Disclaimer: Characters belong to Aaron Spelling, E. Duke Vincent, Gary Tomlin, NBC, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes.
Rating: PG 14
Genre: Angsty Drama
Spoilers: Definitely for the first month of the show, but I'm just going to say the entire series. However, I slightly altered canon for this story to work.
Summary: Two unlikely people drown their sorrows together at the end of the day.


He noticed her immediately.

His eyes followed her over the rim of his beer as she took a seat at the bar, shrugging off her black cape and hanging it on the back of the bar stool. Swigging out of the bottle, he leaned back in his chair and kept watching. Her long hair bounced as she tossed her head back, downing her martini in one long gulp.

What was she doing here anyway? This was definitely the wrong side of the pier for a woman like her. The bar was seedy, known for being one of the roughest in Sunset Beach. How many times had he been called here as a beat cop to break up a shoving match that had gotten out of control? Too many times to count.

The dark corner afforded him the privacy he wanted, not that he really needed it. He knew no one who would be here. No one that was desperate enough to hide from the world and drown themselves in alcohol.

No one, it appeared, except her.

Not that he knew her. Knew of her, yes. Everyone did. The woman who ruled Sunset Beach or so said the local gossip hounds. Richer than rich, as the string of black pearls with the large diamond solitaire around her neck attested. He had gotten an eyeful of it when they were crouched on the floor of the station house earlier, the Douglas file in between them. He had stared into her eyes then, relishing in her surprise of being caught. They were practically violet, like his late sister's favorite movie star.

He sat up quickly, roughly pushing away the nearly empty bottle of beer. Maria, dead and buried…what made him think of her now?

Annie. His sister's best friend in the world. He found himself twisting his hands, rubbing him palms on his thighs…as if that would rid them of the blood that stained them. Annie's blood.

He hung his head, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes closed. Not that it helped him drown the sound of Annie screaming from inside the crematorium's oven. Those desperate shrieks for help as the flames leapt around her. The horrible stench of the burnt filled his consciousness, tormenting him more than the sounds as he opened his exhausted eyes.

If only she hadn't run. If only she hadn't resisted arrest. If only the evidence hadn't pointed to her. If only-

One could fill the emptiness of an eternity wondering "if only".

His hand fell, knocking into the bottle and turning it on its side with a sharp clink. The remaining beer bubbled out, running across the surface of the rough wooden table and into his lap as it dripped over the side. The bottle quivered once before rocking to a stop in front of him. Belly up and unprotected, like Annie.

He pushed away from the table abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor as he stood up. His chest was tight, blocks pressing around his head as he gazed blindly in front of him. Smoke hung in the air, catching the dim light of the hanging lamps.

She was still sitting at the bar, her back perfectly straight. She was sipping her drink now, the desperation from earlier gone. The black cape hung teasingly from the chair, the hood falling to a point just above the cement floor.

It didn't matter anymore that she had a black hooded cape. It didn't matter anymore that she had been seen at the resort, that she was having an affair with the victim. The case was closed, seemingly killed along with its prime suspect.

He looked at her for a long moment before glancing back to his table. The bottle was empty and he wasn't nearly as drunk as he wanted to be, as drunk as he needed to be. He could still hear her screams, see her eyes pleading from behind the bars of the jail cell that he put her in.

He shuffled over to the bar, squinting as he stepped out of the shadows. A weak beam of light flickered from a dangling lamp and he rubbed his eyes as he leaned into the bar a few places from where she sat.

"Another one?"

He shook his head, waving aside the rule about mixing liquors. "Tequila, tall and neat."

When the bartender turned away, he did too. She hadn't noticed him yet. And maybe she wouldn't, period. After all, she didn't know him anymore than he knew her. Her eyes were lowered, staring quietly into her drink. Was she looking for oblivion too?

The bartender slid the tall glass across the bar and he took it, ready to turn away when she ordered another drink. How long had they been here? His concept of time no longer existed, despite the weight of a watch on his wrist.

He watched her in profile. The dead stare in her eyes, the way her fingers absentmindedly drummed the surface, the flash of the enormous diamond on her left hand.

His feet were moving toward her before he realized it, determined and with a mind of their own. She was nibbling on an olive now, rescued from the drink she had demolished. He was behind her now, no more than a breath away from her. Close enough for him to smell the perfume that clung to her. The warm scent of vanilla spice and flowers chased away the acrid scent of charred flesh that had consumed him.

As the bartender set her drink in front of her, he leaned down close to her ear and asked in a whisper, "You aren't going to be driving tonight, are you?"

She flinched in surprise and turned to him, her eyes wide with questioning. He stood straight and watched the confusion in her face, her mind working against the haze that was quickly setting in. He saw the recognition dawn and she smirked, her lips curling as her eyebrow arched.

"I don't think so, Detective. You took away my license, remember?"

"The law took it away- the law you broke." She shrugged disinterestedly and turned back to her drink, raising the glass to her lips and taking a long sip. "But that wouldn't stop you, now would it?" he continued after a meaningful pause.

Her eyes narrowed, though her gaze stayed dead ahead. "I thought you weren't allowed to drink on the job."

He shrugged as the tequila burned its way down his throat. "I'm not on the clock."

She glanced sideways at him and nudged the empty stool next to her with her foot. "I can't stand it when men hover."

He slid into the seat, turning as he said, "Your husband seems like a hoverer."

She chuckled and he couldn't help but think it sounded like she was drowning, so muffled was the sound against the rim of her glass. "Some days…" she trailed off, a faraway look clouding her eyes. She put down the glass, grazing the sparkling diamond on her left hand. "Nothing is ever as certain as we've led ourselves to believe," she whispered. "Don't you think?"

He hunkered over the bar, staring down at the fine grains streaking through the wood. "I'm trying not to."

"Be certain?"

"Think," he corrected, wrapping his hands around the thick base of the glass.

"Bad day?"

He grimaced as a lead ball dropped into the pit of his stomach. "To say the least."

She turned to him, the thin stem of glass balanced delicately between her fingers. "The very least?"

He looked away, his head knocking back as he took more of his drink. There was a tiny nick below his earlobe, a thin red scar that indicated a heavy hand when shaving this morning.

This morning seemed so long ago. And it had been so cruel, the promise of hope as the sun rose in the lightening sky. The day dawned beautifully, bright sunshine and hardly any clouds in the sky. A warm breeze rustled through the trees, stirring her hair and whipping the grass at the gravesite.

Her throat worked as she thought of the grave, of the pact they made. Forever, they had promised, covering their hands over the open grave as if that would somehow cover what they had done. Twenty-two years ago she had believe in forever.

Twenty-two years ago, they had been best friends, drinking and giggling late into the dark night.

The martini licked at her lips and she sipped it lightly as she watched him. The last time she saw him, his dark eyes were bound and determined to nail her. Her and Gregory for murder.

She snorted into her drink as she thought of them both. Del, grabbing her shoulders and pleading for her to leave with him. Gregory, grabbing her shoulders and pleading for her to tell him what she knew. Both of them wanting only what they needed from her, never considering her so long as she met their means.

She set the drink down, her hand a scant few inches from his. Del was far unluckier, taking a bullet to the gut rather than taking her away. And Gregory…come hell or high water, he'd always end up on top with his cultivated reputation in tact. At least one thing in this wretched life was a constant.

"I killed someone today."

She looked up, shaking off the silence that she had sat in. "What?"

Anguished eyes turned on her and he said flatly, "I. Killed. Someone. Today."

She watched him flex his hands, the bones popping as he did. "But," she wondered, "isn't that your job?"

"No!" He turned on her, the anguish blazing brighter as he leaned closer and grabbed her wrist. "No! Killing isn't what I do!" He squeezed harder as he grew more desperate to explain, to save the last scrap of sanity he had. "I'm-" he broke off, lowering his eyes. "I'm supposed to save lives, not end them. Save them," he whispered as he let go, throwing away her hand and reaching for his glass.

She cradled her wrist, massaging the points where his fingers dug into her flesh. He returned his drink to the bar with a heavy thunk, hanging his head in his hands. She frowned and took a long sip from her own. It seemed she and the good detective were more alike than they realized.

"So now you're here, drowning yourself in alcohol. Hoping that anything will dull the pain that you're wallowing in."

"Is that so bad?"

"You're asking me?" He looked over and chuckled as she smiled over the rim of her glass. "No really, I'm flattered. Not many people take advice from the town drunk."

"You aren't the town drunk." She glanced over in surprise, her fingers twisting with the string of pearls around her neck. "Stew McGinty over on Crest still has you beat by a few drinks."

She cocked her head, her dark hair tumbling off her shoulder to cascade down her back. "Nice to know that the distinction is within my grasp." She elbowed his arm and raised her glass. "To Stew McGinty," she said, the words beginning to slur together. "For giving us something to aim for."

He knocked his glass lightly against hers, locking eyes with her for more than a brief moment. They were dull, lifeless as she stared back at him. Her fingers lazily circled the air above his hand as she finished the rest of her martini in one long gulp.

She looked back at him proudly as she set the empty glass down. Her full lips glistened, a drop of alcohol catching in the faint light. Her pink tongue darted out to lap it up like a cat did milk and he felt the tightening in his groin. He shifted uncomfortably as she scooted closer, her dark suit falling open just enough for him to see the swell of her breast.

He saw her mouth moving, but no words entered his being. The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears as a warm, alcohol-induced lethargy swept over him. Her knee brushed against his thigh, sending a bullet of electricity through him. His hand slid down his thigh, brushing against the rounded peak of her kneecap.

"Detective?"

He met her questioning eyes, leaning closer to her as he asked, "What?"

She chuckled, a throaty sound from deep in her throat. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"No," he confessed, shaking his head slightly.

"And why not?"

"I was just wondering why your husband lets you drink so much."

She sat up, pulling her knee away from the fragile grasp his fingers had on it as her face hardened. "Why?"

"I'm curious," he admitted. "You've been pulled over so many times for DUI's…there has to be a reason."

"Why I drink?" she asked sharply, crossing her legs in front of him. "Or why he lets me?"

"Both, I guess."

She sighed, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. "I drink," she began softly, the taste of gin blanketing her lips, "because he doesn't care to stop me." Her eyes turned away from his, not wanting to see what was surely there. "What made you come here?"

"I told you, I kill-"

"Not here to the bar," she interrupted, folding the cocktail napkin until it was smaller than a dime. "Here to me."

He shrugged, taking the last swallow of tequila and pushing the glass away. "I don't know yet."