Full Disclosure
Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse
7.30 pm Friday February 2nd 2007
Standing on the stepladder, Regan fitted the next sheet of wallpaper carefully at the top of the wall, made sure it was straight, and began to smooth it down. As she worked, she hummed along to the radio propped on top of the furniture and belongings piled carefully in the corner of the room. Would I see it for the precious thing, that it might one day be … Halfway down the strip she climbed down from the stepladder to reach the bottom. Hold on to me. That strip finished, she picked up another and peeled the edges apart and climbed back up the ladder. Concentrating, she matched the pattern and began to smooth the paper down. If you offered me a point of view …
Regan decided that hanging wallpaper, finicky, but mentally undemanding, was exactly what she needed after the last week, especially with the soothing counterpoint of a husky alto murmuring hold on to me from the radio.
Tracey Kibre had been prosecuting Emma Whitford and there had been not one thing Regan or Jack McCoy were allowed to do to help her. They were witnesses, and that was all. Regan had found it almost impossible to keep her cool, knowing what was at stake in a courtroom only a few doors away from where she and McCoy were trying a carjacker, knowing that it was entirely in someone else's hands. McCoy had found it completely impossible, and he wasn't a man to keep his temper under wraps.
She spread glue on the back of a new piece of paper, singing softly. "I'll hold on to this gift we share…" Four more pieces should do it. The room would be finished when Abbie got back from Houston. "As slippery as it is rare…"
Regan had already firmly resolved to keep her distance from McCoy when she'd overheard Branch's veiled threats. That conversation had reinforced her resolution. The first week had taken a certain amount of willpower – especially since McCoy had invited himself to dinner at Abbie's several times. Looking at him across the dinner table had made Regan want to throw caution and better judgment to the winds, especially when he caught her watching him and gave her his crooked, knowing smile.
If I asked you for a simple thing … the second week hadn't taken any willpower at all. Well, except for the self-restraint required in not socking him right in the kisser whenever he answered a perfectly reasonable question with a three-minute tirade.
Regan picked up the next sheet of wallpaper by the corners and was about to climb back up the ladder when she heard the doorbell. She folded the paper so the glue wouldn't dry and headed for the stairs as the song faded behind her. I'll hold on to that feeling of waking and finding you there.
"I'll hold on to you," she sang as she jogged down the stairs, "you hold on to me."
The doorbell rang again, a long impatient peal.
"I'm coming!" she shouted. "Hang on."
Throwing the bolt without checking the spy-hole, she was struck dumb to see Jack McCoy on her doorstep. Her heart skipped a beat then picked up at a faster pace.
He looked her up and down. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, grinning. Regan was suddenly acutely aware that she had wallpaper paste on her jeans and shirt, even in her hair where it had strayed loose from its ponytail.
"Wallpapering," she said. "If you're looking for Abbie, she's not here – "
"I was looking for you," McCoy said, with a smile that made Regan blush. "Can I come in? It's freezing."
"Sure," Regan said, stepping back from the door. McCoy stepped over the threshold and pushed the door shut behind him. He held up a bottle of champagne. "Emma Whitford was convicted on all counts. ADAs not yet born will be opposing her parole."
Regan returned his smile. "Great," she said. "That's great."
"Got glasses?" he asked.
"I'll get them." Regan headed for the kitchen, hearing McCoy following her. She fetched a couple of champagne glasses as McCoy opened the bottle, and put them on the counter so he wouldn't see her hands tremble at his proximity.
"Here's to justice," McCoy said, raising his glass.
"To dumb defendants and smart jurors," Regan said, touching her glass to his. She took a sip, and then realized she'd left the wallpaper draped over the stepladder. "Oh, shit," she said. "Hold on!"
Putting her glass down, she hurried back upstairs. The paste hadn't dried, and she climbed up on the ladder to press the paper to the wall. As she smoothed it down, McCoy's voice made her jump. "Not many people think of hanging wallpaper as a good Friday night."
She glanced over her shoulder to see him leaning against the doorframe, both glasses of champagne in his hands. "I wanted to surprise Abbie when she got back."
He took a step closer and peered at the fresh paper. "This is pretty good. Looks professional."
"Yeah, I'm a failure at cooking and sewing, but anything that you need to roll up your sleeves for, I'm your woman," Regan said flippantly as she smoothed down the bottom of the sheet.
"Promise?" McCoy said slyly.
Regan found her mouth suddenly dry. She stood up and reached for the glass in McCoy's hand, taking a long gulp of champagne. "You need some wallpapering done?"
"You never know," McCoy said.
She gave the glass back to him. The radio had changed to a song she didn't like and she clicked it off, then picked up the last piece of paper. "I'll be done in a minute."
"Take your time," McCoy said. As Regan bent over to pick up the paste, he added: "I'm enjoying the view."
She felt herself blush and concentrated on spreading the paste evenly. "So isn't everybody out celebrating the win?"
"I guess," McCoy said. "Lennie said something about the Lord Roberts."
"Didn't interest you?" Regan climbed up the ladder and pressed the last piece of paper on the wall.
"It's no good, going home alone after a win."
Regan finished smoothing the paper and stood up. She stepped back to look at her handiwork and nearly ran into McCoy, unexpectedly close behind her. He steadied her awkwardly, champagne glasses in both hands, and then reached around her to give her one of the glasses.
She took the glass and he lowered his hand, but only slightly, resting his fingers lightly on her arm. It was almost an embrace. Oh, tell the truth to yourself, Regan. It's definitely an embrace. Regan knew she should pull away but her willpower wasn't equal to the task. McCoy trailed his fingers slowly along the inside of her arm, wrist to elbow and back, and Regan sighed. Ripples of warmth spread out from his touch, washing along her nerves. McCoy set his glass down on the stepladder and then took Regan's from her, putting it beside his own.
"Haven't we both been cautioned against this?" Regan asked softly.
McCoy put his hand under her elbow and turned her gently to face him. "Then we should be careful not to get caught," he said. He hooked one finger inside the neck of her shirt and pulled her gently towards him. When Regan let him draw her forward, he smiled lazily. She met his gaze, blushing a little.
"Don't look so smug," she whispered.
"I'm not feeling smug, I can assure you," McCoy said. He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers, brief light kisses that raised the hair on the back of her neck and started heat coiling in her belly. She opened her mouth against his, brushing his lips with her tongue. McCoy took the invitation, tracing her lips, teasing her tongue with his own. Regan's breath caught as he deepened the kiss, heat running through her veins.
Then McCoy lifted his other hand to her collar and slipped loose the first button of her shirt.
Regan covered his hands with her own.
"Regan," he coaxed, moving on to the next button. Regan tightened her fingers over his and McCoy stopped undoing buttons. He pulled his hands free of hers and put his arms around her, moving her backwards to the wall. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck, traced her collarbone with his tongue, drawing a moan from her. Her knees trembled and she clutched at his shoulders.
Then she realized he was pulling her shirt free of her jeans, fingers fumbling with the buttons. She held the shirt together as McCoy kept unbuttoning it. "Don't," she whispered. "Please."
McCoy stopped, and straightened. He kissed her deeply, urgently, and then as she leaned weakly against him, he pulled away and looked down at her.
"I don't think I'm reading this situation wrong," he said hoarsely.
"I'm sorry," Regan whispered. "I'm sorry. I can't."
For a moment longer he held her with his gaze, fingers still resting lightly against the fabric of her shirt. Regan felt as if her entire body were electrified by a desire so intense it surpassed longing and wanting and entered the realm of pure need. Every beat of her racing heart urged her to give in to the throbbing heat spreading from between her legs to suffuse her whole body.
But I can't. I can't let him see. I can't.
She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.
McCoy sighed, and stepped back. "All right," he said, and Regan heard irritation in his voice. She risked a glance at him and saw that he was frowning.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I thought you wanted – " McCoy said, paused.
"I did – I do – but – "
"Well, if you figure out what you do want, let me know," McCoy said. "I should go."
"I guess," Regan whispered, looking at the floor.
"I'll let myself out," McCoy said. "Enjoy the rest of the champagne."
She stayed leaning against the wall for long minutes after she heard the door close downstairs, tears running down her face. Then she sniffed hard, rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and started cleaning up the wallpaper paste.
Her cell phone rang just as she was finishing and her heart leapt. When she fumbled it out of her pocket, though, the caller ID said 'Briscoe'.
"Hey, Lennie," she said, trying not to sound disappointed.
"Regan, where are you?" he asked. "Jury came back on Emma Whitford – guilty, all counts!"
"I heard," Regan said.
"Well, get yourself down to the Lord Roberts!" Briscoe said. "You have to celebrate a win like this one."
Regan thought about it. She wasn't sure she wanted to be surrounded by a lot of happy drunken lawyers and cops – but as she listened to the silence in the house she didn't want to be on her own, either.
It took her five minutes to change into clean clothes and brush the paste from her hair, and ten more to get to the bar in a cab.
The Lord Roberts was crowded but Regan didn't have any trouble spotting the group from the NYPD and DA's Office – they were the loudest and largest there. She threaded her way through the crowd towards them.
"Regan!" Briscoe said, spotting her, and Regan saw Wheeler raise her glass from where she stood arm-and-arm with Serena. She waved back, cuffed Green on the shoulder, and slipped off her coat.
"What'll you have, counselor?" Goren asked.
Regan thought about it. "Tequila," she said at last. "Lots of tequila."
As Goren turned toward the bar his movement revealed Mike Logan in a wheelchair, Gina Lowe hovering protectively beside him. He raised his glass to Regan and she edged around Tracy Kibre to get to him.
"You're up and about!" she said.
"They gave me a leave pass for tonight," Logan said. Up close, the lines of pain and fatigue were still evident on his face. "Be a little while before they let me out for good." He took a sip of his drink and pulled a face. "And a while before they let me have a real drink, too."
"When they do, let me know," Regan said. "I'm buying."
"Deal," Logan said promptly. "Although I hear that I owe you and Jack McCoy a round – you two broke the case?"
"Jack did," Regan said. "I was just standing next to him at the time."
"Don't be too modest," Logan advised her. "If McCoy's anything like he used to be when I was at the 2-7, he won't be knocking you down in his haste to share the credit and the glory." He looked across at Wheeler and raised his voice a little. "Not like me, eh, Wheeler?"
Wheeler grinned at him and pulled a little away from Serena to lean toward Logan and Regan – although, Regan noticed, her fingers stayed twined with the attorney's. "No, you're the soul of generosity, Mike."
Logan grinned, the expression going a long way to lifting the marks that pain and exhaustion had left on his face. "The worst thing about getting shot is that I missed the captain ripping my partner a new one for – what was it, Wheeler?"
"Recklessness," Goren supplied, handing Regan her drink. "Ignoring regulations. Lack of restraint and self-discipline. And – "
"All right!" Wheeler said, blushing. "I learned my lesson, okay?"
"It was pretty spectacular," Eames said, her tone teasing. "I'm sorry you missed it, Mike. Even with the captain's door closed it was quite a show."
"He was pissed you shot Fraser?" Regan asked.
"I shot him maybe a little more than was absolutely necessary," Wheeler said.
"In the heat of the moment," Goren explained.
"Having to make life-and-death decisions in an instant," Eames said.
"Natural over-reaction to imminent threat," Logan added.
Regan looked from one to the other. "Am I hearing a common song-sheet here?"
Logan smiled. "We might have spent a little time prepping Wheeler for her board hearing."
"But it's good to know you learned your lesson," Eames said. "What lesson was that, exactly?"
Wheeler, still blushing, looked at Logan. Their gazes locked for a second. "Trust my instincts," Wheeler said softly.
Regan's glass was empty, but there was another full one before her and she reached for it and took a long swallow. Partners, she thought. Goren and Eames. Logan and Wheeler. Two people, one unit.
Once upon a time she had been Durham and Reagan. Two people, her and Marco, two very different people, but no-one had ever referred to them as different, separate people. Durham and Reagan, like it was one word, a name for that very particular kind of creature that two police officers working with one purpose made.
Goren and Eames. Logan and Wheeler. Briscoe and Green. Stabler and Benson.
But no more Durham and Reagan. No more Reagan, even.
Just Markham, a name she hadn't been born with and, ironically, hadn't taken until after it had become apparent she couldn't live up to it.
Markham and McCoy. Except it wasn't, was it? Partners know all the secrets.
Partners know everything.
She could pretend to herself she had a partner – but partners have no secrets was the brick wall where all her self-delusion ended.
Her glass was empty.
"My round," Regan said, reaching for her bag.
Briscoe looked around at the nearly empty bar. Linda Ronstadt was down so low on the jukebox. Almost all the lawyers and cops celebrating the win had called it a night. Gina had long ago taken Mike back to the hospital. Wheeler had gone with them with a quick 'See you at home,' to Serena. Briscoe smiled to himself at the memory. Wouldn't call her 'Baby Bird' anymore, he thought. She's Mike's partner, no question. Fully fledged.
He hoped she'd have more luck making things work with Serena than most cops managed when it came to their personal lives. Serena will understand the job, at least. And with the money she has to be pulling down, they won't be having the 'Why can't you go private and make a decent living' conversation that takes up most payday evenings in police households.
Good luck to them. They were both standup as far as Briscoe was concerned. He had his doubts about big Bobby Goren from Major Case. He's a strange one, no question. But Briscoe was willing to give Goren the benefit of the doubt if he came with Alex Eames's stamp of approval – and Goren had been on his best behavior tonight, buying drinks, making small talk like a normal person.
And he broke the case, him and Eames. As far as Briscoe was concerned, that bought a lot of tolerance for quirky behavior. So yeah, I guess Goren is standup too.
He looked across at the only two people left of the crowd who'd been celebrating, his own partner – eyes a little glassy, but still steady on his feet – and Regan Markham, somewhat more the worse-for-wear.
"Time to go," he said. Green nodded, and put his hand on Regan's shoulder.
"Let's go, counselor," he said.
"One more," Regan said blurrily.
"You've had one more than one more," Briscoe said. "Come on. Looks like I'm the designated driver again."
He shepherded them out into the cold night air.
"Feel sick." Regan announced. Briscoe took one large unchivalrous step backwards. Green was more considerate.
"You okay?" he said, bending towards her, and then jumped back as Regan retched. "Oh, man! Oh, man, she threw up on my shoes!"
Briscoe shook his head. "Sometimes chivalry just doesn't pay off," he said from the safety of the other side of the sidewalk. "You done there, honey?"
Regan nodded and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Think so."
"Okay. Let's get a cab. See you Monday, Ed."
"Manhattan's murderers willing," Green said, still trying to scrape his shoes on the curb.
Briscoe steered Regan down the street and hailed a cab. As it pulled up Regan tugged his sleeve.
"Hafta see Jack," she said. "Hafta go see Jack."
"You know," Briscoe said, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea right now."
"Yes it is," Regan said. "Hafta see Jack."
He opened the door of the cab for her. "Tomorrow," he suggested.
"No! Hafta see Jack!" Regan insisted, pulling away as he tried to put her into the cab. The driver was looking curiously at them and Briscoe flashed his badge.
"Okay," he said, recognizing the signs of an argumentative drunk. "We'll go see Jack."
He was hoping Regan would fall asleep in the cab, but she was still awake when they pulled up outside McCoy's building.
"Are you sure about this?" Briscoe asked her.
She nodded. Briscoe sighed, and led her up the steps to the door. He had to flash his badge to the doorman to get him to let them in. The man watched them suspiciously as Briscoe called McCoy's number.
The phone rang for a moment before it was answered.
"What?" McCoy's voice was ragged with sleep and annoyance.
"Jack, it's Lennie Briscoe."
"What's wrong?" McCoy asked instantly. "What's happened?"
"Nothing," Briscoe said. "I'm in your lobby, with ADA Markham. She says she has to see you."
"Jack!" Regan said, leaning into Briscoe to shout into the phone. "Hafta talk to you."
"She's kinda buzzed," Briscoe said.
He could hear McCoy's sigh of exasperation clearly through the phone.
"Bring her up," McCoy said. "I'll put coffee on."
McCoy opened the door to Briscoe's knock and took in the cop and Regan, leaning half against him and half against the wall. "Sorry, Jack," Briscoe said. "I couldn't talk her out of it."
McCoy ran his hand though his hair. "I can imagine," he said.
"Jack," Regan said. "Want to talk to you." She swayed and stumbled forward. McCoy grabbed her arm and steadied her.
"Thanks, Lennie," he said, opening the door a little wider and steering Regan inside. Briscoe took a half a step forward, eyebrow raised. "It's okay," McCoy said. "I got this." When Briscoe didn't step back, McCoy frowned. "You think I need a chaperone? You think I'd take advantage of her?"
Briscoe raised his hands a little in apology. "Sorry, Jack."
McCoy waited until the cop had turned away and then shut the door and turned to Regan. "Kitchen," he told her, guiding her down the hall. He settled her at the kitchen table and poured her a cup of the coffee he'd started brewing while he waited for Briscoe and Regan to come upstairs. "Drink this," he told her.
"Coffee … doesn't sober you up, d'you know?" Regan said. "Makes you think it does. Heat, caffeine … makes you think you're okay. Ma'es you think you can get in your car an' drive home an' you're fine right up until you lose control on the highway and go head-on into a minivan with a school choir on their way home from the state-wide finals and both vehicles explode in flames so hot the ME hasta use bone marrow to make DNA iden – iden – idennification." She burped. "Tha's what coffee does."
"Drink it anyway," McCoy told her, leaning against the kitchen counter, and she sipped obediently. "How much did you have to drink?" he asked her.
"Don' remember," Regan said.
McCoy sighed. "Do you remember what was so important that you had to wake me up in the middle of the night?"
Regan frowned, concentrating. "Di' I tell you I got shot?" She set the coffee mug down with a click and stood up, pacing a few wobbly steps toward the counter and then back.
"We've covered the subject," McCoy said.
"I got shot," Regan said. "I got shot a lot." She looked down at her stomach, flattening her hands against her midriff. "Four bullets. Got hit hard." She looked up at him again, and he saw that tears stood in her eyes. "Hit hard."
"I know," McCoy said, his annoyance at being woken ebbing a little at the sad look on her face.
Regan shook her head. "You don' know. You think you know. You don' know." She fumbled with her shirt, undoing the buttons, and then pulled it out of the waistband of her pants. "You – you can't – " Her voice broke, and she bit her lip, and then in a sudden movement pulled her shirt open, closing her eyes and turning her face away as she did so.
Her pale flat stomach was covered almost everywhere with pink scars. McCoy could see the puckered marks of healed bullet-holes, three on her stomach and one half-hidden by her utilitarian white bra, and the thinner and more precise record of surgeon's scalpels around them. Scars at her waist puzzled him for a moment until he remembered how long she'd been in intensive care and how many drains and tubes she must have needed.
"You know they say, Jack, that two in the belly and one in the head, knocks a man down an' kills him stone dead," Regan said, eyes still squeezed shut, trying to smile. "You ever hear that?"
"Yes," McCoy said.
"Hear this one? Three in the belly and one in the chest, makes a girl long for a bullet proof vest." She made a sound – McCoy couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a sob. "I got one and a half lungs. One kidney. No spleen. Lost some liver but it grows back. Which is fantastic because of my hobby."
Still with her eyes closed, Regan turned her back to him. The small of her back had three huge lumps of scar tissue, exit wounds the size of a child's fist, along with more straight scalpel scars.
She turned back to face him, eyes open now but her gaze somewhere in the distance. She pulled a face, pouting, fluttering her eyelashes. "Hot stuff, eh, Jack?" She broke into a bad Rod Stewart impersonation: "Do you like my body, do you think I'm sexy… no bikinis for me, hey Jack?" Letting her hands fall to her side, she stood silent, shirt still gaping open. She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. "What do you think? How do I look to you now?"
McCoy realized it was imperative he say something – that he say the right thing. Moments from memory flashed through his mind – Regan pushing Ben Strickland away from her in the bar as his hand crept beneath her shirt; the raw panic in her voice when McCoy wanted to check the bruises she'd sustained diving to the ground as Therese McMillan fired; that half-heard conversation she'd had with Doc Graham in Carthage and the old man's cryptic comments she's come through worse, she's one hell of a tough lady. You caught yourself a survivor.
Margolis's concern lest Regan's cold go to her chest made stark sense in the light of that bullet scar on her ribs.
McCoy had thought she was blowing hot and cold, letting him go only so far before shutting him down and backing away, but now he could see the single common factor. He'd moved to touch her, thinking only of the rangy body under her clothes and his need to feel her, to be closer, to ride the rising tide of desire he knew was sweeping around them both – and that had terrified her.
Nothing to do with me.
Now, as she stood staring at the ceiling, he knew he had one chance, and one chance only, to prove to her that she'd had no reason for that fear. How do I look to you now? she'd asked, voice thick with alcohol and unshed tears. If he gave the wrong answer she might very well bolt from the apartment and never let him near her again. Worse than that was the thought of how much it would hurt her if he handled this clumsily.
"You look like Regan Markham," he said. Three steps brought him to stand in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Regan. Did you think I'd care?"
She nodded, gaze fixed over his shoulder, the tears beginning to fall. "Not your fault," she mumbled. "I'm hard to look at, now. I know. Not anybody's fault." She shook her head, voice dropping to a whisper. "Sometimes, Jack, you do things, and that's it. They're done. No going back. You get changed. You get scars. No happy endings. No fresh starts."
McCoy took hold the edges of her shirt and pulled them together, then began to do up the buttons. Regan lowered her head and watched his fingers threading first one button then the next through their holes. He finished and put one finger beneath her chin, urging her head up. She raised her head but closed her eyes and McCoy drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her. Regan sighed and laid her head down on his shoulder.
"It's nice of you," she said. "To pretend it doesn't matter."
He tightened his grip on her a little. "You think I'm pretending?"
"There was this guy," Regan said slowly. "Back in Seattle. I thought – I guess, you know, cops, we all get dinged up a little. I didn't realize it was so bad. We got back to my place an' he took off my shirt an' – an' – an' I saw this look on his face. An' that was it."
"Cooled his ardor?" McCoy said.
"He threw up," Regan said. "So, yeah." She shrugged a little, body moving against his. "He said – it was the alcohol. We were both pretty lit up. But – he didn't look at me. He got out of there as fast as he can an' he never once took his eyes off the floor."
Son of a bitch. It wasn't until he felt Regan wince that McCoy realized how hard he was holding her. He loosened his grip a little, but his anger remained. He could imagine the scene – he could imagine Regan's face, the way she lifted her chin and bit her lip when she was trying to pretend she didn't care about something, the way she scratched her left cheekbone with her right hand when she couldn't keep up the pretence and was trying to hide tears. Son of a bitch. That nameless, faceless man in Seattle hadn't bothered to look past the evidence of her terrible wounds to see the woman who'd survived them, to see her courage and her humor and the bravery with which she ignored her own vulnerability. God damn that son of a bitch.
"Sounds like you had a lucky escape," he said after a moment, voice conversational. "Imagine if you'd slept with him and then found out what a moron he was."
Regan gave a whimper of laughter, face pressed against his shoulder. "I hadn't thought about it that way."
"Imagine if the condom broke," McCoy said. "You could have been stuck raising Moron junior." He ran his hand over her hair. "The parent-teacher interviews would have been excruciating."
Regan's shoulders shook, laugher or sobs. "I guess, when you put it that way … you don't all look away, you know. Some guys – cops, EMTs, they can't look away. I see their eyes, I see – the eagerness. They wanna talk about it. They wanna touch the scars. That's all they wanna touch." She shivered. "It's like it makes them more of a man. And it makes me – less than a woman."
McCoy realized then why she hadn't looked him in the eye since she'd undone the last button on her shirt. She doesn't want to know which I am – revolted or excited.
"Do you really think all men fall into one of those two categories?" he asked. She was silent. "Regan. Look at me."
Slowly, she lifted her head and met his gaze. Then he realized she had reached between them. Her hand found him and she gave a sad little smile. "Cooled your ardor, didn't I?"
"I like my women sober enough to give consent," McCoy said. "And without vomit in their hair."
"In my hair?" Regan asked. "Gross." She leaned away from him so she could pull a strand forward and went a little bit cross-eyed trying to look at it.
"Certainly not the most seductive of perfumes," McCoy teased.
"So are you – are you saying that if I washed my hair and sobered up you'd – you wouldn't care how I look?"
"You look like Regan Markham to me," McCoy said. "Just like you did yesterday."
Regan shook her head. "It's a nice lie," she said sadly. "But it's – still a lie. 'Cause – who is – who is – who is she, anyway, Regan Markham? So how can you say that?"
McCoy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and ran his finger along her jaw. "We've worked together. We've eaten together. We've slept on the same bed, remember? You backed my play in the Watts trial." He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. "We've seen each other on the edge, didn't you say? Didn't you tell me that I know everything about you that I need to know?"
He coaxed a small smile from her. "I really am full of shit sometimes," she said.
"That day, you were dead on the money," he said. "You think that I care that you got – what did you say, dinged up? A little? A lot? You are who you are. And who you are is the woman I want."
She looked him dead in the eye, lifting her chin a little, biting her lip. "Prove it."
Oh, Regan, McCoy thought. He took hold of her chin between finger and thumb and kissed the lip she was worrying between her teeth, kissed her until he felt her mouth soften against his and the tension leave her body.
Her lips tasted of coffee and sour tequila. McCoy smoothed his hand over her hair and then twisted his fingers in the strands at the nape of her neck, tugging gently until she tilted her head back, her mouth opening against his. He traced her lips with his tongue, caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged gently, then bent his head to kiss her throat. He trailed kisses down her neck to the hollow of her throat, to the softer skin beneath it that never saw the sun, and slipped his hand under the hem of the shirt. She shivered as his fingers moved over smooth skin, over ridges of scars, and he slid his hand to the small of her back and then down, past the knots of tissue where the bullets had torn their way out of her body. Pulling her against him so she could feel the unmistakable proof she had demanded, McCoy kissed her cheek, tasting the salt of tears, his hands moving her against him, his breath coming faster as Regan slid her arms around his neck. She moaned softly, running her fingers through his hair, and pushed her leg between his. McCoy gasped a little, hips jerking involuntarily, feeling her sinewy body pressed against his.
"Satisfied?" he asked her, voice a little hoarse.
"Not nearly," Regan murmured huskily, her eyes dark and dazed.
McCoy kissed her again and then reluctantly disentangled himself from her. Regan murmured a wordless protest and he shook his head. "I meant what I said. And I promised Lennie I wouldn't take advantage of you."
She sighed, and laid her head back down on his shoulder, leaning limply against him. Enunciating carefully, she said: "Your quixotic sense of gallantry manifests itself at the most goddamn inconvenient moments."
"Tell me about it," McCoy said drily, and won a laugh from her. "Come on. You're going to feel bad enough tomorrow as it is. You should try to get at least some sleep."
He steered her down the hall toward the spare room and to the bed. She let him lower her down, rolling onto her back with her arm over her eyes. McCoy sat on the end of the bed and began to pull off her shoes.
"Big day for you," he said softly, running his hand over her stockinged foot. "Whitford's conviction, wallpapering, tequila…"
"Typical Friday night in a Markham household," Regan said. She lowered her arm and lifted her head enough to look down at him. "Will you leave the light on?"
"Yeah," McCoy said. "Yeah, I can leave the light on."
Regan dropped her head back to the bed and closed her eyes. McCoy ran his hand over her foot again, and then began to massage the arch gently. He could feel Regan relaxing, hear her breathing slowing. In a few minutes she was soundly asleep.
She looked a mess, most of her makeup gone except for traces of mascara under her eyes, hair long escaped from its band, spots of vomit on her rumpled clothes.
McCoy thought he'd never seen her look so beautiful.
He stretched out beside her, resting his hand lightly on her arm, and watched her sleep until his own eyes closed. Even then, the sound of her breathing was the common thread to all his dreams.
.oOo.
A/N: The song Regan is humming along to is "Hold On To Me" by the Cowboy Junkies.
The final chapter in this story is coming soon. And remember, plot bunnies love reviews.
