(I'd actually already written most of this as I was writing the last one, which is why I'm updating so quickly. It may be a while until the next update.)

This chapter jumps around a bit, so I hope you bear with me; it just worked best that way. It starts off as taking place during "Illegitimate" (i.e. set two weeks after the end of the last chapter), then jumps back to the morning after the end of the last chapter, before returning to the "Illegitimate" timeframe. Got it? No, me neither.

The McIntyre case had been frustrating from day one. The cops had screwed up, and had introduced the murder of Norman Lukovitch while they questioned John McIntyre about Ian Dryden. Connie's attempts to step in and prevent the disaster she could see looming had earned her a dressing-down from Anita van Buren and, later, a dressing-down from the judge and a dismissal of the charge against McIntyre. Since then, they'd been gradually building the case against McIntyre for the murder of Lukovitch, and she'd grudgingly forgiven Lupo and Bernard for their misstep. This last had been at Mike's urging as they walked over to the two-seven to meet with the detectives.

(He'd seen her set her jaw as she entered the precinct. As they prepared to exit the elevator, he'd put a hand on her arm.

"I take it you're still pissed with Lupo and Bernard." he'd said.

She shook her head, tightly. "If they'd at least apologize for their mistake instead of acting like nothing had happened, I'd be okay. I'm the one who took the hit in that courtroom, Mike. They got to just sit there and watch and then act surprised by it all."

Mike removed his hand from her arm and held the elevator door. "If it's an apology you're after, you might be waiting a while. The best you're going to get is an acknowledgement. You get that, and I'd let it go."

She'd muttered something under her breath that made clear she considered this unlikely. A few minutes later, when she'd given Lupo hard glare, she'd been rewarded with a chagrined expression and their admission that they'd tried to give her the best case possible. Tried and failed. Mike had shot Connie a pointed look and she'd relented and accepted the detectives' olive branch. From there, her frustrations with the case had eased somewhat.)

Now as she politely sipped coffee from a delicate bone china cup, she had a feeling her blood pressure was about to rise yet again. She was seated across from Lois McIntyre, the mother of John Jay McIntyre, and the possible mistress of JFK – or so John McIntyre hoped. She and Mike had hoped to confirm or exclude McIntyre's basis for believing himself to be the illegitimate son of JFK. Unfortunately, Mrs. McIntyre, clad in a diaphanous leopard-print blouse and overpowering the room with the scent of Chanel No.5, was less interested in cooperating than she was in being coy. Their questions about her son's parentage were being parried at every turn, and Connie was beginning to get a headache, both from the perfume and from the effort to stay polite. And if I'm having difficulty keeping my cool, she thought, Mike must at the end of his rope. She glanced over at him quickly. He looked calm enough, but he was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on Mrs. McIntyre, focusing intently.

Connie returned her own gaze to Mrs. McIntyre. The roundabout approach definitely wasn't working. Mrs. McIntyre seemed determined to wring every last bit of ambiguity out of the situation, and quite obviously adored the attention. She batted her eyelashes and simpered at them, dreamily recalling her night at a fundraiser for Kennedy's presidential campaign.

Connie suppressed a sigh and decided in favor of a bit more directness. "Mrs. McIntyre," she began cautiously, "I'm sorry for being so blunt, but…did you have an intimate encounter with President Kennedy?"

Mrs. McIntyre seemed unbothered. "I told you," she reminded Connie, and as if speaking to a small child, "he wasn't President when I met him."

Mike shifted in his seat, and Connie could feel the exasperation radiating off him as Mrs. McIntyre began to wax lyrical about JFK. The older woman had just offered her opinion that JFK was "an irresistible man," when Mike interrupted her musings.

"Yes or no, Mrs. McIntyre," he said slowly, no longer hiding the irritation in his voice, "did you have sex with John Kennedy?"

Under other circumstances, Connie might have found Mrs. McIntyre's reaction entertaining – her flirtatious, mock-offended, oh-you-naughty-boy response to Mike's bluntness, contrasting neatly with the total lack of amusement on Mike's part. I always wondered what people meant when they talked about someone having a case of the vapors, she thought. She'll be calling for her smelling salts any second now.

She shook herself out of these thoughts just as Mrs. McIntyre informed them that she wasn't "the type to kiss and tell." Connie could almost hear Mike snap. He shot her a look (That's it. I'm done. She's all yours.) cleared his throat, and stood up, moving to look out the window.

"This is a criminal investigation." Connie said, trying to maintain an even tone, and deciding at last to pull out the big guns. "We can compel you answer the question."

This tack had only slightly more success. Lois McIntyre seemed unruffled by the threat, although she did hint that although she would have slept with JFK – had the opportunity presented itself – she had not. Connie felt a wave of relief wash over her at the prospect of leaving. The perfume was making her nauseous, and the coffee wasn't sitting right, probably because she'd drunk it on an empty stomach. She hadn't had much of an appetite for the past couple of weeks.

A few minutes later, during which Mike alternated between shaking his head and staring out the window, and tapping on his Blackberry, Connie rose, shook Mrs. McIntyre's hand and thanked her for her time. She and Mike were escorted to the door by her maid. Connie put on her coat, and waited until the door had closed behind them before letting out a low whistle. Mike leaned against the wall, resting the back of his head against it and closing his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he managed.

Connie chuckled.

He turned towards her and pushed himself off the wall. "I'm not sure who's more delusional, Mrs. McIntyre or her son."

"At least she hasn't killed anyone."

"She nearly killed me in there."

They walked towards the elevator and waited for it to arrive. Connie raised a hand to her temple and rubbed gently. "Perfume headache," she explained in response to Mike's inquiring look. He nodded understandingly, and they lapsed into silence. It wasn't until the elevator was slowly making its way down to the lobby that he spoke next.

"Intimate encounter?"

Connie turned to gape at him. He was looking straight-ahead, a half-smile playing about his face. "Excuse me?" she said politely.

"You, talking to Blanche DuBois up there," he replied. "Hell of a euphemism, Connie. Very delicate of you."

She relaxed. "We can't all be bulldozers," she said, then giggled in spite of herself. "I really thought she was going to faint when you cut straight to the chase like that."

"Swoon," Mike corrected. "Women like that don't faint, they swoon." He glanced over at her. "Actually," he said, and now his voice was tinged with something different, something that made her blush slightly, "hearing you use the phrase 'intimate encounter' was easily the highlight of that whole conversation."

"Behave yourself, counselor."

"I always do."

The elevator doors opened and he moved aside to let her past. They stepped out into the winter cold, Connie relishing the crispness of the air, and feeling her headache begin to dissolve as they walked in the direction of the downtown 6 train. It seemed too much to hope that the hiccups they'd encountered in the case thus far would suddenly vanish, but with any luck the whole thing would be a little less like a visit to Bellevue. The wind began to pick up and she shivered. She felt Mike's hand on her back as they crossed the intersection, and gave him a quick smile. The hand briefly trailed down her back a few inches and she was momentarily puzzled by her competing desires to bat him away and, at the same time, to dispel the cold by moving closer. Still, she thought to herself, what would it be but simply the latest example of the ambiguity that had defined their interactions for the past couple of weeks?

*****

Two weeks earlier

The morning after the end of the Klein case, Jack's welcome back party, and – oh yes – the fifteen or so minutes spent making out with Mike on his desk, Connie made sure she was at work even earlier than usual. Mike, she suspected, was not a morning person, and she wanted – needed, for reasons she could not quite explain – to be at her desk before him. Although she was an early riser by nature, getting in to work early on that particular morning proved difficult. She'd spent the most of the night pacing her bedroom (as her sister snoozed on the pull-out couch on the other side of the wall), trying to accept the fact that what she'd suspected would eventually happen between her and Mike, had happened. Once she'd managed to do that, she'd then spent the remainder of the night trying to work out how she felt about it. This, as it turned out, was no small task.

Nonetheless, she managed to get to work twenty minutes ahead of her usual time, determined to Behave Normally. To her frustration, however, she arrived at her desk to see the light already on in Mike's office. She could faintly hear his half of a telephone conversation and, apparently taking advantage of Ida's absence in the adjoining office, the repeated thwack of a ball as he threw it against the wall and caught it. She switched on her computer, the light over her desk, and began unpacking her files for the day. Her day calendar reminded her that she had two arraignments to attend that morning, and she winced at the prospect of speaking in court – even for a routine matter – on two hours of sleep.

Glancing at her watch, she realized that she hadn't even had her morning coffee. Despite her determination to Behave Normally, she realized she'd already broken the routine she'd fallen into over the past year, in which she picked up two coffees in the morning: one for her and one for Mike. After lunch she usually picked up three: for her, for Mike, and for Jack.

("I don't do this because I'm your assistant, you know," she'd told Mike once, after she'd gone to a different coffee cart and he'd emerged from his office complaining that the coffee tasted burnt. "I do it because I'm nice."

"A nice assistant," he'd agreed. "Seriously, Connie, this is undrinkable."

"I'm sure you'll come up with some way to redress the situation," she'd responded unfeelingly.

Twenty minutes later, he'd left the office and returned with two cups of coffee, one of which he'd wordlessly plunked down on her desk as he passed by.)

She thought it over for a moment before deciding that any deviation from her usual routine would definitely qualify as Not Behaving Normally. She grabbed her purse and coat, went downstairs, and purchased two coffees from the cart in front of the building. When she returned, the thwack of the ball had stopped, as had the phone conversation. She took off her jacket and walked to the door of Mike's office, attempting to look casual, feeling faintly edgy.

He standing at his work table, arranging some papers on it in what she assumed was some sort of logical order. He glanced up as she appeared in the doorway, and she didn't miss the slightly watchful look in his eyes. There was a moment's silence.

"Hi," he said at last, in tones noticeably gentler than the usual, pre-caffeinated, slightly clipped 'G'morning' he typically managed when he breezed past her desk for the first time each day.

"Hey," she responded, holding up one of the cups. "The usual?"

Mike smiled, and she thought she could see relief flash through his eyes. Their routine was undisturbed – no dramatics, no hysteria. Men, Connie thought, inwardly rolling her eyes. She held the coffee out to him.

Mike stepped around from the table to take the cup from her. "Thanks." His fingers brushed hers, and she looked up to see a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, a teasing look in his eyes.

The effect was contagious, and she dropped her gaze and pursed her lips together to stop herself from snickering. (So how are you? Good? Good. Sooooo, twelve hours ago I was unbuttoning your shirt, right? Riiiiight, right. Thought so. How 'bout that, huh?)

She composed herself with an effort. "What?" she asked, innocently.

The grin made a brief, full-fledged appearance before he cleared his throat and turned away, back to his table. "Nothing," he replied, just as innocently, before glancing at his Blackberry and returning to his professional mode. "You have two arraignments this morning?"

Connie mmm'd a response, and he picked up a pen and wrote something on the cover of one of his file folders. "Good luck with that."

"I'll need it," she said, wearily. When he raised his eyebrows at her, she added, "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Ah." Mike pondered this for a moment. "No, me neither."

She gestured in the direction of the door. "Anyway, I'd better…"

He nodded, and she walked back to her desk. It could've been worse, she supposed. No awkwardness whatsoever had been too much to hope for. A moment later her Blackberry chirped with a message. She opened it. Mike.

Drink after work? it read.

Connie typed rapidly (Probably a good idea) and hit send. She sat down at her desk and sorted through the papers she would need for the morning's arraignments. She'd have to return to Mike's office to discuss those cases and their pre-trial strategy, but her trepidation had abated. They seemed to have come to a shared and unspoken decision not to talk about the previous evening while at work. Ironic, she thought. Making out in the office? No problem. Talking about the fact that we made out in the office? Clearly inappropriate.

In the end, the arraignments went well, in spite of the fact that the judge in one case had caught her yawning for the third time and, with excessive politeness, had apologized to Connie, on behalf of the court, for keeping her awake. It hadn't mattered. Connie had successfully argued for remand in both cases, sending Mike a victorious update after each result.

She arrived back at her desk feeling tired and not very hungry, in spite of the fact that it was her usual time for lunch. She checked her voicemail fruitlessly, hoping for word from her sister, who'd had a job interview that morning and hung up just as Mike passed her desk, coat and gloves on, presumably on his way out to lunch. He paused briefly.

"Lupo and Bernard heard back from Rutgers," he informed her. "Congratulations. Saul Braun taught two night classes there last semester."

"What did I say about long shots?" she reminded him.

"I owe you a drink."

"You owe me dinner," she responded unthinkingly, before realizing that the events of last night had colored this kind of suggestion, even if only temporarily. She saw the smile on Mike's face give way to a similar realization.

"We could…probably manage that," he replied, his voice sounding a little surprised, a little uncertain.

She mentally kicked herself as he moved away and towards the elevators, wondering just how much everything had changed between them. She began to compose and rehearse a variety of speeches in her head, to be recalled and used later that evening. In her head, she was serene and articulate, eminently practical. The speeches usually involved the liberal use of words like "appropriate," and "professional," and "complications." Other times, they contained words like "careful" and "discreet." She looked at the time on her computer and began the countdown to the end of the day.

******

Any belief she'd had that they would put the previous evening behind them and carry on as usual, was dispelled when he sent her a message later that afternoon, suggesting an out-of-the-way bar. Such a belief was further vanquished by his suggestion that it would "be easiest" if he came directly from the courthouse and met her there. Leaving work separately when they were meeting for a drink, she noted to herself, was definitely Not Behaving Normally.

When she arrived, he was already in a booth, sipping on a glass of what appeared to be scotch. As often happened when he left the office, his tie had vanished and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He nodded at her as she slipped into the seat across from him and ordered a glass of red wine. He did not, as she'd half-expected and half-feared, immediately launch into an analysis of the previous evening. They discussed one of the cases he was trying and one that was coming up for both of them. Connie relaxed a bit and ordered another glass of wine.

"I think I'll stay away from the sparkling wine tonight," she told him, attempting to be light-hearted. She was glad when this elicited a wry smile.

"No telling where that might end up," he agreed.

The conversation faded, and Connie could sense him figuring out his approach. She decided to put him out of his misery.

"So, last night…" she offered.

Mike propped his chin on his hand and regarded her thoughtfully. "Well," he said slowly, "I guess I probably shouldn't embarrass myself by telling you how long I've thought about doing that."

Connie could feel herself redden and decided to put it down to the wine. "It may have crossed my mind, too," she admitted. "Once or twice."

"So now what?"

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "We work together. You're my boss."

"I've noticed that."

"And the potential damage to our working relationship is just…" Connie sighed, unsure of how to proceed. "And not just our working relationship, either," she said at last. "There's our friendship, our reputations. I think we both know that the smartest thing to do would be to forget it happened."

"It's certainly the easiest thing to do, I'll give you that." Mike responded, drinking the last of his scotch.

"It's not that I'm not attracted to you," she added hastily, wondering if she'd imagined the faint undertone of irritation in his voice. "I am. Even though you drive me up the wall pretty much every day, at some point." They exchanged smiles, and she paused again, annoyed by the fact that the eloquent speeches she'd spent the afternoon composing in her head had deserted her. "It's difficult. And I need more than twenty-four hours to think it through. This kind of thing is just…it's not how I see myself."

Mike gestured at the waiter for another drink. "What kind of thing is that?"

Connie made a helpless gesture. "An affair with the boss. An office fling. Whatever you want to call it."

Mike considered this while the waiter brought the new glass of scotch to the table, and he appeared to continue his consideration as he took the first sip. Connie shifted in her seat uneasily and waited.

Finally he raised his eyes. "Do you really think 'this kind of thing' is how I see myself?" he asked her.

"I don't know. I don't know whether you make a habit of – "

Mike held up a hand to stop her. "I'm not Jack McCoy," he said firmly. "And, for the record, this isn't how I see myself, either." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass for a moment before continuing, in a quieter voice. "You're not the only one who's conflicted about this, Connie."

She nodded, a little ashamed of herself for implying otherwise.

"And you're not the only one who didn't get any sleep last night," Mike added. "I've been going over and over it, trying to be realistic, wishing it hadn't happened at all, wishing it had gone a lot further…" He trailed off.

"And what did you come up with?" she prompted.

Mike shrugged. "I haven't ruled anything out. That's as far as I got."

She nodded slowly. "Then that'll have to do for now."

They left the bar shortly after that, stepping into the winter cold that seemed to have deepened over the past few days. Connie shifted from foot to foot, scanning the streets for a taxi. She was uncomfortably aware that she wasn't sure what they'd agreed to. Neither, she suspected, was Mike. Given this, she thought later, perhaps it should have surprised her that after he hailed her a cab, her polite kiss on the cheek turned into much more – another of those slow, exploratory kisses from last night, interrupted only when the cabbie irritably honked his horn. Perhaps it should have surprised her, but it didn't. Nor did it surprise her when he leaned down into the cab and asked her, courteously, whether or not they were "going to have to have another big discussion about this tomorrow." And finally, it didn't surprise her to hear herself casually say "nope" before closing the door of the cab and directing the cabbie to Brooklyn.

******

Two weeks later

As the remains of the headache from Mrs. McIntyre's perfume faded, Connie mentally reviewed the past couple of weeks. The only thing they'd agreed, apparently, was to live in a state of denial. Most of the time this worked, she thought as she sat down at her desk, opened a fresh pack of licorice and woke up her computer. Their professional relationship was still healthy, still effective. In fact, she'd go so far as to say that it was basically unchanged. Except, pointed out the small, nagging voice in her head (the one that sounded a lot like her mother) for the two or three times since then, where you've gone out for a nice collegial meal or a drink, ended up kissing against a cab, and then good morning'd each other the next day like nothing happened. Or the way you both avoid working late in his office because you both know what'll happen if you do. "Basically unchanged," yeah. Except.

It was untenable, and she knew it. She also knew that things were likely to come to a head sooner rather than later. In the meantime, there was the McIntyre case to be focusing on. She and Mike were meeting with McIntyre and his lawyer in a couple of hours, and they needed to formulate a plan of attack. She'd walked past Mike's office a few minutes earlier and seen him pacing back and forth, baseball glove on, baseball in hand. He was plotting something. She'd find out what it was soon enough, and then she'd focus on that. They both would.