Going Home Alone
Across the length of the bar, Regan saw McCoy pick up his coat and briefcase and head for the door. Darn. She'd hoped to have the chance to talk to him tonight about the case, about Mary, about the trial – at some point after a couple of tequila shooters had blurred the edges enough for her to open her mouth without sobbing.

She wasn't sure what she wanted to say to him about it, what she wanted him to say to her, just that it still churned in her stomach and she didn't have any received wisdom on how to deal with it. What would Gran-Da say about it? He'd be okay with Watts getting murdered in prison. He'd probably arrange for his cell-mate to get the knife. But what about the shell-game she and McCoy had run on Watts and Gorton? She didn't know. She couldn't ask.

She'd wanted to ask McCoy, but there was no way she could reach him through the crowd before he left the bar.

"Hey," Strickland said, and Regan turned back to him.

"Sorry," she said.

Strickland put his hands on her waist and drew her closer. "Is that your boss? Jack McCoy?"

"Yeah. Do you know him?"

"Played basketball a couple of times. He's like you. Hates to lose."

"Nobody likes losing," Regan said a little defensively.

"Yeees," Strickland admitted. "But your boss – he really hates to lose. Like you. Hey, don't be offended. I like chicks with a fighting spirit."

Regan laughed and punched his arm, not as hard as she could have but hard enough to hurt. "So glad I meet with your approval."

"Everything about you meets with my approval, counsellor," Strickland said. He leaned closer and Regan hesitated. Strickland stopped. "You want to sit down for a while? Maybe have another drink?"

"Yes," Regan said. He was good looking, he was tall, and she found his attention flattering, but it had been a long time since she'd picked up a man in a bar.

Actually, it's been never since I picked up a man in a bar. Two high school boyfriends, then Robbie, and I was a married woman before I knew what hit me.

And then … well, then I didn't even want to be up-close-and-personal with my doctorsLet alone strangers.

She let Strickland lead her from the dance floor. As she took a seat she could hear Anita Van Buren behind her talking to her husband. He was going home to check on their sons. She was going to stay a little longer. Regan took the drink that Strickland gave her and wondered how Van Buren and her husband worked it out, the whole cop-non-cop marriage. He doesn't seem to mind that she's hanging around with her work buddies for a while longer. Mr Van Buren kissed his wife like they were still in love and winked at her as he told her not to be out too late.

Regan got a lump in her throat, thinking about all the people who weren't ever going to get to look at their spouse of twenty years like that, Mary Firienze included. She washed the lump away with a gulp of tequila as Strickland sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. This time when he pulled her closer, Regan let him. The tequila was smoothing everything out. When Strickland nuzzled her hair, his fingers stroking her shoulder, Regan turned a little towards him and offered him her lips.

The kiss was a little clumsy, but Regan thought that Strickland showed definite potential for improvement, and the feel of his fingers tracing the edge of her collar was very nice indeed. She leaned closer to him and Strickland dropped his hand to her leg. That was also, Regan decided, very nice.

"We could get out of here," Strickland suggested a little hoarsely.

Regan thought about it as he kissed her again. She'd liked the look of him even before she'd had enough tequila to lose track of exactly how much tequila she'd had. He seemed to have a pretty good idea of how to get a girl nicely hot and bothered and she was more than a little bit drunk. All those things made her think that going home with him was a pretty good idea. It had been a long, long time since a man had touched her the way Strickland was touching her now, had started that slow burn in her belly.

Bu if she went home with him, she was pretty sure there was going to be nudity. And Regan knew that she might be drunk, but she was not nearly drunk enough to take her clothes off in front of another human being.

Regan pulled away. "I think – I think maybe not," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"Okay," Strickland said, letting her go. "Would you mind if I called you sometime?"

Regan felt herself blush, and smiled shyly. "No. I'd like it. I'm at the DA's Office."

"I know," Strickland said. He pulled her to him again and kissed her deeply, leaving her flustered and breathless. "See you around."

Regan pulled on her coat as she headed for the door. She realised she was grinning a little bit idiotically, a grin that was one part tequila and one part hot-basketball-playing-cop maybe going to call her up.

As the cold air hit her she stumbled a little, and caught herself on the wall, giggling. I'm pretty well toasted, she thought, looking around for a cab. Well, I deserve to be. I earned it.

She walked a little bit further down the street, wondering if she'd have better luck getting a taxi on the corner.

The first blow took her completely by surprise.


.oOo.