NSFW

Regan felt McCoy's body go slack, his arm around her shoulders suddenly heavy and loose. The heartbeat beneath her ear slowed.

She eased herself away from him, gently returning his arm to his side, and raised herself on one elbow. The food had brought some color back to his face and had been followed, as she'd known it would be, by the crash. McCoy would sleep like the dead and tomorrow he'd be alright. For a given value of alright.

Almost shot left no marks on the body and far fewer on the psyche than actually shot, but it wasn't a walk in the park, either.

As always, even in sleep, the lines of McCoy's mouth and the set of his jaw were still firm. He looked, to all appearances, as if he'd merely closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate as he listened to a witness's testimony and might at any moment leap to his feet with an objection. The only clear sign that he was asleep was his hands. They were usually never still, fiddling with a pen or a page in a file, lifting as he ran his fingers through his hair, reaching for a law book or the bottle of scotch in his bottom drawer. Now they lay limp, one curled on his chest, the other open by his side.

He was so deeply asleep that he didn't even stir as she unbuckled his belt and drew it off, and then took off his watch.

Regan curled up beside him and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. Her own eyes insisted on closing and —

Go-go-go and glass shatters and —

She jerked herself away from the memory, heart pounding. A highway at night. Black road, white line, disappearing under the wheels of my car. Concentrating on the image, she felt her pulse begin to slow.

It's over. It's done. It happened, and now it's over.

A stab of guilt, then. If only I'd seen that Kuen had a gun on the way in to the restaurant, I would have … would have done something, would have stopped it before it started, should have stopped it before it started …

Which was ridiculous, and Regan knew it. If she imagined saying that to Emil Skoda, she could all but see his eyebrows go up, see the skeptical twist to his mouth. What, they hand out X-Ray vision with those D.A. badges these days?

Regan rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. You didn't see the gun because he didn't have it out. Maybe in his waistband, at the front, under that loose T-shirt. You only saw him from the back as he went in. Maybe if you'd been watching him come up the street toward you, you would have spotted something in the way he walked and realized he was carrying, but you were looking in the window.

Except she must have seen Kuen on the street, because there'd been that vague sense of recognition when she watched him through the window, once she'd been able to drag her attention away from the gun he was pointing at McCoy. Regan closed her eyes and tried to bring the street back into focus. I stepped out of the restaurant, started talking to Lennie. I turned around, turned to the right. Had she seen Kuen walking toward her as she turned? She tried to find his face in the crowded sidewalk —

Reflected heat blasting up off the courthouse steps as she hurries through the doors, changing course to avoid running into Neil Gorton, who is talking to —

Talking to Lawrence Kuen.

Regan let out a slow breath and rolled over to look at McCoy again. She hadn't seen Kuen on the sidewalk at all. She hadn't seen him, except from behind, before he went into the restaurant and took out the gun. There had been absolutely no way for her to know — there had been absolutely nothing she could have done.

It happened, and it's over. It's done.

After a moment she reached out and laid her hand gently over McCoy's heart. Counting its slow and steady beats, she followed McCoy into sleep.

When she woke, she could still feel his heartbeat beneath her hand. She drifted at the edge of dreams for a moment, his body warm and strong against her, the collar of his shirt digging into her cheek …

She opened her eyes. She was not lying beside McCoy, at a decent distance. Instead, they lay spooned together on his bed, both fully clothed, her body curled around his, her arm around him and her hand clasped in both his where it rested against his chest.

Memory returned in a rush.

Oh, shit, she thought. Yesterday …

Yesterday she had not exactly been thinking clearly, that was all there was to it. She'd congratulated herself on knowing exactly the trajectory McCoy's reaction would take, on being there for him, on being a good partner — and not for a moment taken into account that he wasn't the only one off balance.

When she'd gotten through the door into the restaurant and seen that McCoy was alright … when he'd held her and said her name as if it was the only word in the world he needed to know …

She'd forgotten every good reason to keep things between them from getting even more complicated. A train of reasons that started at making sure I keep my job and ended with making sure I don't ruin what we already have, and stopped at all stations in between.

And she hadn't wanted to remember that someone who'd just thought they were seconds from death might do or say things that they might not really mean. Or that they might mean at the moment they said them, and only at that moment.

Time for cooler heads to prevail. She'd made this mistake before, and it was a mistake, as the results had proved. We were both a little wound up, she'd say to McCoy when he woke. That's all it was. It doesn't mean we should take it further.

When he woke. She could have until he woke, her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the muscle and bone of his side beneath her arm and his fingers wrapped around hers. A moment, that's all. More than that lay in the realm of things she did not deserve and could not have, and so she would not want them.

Lie to other people as you need to, her Gran-Da had said. She could hear his voice, creaking with age. But lie to yourself, you deserve what you get.

I might not deserve them, I might not be able to have them … but she did want them. She wanted more than this, more than a moment holding him in her arms. The bittersweet pain of it was an ache that drowned out even the sweet warmth of McCoy's body against hers.

She felt him wake, heard the slight shift of his breathing and felt waking tension in the hands that held hers. She started to slip her fingers free, beginning to move away to a safer distance.

McCoy's grip tightened and he rolled onto his back as she edged away. "Regan."

He had her hand firmly captured and Regan gave up trying to pull away for the moment. "Jack." She heard the way her voice lingered over his name and felt her cheeks burn. "Sleep well?"

He smiled. "I can't remember, so I must have. You?"

"Yeah, fine. So, I — we should —"

"I think I owe you an apology," he said, and Regan's eyes stung with tears.

"No, no, no," she said quickly. "It was — the stress, the situation, I shouldn't have taken advantage of —"

His eyebrows lifted and he freed one hand to touch the collar of his shirt, and then the sleeve of her blouse. "Evidence suggests that nobody's been taking advantage of anyone, Regan. Despite my best intentions. Or my worst ones, I suppose."

"It's fine," Regan said. "It's fine. Really."

He turned to face her and reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'd like to make amends."

Despite all her resolutions, Regan couldn't help turning her head a little toward his touch. "Buy me breakfast."

His finger brushed her cheek. "Will that be sufficient reparations for … what was it you pretended Jamie said? Sweet talking you into bed?"

She snorted. "You didn't sweet talk me anywhere. You wanted me to stay, I wanted to stay, so here we are."

"Here we are," McCoy agreed. He reached out and laid his hand along her jaw, running his thumb gently over her lips – once, twice, a third time. "In bed. Together." The corner of his mouth turned up and a glint of wicked humor lit his eyes. "How convenient."

Regan knew she should pull away but his touch, so gentle, so sure, seemed to have short-circuited her brain. "Jack …"

"Tell me I'm wrong," he murmured, sliding his hand along her jaw to cup her neck.

"I can't," Regan admitted.

He drew her closer. "Tell me you want us to stop here."

"I don't," she whispered.

His lips brushed hers, the slightest of contacts, a long moment in which she could feel his breath against her skin more strongly than she could feel his mouth against hers. When finally he leaned closer and his lips met hers completely Regan heard herself make a noise of mingled relief and pleasure that even she couldn't tell was a sob or a moan. McCoy deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth, his hands on her shoulder-blades now, tracing slow circles, his touch burning her nerves.

Then his fingers moved down her spine and she stiffened. The first ugly lump of exit wound scar tissue was just below her rib cage, and her summer blouse was light and thin. Another inch or two and he'll feel it, and then ...

McCoy's hand stopped, moved back up to her shoulder, and Regan relaxed again into the delicious sensations of his lips, his tongue, his body against hers as he pulled her closer.

Then he drew back a little. "Regan."

"Yes," she said breathlessly. Yes, please, yes.

His fingers crept lower again, past the point where he'd stopped before, and Regan tensed. "That's not yes," McCoy said softly. "That's no."

"I —" She could still feel his hand, warm and strong, through the thin fabric of her blouse, which meant he hadn't reached the first of the thick, nerveless scars yet, but another inch and he would, another inch and he'd feel … Regan pulled away from him. "Jack!"

He let her go, instantly. "It's alright."

"I'm sorry," she said, sitting up and edging away from him. "I'm sorry, Jack, I'm sorry —"

"It's alright," McCoy said again.

Regan shook her head. "It isn't. I — " And she was going to start crying in another moment, which was just the damn cherry on the cake. She looked away before McCoy could see the tears in her eyes, pretending to scratch an itch on her cheek so he couldn't see her lips tremble. "I should have told you. Long ago. Before things ever got this far. I haven't been fair to you. I should have told you —"

He sat up as well. "I know you got shot. And I know you have some scars."

Startled, she looked back at him, and found him watching her steadily. Of course, he'd guessed. Whenever we have living victims, we make sure the jury sees the scars. McCoy knew what bullets could do to living flesh, and he'd read at least some of the newspaper stories about the shooting that had ended Regan's career as a police officer. He guessed. He thinks he knows. "It's … I'm not very pretty, under these fancy clothes, Jack. Not easy to look at."

"I like looking at you," McCoy said.

Regan closed her eyes. "That's because you don't know."

"I know," he said. "I know, and I won't look, until you want me to."

She shook her head. "You don't know. It's not — It's worse than you could — It's not, I'm not — easy to look at."

"I do know, actually," he said calmly. He moved a little closer to her. "You showed me – that night you'd been drinking with Ed and Lennie. Remember? The Whitford conviction? You turned up at my apartment?"

Regan stared at him. He was smiling a little, but she could tell he meant what he said. "Oh god," she said. "I was that drunk? I don't remember doing that. I know I slept it off in your spare room. Oh, god. I was that drunk?"

"Tequila's a good look for you," McCoy said, grinning now.

Regan covered her face with her hands. "Oh, god," she groaned.

He touched her arm, ran his fingers gently from wrist to elbow. "You took off your shirt and gave me a good look. Did a little dance. Sang me a song about 'three in the belly and one in the chest'."

"Makes a girl long for a bullet-proof vest?" McCoy was unquestionably telling the truth. Regan had come up with that one herself, sometime between the fourth and the sixth month she'd spent in hospital, staring at the ceiling and trying to find a way to turn what had happened to her into one more war-story. No way Jack would know that if I hadn't told him. "God, Jack, I'm so sorry."

He edged even closer to her and took her hand. "For getting drunk? I seem to recall you're not the only one in this room who's had one or two or five too many, on occasion."

"For …" Regan shook her head. "For making you see that. Making you see …"

"Making me see Regan Markham?" He put his fingers beneath her chin and turned her face toward him. "I seem to recall doing my sadly-unsuccessful best to get you out of your clothes on a few occasions since then. Presuming they survived a Molineux hearing …" Regan snorted, and McCoy smiled at her. "What are those prior bad acts evidence of, A.D.A. Markham?"

She hesitated. "That you … that you don't … mind?"

"I think the jury might be encouraged to reach a conclusion a little bit stronger than don't mind." His arms slid around her waist and he drew her closer, and then into his lap. "Once all the available evidence was considered."

Regan felt herself blush at just how evident the available evidence was. McCoy's lips grazed her neck and then brushed the hollow of her throat. "Jack …"

McCoy stopped there. He straightened and brushed her lips with his. "I realized the next day you didn't remember. I was trying to think of a tactful way of saying I've seen you half-naked and then Arthur read us both the riot act and you decided to never talk to me outside the office again."

"I don't seem to be doing so well with that at the moment," Regan said ruefully.

"Thank god." McCoy's tone was so comically fervent that Regan couldn't help smiling. He smiled back. "That's better. So how are we going to do this? Clothes on, lights off? Maybe —" He leered suggestively. "You could blindfold me?"

"Is that what you …" She hesitated, trying to find a sophisticated New Yorker way of asking — of asking Jack McCoy, of all people, if he liked a bit of kink in the bedroom.

"I'd rather be able to see you," McCoy said.

Regan shook her head. "I don't want … it's all very well for you to say that you don't mind, but …" She bit her lip. "Guys have said that before. And then I see the look on their face, and …"

"What are you most afraid of?" he asked. "What I'll see? Or what you will?"

"Both," she whispered against his mouth.

"Then close your eyes," he whispered back.

McCoy slid his hand up her back to her neck, cradling her head. Her eyes drifted shut as his lips moved softly against hers, her head spinning as warmth flowed through her in response to his touch. She felt his fingers deft on the buttons of her blouse, unfastening them one by one. Then he stopped, waiting.

He's seen. He's already seen. Regan forced herself to raise her hands. Keeping her eyes tightly shut, she drew her blouse open a little and then, before she could lose her courage, yanked it open, letting it slip from her shoulders.

McCoy's lips left hers and she felt him lean back a little and knew he was looking down at her.

He was silent for a long moment. Regan squeezed her eyes shut, both wanting and not wanting to see the expression on his face.

He touched the unmarked skin above her hip gently and then she felt his fingers move from smooth, tender skin to thick, nerveless scar tissue and flinched a little.

McCoy stopped. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"No," she assured him quickly.

His hand began to move again, tracing the long narrow line left by a surgeon's scalpel, circling the star-shaped lump left by a bullet. "Does it hurt?" he asked, a note she couldn't identify in his voice. Regan tried to tell whether it was curiosity or revulsion – neither of them good options – but she couldn't. She could hear the tension at the edges of his voice, though, feel it in his fingers despite the gentleness of his touch.

"In places," she said. "The muscles – didn't knit right. And some nerve damage."

He ran his hand over her stomach again. "Does it hurt to touch?"

She shook her head without opening her eyes. "It's like – some places I can't really feel. Some spots are extra sensitive. And I put my back out more easily than an eighty-year old grandmother does. That's pretty much all."

McCoy drew her forward to lean against his chest. Regan felt his hands run slowly over her back and knew he was looking at the scars of the exit wounds, three ugly knots, each the size of a child's fist.

"What happened to the fourth bullet?" he asked.

"They took it out on the table," Regan said.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly for a moment. "You say it so casually," he said. "Like you say – sure, Jack, I got hit real hard." For a moment she heard her own west-coast burr in his voice. "I thought I knew what you meant by that."

She still couldn't tell what it was that she could hear in his voice and she risked opening her eyes, turning a little in his arms so she could see his face. His hands on her were gentle but his mouth was set.

"He nearly killed you," McCoy said, and she at last recognized the edge to his voice. Anger.

Her world shifted and resettled in a new pattern. She reached up and laid her hand against his cheek, his morning stubble rough beneath her fingers. "He didn't, though."

He turned his head a little and kissed the palm of her hand. "Thank you."

Regan frowned. "For what?"

"Letting me see you." She felt him smile. "Sober, this time."

"I still can't believe I sang you that damn song."

He laughed, his breath tickling her palm. "Don't forget the dancing. Tequila seems to be your truth serum. Or your kryptonite."

"Never drinking it again," Regan said firmly as McCoy ran his hand down her spine. His fingers brushed one of the places where the nerves had re-knit in a way that wasn't quite right and she jumped.

"That hurt?" he asked immediately.

"No, no," she reassured him. "Just sensitive."

"Sensitive?" He found the spot again. "Sensitive as in ticklish?"

"Yes," she said, wriggling away from his fingers.

"Really?" McCoy raised his eyebrows. "That spot there? Ticklish?"

"Yes, stop it — Jack!" She squirmed, starting to giggle despite herself. "You know I know three different ways to incapacitate a man with my bare hands — ah — no — stop it!"

"Any of them work while you're doubled up with laughter? Now I know what you've been so touchy about," he said, grinning wolfishly. "Now I know your weakness, Ms Markham."

"Is that it?" Regan said. "I'm a freak-show and all you care about is finding out I'm ticklish?"

"No-one's ever excused me of not having my priorities straight," McCoy said. He evaded her attempt to seize his hand and tickled her again. "Actually, that's not true. I get accused of not having my priorities straight once a week."

Regan grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him fiercely, the kiss lopsided because she couldn't stop smiling. When she let him go McCoy gave her a crooked grin, running his hand slowly over her stomach. "That's the first time you've ever kissed me. You know, rewarding me like that is no way to teach me not to tickle you."

"How quickly he forgets," Regan said. "I recall an incident with mistletoe, and another in Abbie's kitchen, and —"

McCoy shook his head. "I kissed you. Although I do recall your enthusiastic cooperation. But you do have some catching up to do before we're even. Now." He pulled her back down to the bed with him. "Where were we?" He frowned in pretended concentration. "As I recall, I was trying to get your shirt off … I seem to have managed that." His hand moved from her waist to cup her breast, thumb teasing her nipple to aching hardness. Regan caught her breath, sparks shooting along her nerves. I can't believe I forgot how good that feels … He lowered his head to her other breast and she moaned to feel his lips and tongue, his unshaven cheek against her skin. His knee nudged hers apart and as he leaned into her, Regan could feel the reassuring proof that his desire was as genuine as hers.

Robbie had always been a gentleman about making sure Regan enjoyed herself as much as he did, but his manners had nothing on McCoy's. His leisurely attentions continued until she was panting for breath, his every touch stoking the heat building inside her. Every shift of his weight was delicious, frustrating friction. Surely he must realize I'm ready by now. She realized she had her fingers clenched in his hair, holding his head to her breast, and forced herself to release him, but he didn't take the opportunity to pull away. She felt his teeth, a scrape on the edge of pain, immediately soothed by his tongue, and arched into his touch, beyond ready, rising closer and closer to the edge of release. "God — Jack — god!"

"You like that," he murmured against her skin, words she felt as much as heard.

"Yes — I —"

The phone rang.