's mouth travelled down toward her neck, she found herself left with just one thought: that no matter how messy tomorrow might be, no matter what regrets the morning might bring, Don wasn't the only one who desperately wanted this tonight.

"Okay," she whispered, her hands snaking their way into Don's hair and pulling him closer to her. "Okay, Don."

That was all the encouragement that Don needed as he took the lead and clumsily pushed Stella into the apartment. There was nothing gentle about the way he pressed her body into the back of the door, slamming it shut as he pinned her beneath his arms. There was nothing loving in the way his kisses attacked her body, nothing slow or caring in the way he tore madly at her clothing. Stella knew as well as he did that tonight wasn't about love. Tonight, Stella accepted that it was not about her, not about what she might have wanted from him. This was about Don, about easing his pain and helping him forget, even if it was only for one night. This was about what he wanted, even as she feared that the morning could only bring regret for at least one of them.

Don groaned as he rolled over in bed, his arm hitting the mattress where he had expected to find a warm body. As he squinted into the bright sunlight that was streaming into his apartment, he wondered if his memories of the night before were all in his head. Had things really gone that far?

As he rolled back to the other side, he found a bottle of Tylenol waiting on his bedside table with a glass of water, but he forced himself out of bed without taking anything, determined that he could handle a simple hangover headache without any sort of help.

Stumbling his way into the kitchen to start his coffeemaker, Don smiled when he found a fresh pot already waiting for him and a handwritten note taped to the machine.

Don,

Don't be a hero – get back in there and take the damn painkillers. Trust me, you'll be glad you did, and so will everyone who doesn't have to listen to you complain at work this afternoon. I called the station and told them you wouldn't be in until one.

Stella

P.S. You ripped my new shirt, so I took one of your jackets. I figured it was only fair.

Don couldn't help but laugh slightly at how well she seemed to know him, even as he continued to wonder exactly where the events of the previous night had left the two of them. Sighing, he set the note down on the counter and made his way back into the bedroom to find the bottle of Tylenol.

Glancing into his closet, he shook his head when he realized that his favorite vintage New York Yankees jacket was missing. The jacket was slightly big on him, so he could only imagine how it hung on her small frame. Still, the thought of Stella walking around New York City in his jacket made him smile, as though that jacket had somehow marked her as his, even if only for a night.