Author's Note: Well, I didn't expect to write another piece so soon – WHOOPS! Guess I have this series on the mind, and what can I say – 'separated/divorced couples who still have feelings for each other' is basically my favorite trope ever.

This fic was almost called 'I love everybody in this bar.' XD

Disclaimer: No ownership, no money, etc. etc. etc.

Lenore's dressed for divorce court, not a bar.

But after hours and hours of finalizing the cataloguing of 'his' and 'hers', of recounting all the thousands of reasons that her marriage to Stuart has twisted into something ugly and awful, of signing the final papers to sever their union forever, she needs a drink or two.

She's only a block or so from the courthouse, so she doesn't look too out of place with her pencil skirt and crisp pressed blouse among the interns and paralegals, the counselors and court reporters. Her plan is to nurse a glass of red wine and hopefully her nerves in the process, and wait out the storm that threatened overhead, the rainclouds dark and heavy and foreboding. She'd been forced to park six blocks away, and thought it best to wait before making the trek.

Stuart, lucky enough or connected enough to get a spot right in front of the courthouse, had tersely offered her a ride to her car, but as he had called her an icy bitch and she had called him a pathological control freak only a half hour ago, she had gracefully declined.

She slides onto a bar stool and tries to not exude 'single and sad' as she orders a glass of red wine and takes out her phone. There's a text from Kim, seeing how she's doing, and Lenore fires off a quick reply, letting her daughter know her status before picking up her drink.

She's not alone for long, which is something she should be glad about. She's one of the only people here by herself, it seems, but the clientele is mixed enough that it isn't all couples, and soon there's a man seated next to her, offering her a smile and a handshake with his introduction. Lenore isn't stupid, she knows she's failed miserably at her 'don't appear single and lonely' plan, but it's nice to not be alone, nice to have a man – and then another, the first's friend, lingering by her stool ostensibly to order a drink from the bartender but working to catch her eye – want to talk to her after spending the day being ripped apart. She forgets the name of the man sitting next to her as soon as he gives it, and after he buys her a few drinks she's far too embarrassed to ask, but their conversation is nice enough and in the end, it won't make a difference anyway. She's too old and seen too much in life to let some stranger at a bar take her home just because he's picking up the tab and is wearing a suit. She won't deny that it's nice to flex her flirting muscle, however; after so many years, it's more than a bit rusty.

Suddenly, her companion notices something over her shoulder and Lenore knows, she knows he's there even before she turns around. Other men always get this look around her ex-husband (her first ex-husband, she has to remind herself, and oh god, how pathetic that she now has to number her failures), a sort of wariness. She supposes she can't blame them – Bryan usually towers at least a good half of a foot over anyone in the room, and when he's around strangers he always has this look on his face, like he could break someone's neck with his thumbs if he so chose. Which, Lenore admits, he probably could.

He wedges himself quite pointedly between Lenore's stool and the stool of the man she had been talking to – Paul? Patrick? Well, whatever his name had been doesn't really matter because he's already gone like a wisp of smoke, as is the gentleman who had been hovering and vying for her attention. It's so comforting to know that her new friends would so readily leave her at the mercy of someone who, for all they know, is a scary, scowling stranger.

Bryan gestures with two fingers to the bartender to bring the check, and Lenore can see him roll his eyes when he signs for the single glass of wine on her tab. That's right, she had started with wine before – Peter? – had switched her to vodka and lemon. "What are you doing here?" she demands of Bryan. "I swear to god, Bryan, if you put a GPS on my phone, too, I will kill you. Actually kill you." She fumbles for her phone in her purse, angrily jabbing her finger at the screen and expecting something – a map, or a sign saying 'He's Guilty' perhaps – to pop up and implicate him.

Instead, she sees that it's been almost four hours, she's missed six calls from Kim, and her stomach drops.

"No GPS," he says upon reading the expression on her face. "Kim was worried, said you texted her that you were stopping for a drink after court. There aren't that many bars within walking distance, though this is the third one I've tried." He pushes the signed receipt back across the bar, and offers out a hand to help her down. "Let me take you home."

"No. I don't want to go home," she says stubbornly. Just the thought of that huge, cold, white house is enough to turn her stomach at the moment. It's where she built a life with Stuart, and even if she doesn't want that life anymore, she doesn't want the reminder of it, either.

Bryan drums his fingers on the bar top. "We can play this out one of two ways, Lenore. Either we get up and head for the door like the civilized, mature adults we are and no one will notice us leaving at all, or I sling you over my shoulder like you're a kid who missed curfew and we create a huge scene in the process," he tells her, and despite his casual tone, she knows it's no empty threat. She slides from her seat and takes his arm – she's irritated that he's telling her what to do, but she's also not sure when the floor decided to slant to a forty-five degree angle, so holding onto him is a matter of necessity.

"My car's on 8th street," she tells him when he guides her to his car, parked just outside. She wonders how he managed that. She only hopes it didn't involve any damage to property or persons.

"Yeah, well, we'll worry about that tomorrow," he answers dryly, and he shuts the passenger door behind her.

They drive in silence, and it's when they pull onto the interstate that she starts crying. It just suddenly hits her like a fist to the gut, the finality of it all, the closing of the chapter of this part of her life. It's been months and months of fighting, of lawyers, and she's so exhausted and so relieved it's finally over. But the thought that she has to start all over again is equally as tiring, and it's sad, too, to think that the last year is what she'll think about when she thinks of Stuart. They were happy, once, but it seems so long ago she can scarcely remember what it felt like. She wishes she could go back, or forward a year to when she doesn't hurt as much, or just anywhere but here, feeling as awful as she does.

"Shit," Bryan mutters, shooting her a sidelong glance, and even with her head swimming she laughs through her tears that he can confront a seemingly endless number of thugs completely stonefaced, but the sight of a woman in tears has him completely discomforted. "I…I didn't bring any tissues, or anything. I'm sorry." His hand lands on the back of her head, awkwardly patting her hair even as his gaze returns to the road.

"No, I'm sorry," she counters, embarrassed, and she tries to wipe her damp face with shaking fingers – a futile process, as she hasn't stopped crying yet. "Oh, god, I don't want Kim to see me such a mess."

"I told her she could stay with me tonight, that you might need some alone time," he reassures her, and she's grateful and dismayed all at once – yes, she doesn't want her daughter to have to see her this way, but at the same time alone timeis the last thing she wants at the moment. "You, ah…you miss him?" He tries to keep his voice casual, failing miserably in the attempt, and she watches his fingers flex on the steering wheel, drumming out an erratic tune.

"No," she sniffles. She had the opportunity, if she had wanted it, one last chance to work things out. When she and Kim came home from Istanbul, Stuart had been horrified to learn of what they had been through, crippled with guilt that he had inadvertently set into motion everything that had happened by cancelling their trip to China. She didn't blame him – not for that – but she hadn't wanted to reconcile, either. Things had gone too far, and she's changed irrevocably now. "But I'm going to be alone forever, and I don't want that, either."

He lets out a huff that could be a laugh or could be a sigh, and his hand drops to the back of her neck, squeezing lightly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against the hinge of her jaw. "That's not true, Lenny."

"It's what Stuart says," she points out, and she turns her head to the window as her eyes fill again. They'd both hurled their share of cruel remarks at the other, but that had been one that had cut deep.

"Well, he's wrong. And he's an asshole. I never liked him."

Now Lenore laughs, the sound shaky through her tears. It isn't a fair assessment – Stuart had been good to her, had adored Kim, for years, but it doesn't hurt to hear at the moment. "He wasn't too crazy about you, either."

"I can live with that," he replies dryly.

"But really," she presses, with the intensity that only belongs to the very serious and the very drunk, "I'll be divorced twice before I'm even 45. What does that tell you?"

"That you have crummy taste in men." She glares at him, unamused, and after a sidelong glance over at her, Bryan briefly takes his hands from the steering wheel to hold them up in a gesture of surrender. "I mean it! You think I'd marry me? No one else did."

"Did you ever come close?" she asks suddenly, quietly. She doesn't know anything about Bryan's romantic life since they divorced. She's never wanted to know about that – she still doesn't, really. He's never mentioned anyone, but then again, before the last year and a half he'd only be around for a handful of weeks at a time, swearing he would make up his absences to Kim, being an attentive, hands-on father…until the next assignment for the CIA pulled him away and months would pass before he would pop up again. But just because Bryan's never shown up with a woman on his arm doesn't mean there wasn't one, at one point – perhaps at many points. Her stomach twists unpleasantly at the thought, something she knows is completely unfair considering she's the one who just ended a seven year marriage to another man.

"Me?" he asks, and his hand slips away from the back of her neck. She instinctively grabs it before he can withdraw completely, holding it between her own two hands. His fingertips are callused, his knuckles scarred – she can trace the veins as they trail up his wrists, keeping him alive despite everything they've faced. "No. You were right about that one. Marriage and the CIA don't mix." His fingers tighten briefly against hers, a silent apology. She turns it over in her head, unsure if his answer makes her feel better or worse, if she hates the idea of another woman in his life more than she hates the thought of him spending the last decade alone.

It had been far too easy in Istanbul to be swept up in the wave of renewed affection when things had been so harrowing. When he'd held her and promised that she was safe – that more importantly, Kim was safe – Lenore had been certain she had never loved him more. At that moment, she had been certain that nothing mattered more than that feeling did, that any obstacle would be inconsequential in light of having him again. And she'd known by the way he'd clutched her to him, his hand in her hair, cheek pressed to the top of her head, that he'd felt the same.

In the familiarity of California, though, things had become so much more muddled. She remembers the mess they made of things the first time around; she wonders if she spent so many years resenting him and seething in anger that maybe the pendulum has just swung too far the other way now that he's around again, and if she just has to wait it out before she settles into comfortable apathy. She questions if she's just lonely, and afraid, and he's here, the way she wanted him to be years ago, and she tells herself how much it would hurt Kim, if they were to try again and fail. Sure, the biggest issue had been his job, and he's retired from that now, but she wonders if she can ever make peace with the fact that he chose the CIA over her and Kim. It's been years and years since then, but it still aches in the center of her chest when she thinks about it. Maybe she'll never forgive him that choice.

And even if she could untangle her own confusing thoughts and feelings, she has no idea where he stands. He may have saved her life and turned a city upside down to do it, but there's a huge distance between wanting someone to be alive and wanting to be with them. No matter how he felt about her personally, he would have done what he did in Istanbul simply because she was Kim's mother. Maybe he's just thrilled at the idea of finally amicably co-parenting, and she's reading things that aren't even there.

It's there for her, though. Regardless of how long it stays around or if he feels it in return, that old flame that she'd thought long extinguished is burning, and she doesn't know what to do with it.

He pulls up to the looming mansion, throwing the car into park before coming over to her side to help her out. She doesn't realize how much she needs the help until she tries to stand, and her legs wobble like jelly beneath her. He puts an arm firmly around her waist for support, and she sags against the solidity of his chest. "It's all right," he soothes her as she grasps at his shirt to steady herself.

Walking up her driveway isn't so different from walking out of that basement in Istanbul – weak-legged, light-headed, trusting that Bryan wouldn't let her fall. The major difference is that she's far more embarrassed this time, much more conscious of how it's her own fault this time that she's in this state. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be such a wreck," she tells him, as she digs for her key. He leans over to peer in her purse, to help her search, and their heads bump lightly.

"It's all right. It's a tough thing," he replies, and she manages to not hang on the irony of the fact that he would only know that thanks to their own divorce. He cups her cheek in his hand, thumb brushing against the tear tracks left on her face, wiping the salt away with a half-smile on his face. "You'll be okay."

Maybe it's the smile, or the sweetness in his eyes, or the warmth flooding her body, or the way that his face is right there…whatever the reason, she kisses him. She had kissed him in Istanbul, too, in that cab in the heat of the moment, suddenly filled with dread that she would never see him again. It had been quick, over before she'd given him a chance to register, much less react, and they hadn't spoken of it after – there had been too many other things to process, but that doesn't mean she's forgotten. Though, she admits, this is probably the worst time to try a reprisal.

It may not be the ideal circumstances, but times are certainly less dire; so this time it's slower, and he's less surprised. There's only a fraction of a beat before he kisses her back, almost lazily at first, first her top lip and then the bottom, his thumb still stroking her cheek, and then more thoroughly as his free arm wraps around her back, pulling her close against him. She sighs against his mouth, her fingers sliding to the back of his neck, brushing along the back of his hair. She tilts her head as she parts her lips, and his tongue is hot when it slides along hers. It's been so long since she's been kissed, really kissed as though the other person meant it, that it makes her weak in the knees so that she has to cling to him tighter, her fingertips digging into the solid muscle of his shoulder.

There's a fluidity, a naturalness to the way they touch, the way they come together, as though they're simply picking up where they left off ten years ago. It's overwhelming, like all this time she's just been waiting to kiss him again, without even realizing. She pulls back to catch her breath, light-headed and dizzy from more than just booze, and he follows her; he kisses her this time, his arm tight around her shoulders now, fingers wrapped in her hair, and his other hand roaming along her back. She's caught between the front door and his body and she's glad of it, because she isn't entirely sure she'd be able to stand at this point. The rest of the world seems to melt away behind him, but he's solid enough to hold onto, enough to steady her. He drops his lips, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her throat, and Lenore's breath hitches; she wonders if he can feel her pulse leap, and she moans softly at the contact.

It's at that sound that he pulls back, his breath releasing in a sudden rush. His hands go to her shoulders, giving her a tiny push to hold her apart and create some distance between them – not much, but enough. He frowns slightly, his brow furrowed in thought, and the tip of his tongue darts out to swipe along his bottom lip. "Whew. You're, ah, potent, Lenny. Do me a favor and don't breathe over any open flames, okay?"

Heat rushes to her cheeks in a flush of embarrassment; here she had been thinking how nice it was to kiss him again, and she hadn't even spared a thought about how the smell and taste of vodka is probably rolling off of her in waves. Almost as strong as the desperation, she thinks bitterly. "Oh, god," she mutters. "I'm so stupid. Sorry." She tips her head back against the door, closing her eyes, as though she could will everything away that way. Wasn't it just earlier this evening that she'd tried so hard to not come across 'single and sad'? Why had she thrown that away so easily?

He'd kissed her back, though, and how he'd kissed her back – she hadn't imagined that.

"Lenny." His voice is gentle, as soft as the chaste kiss he drops on her forehead, so different from the heated ones he'd left on her lips. "Don't be sorry. Just…not like this, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees in a whisper; it's one of those thing that she knows he's right about, even if she doesn't want him to be. She feels both startlingly sober now and more cloudy-headed than ever, and their relationship – whateverit is – is enough of a minefield on its own, without adding alcohol and newly minted divorce papers to the mix. In the morning, she knows she'll be glad – but the morning seems a far way off, just right then.

He nods, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. He looks like he wants to say something more, but Bryan's never been very good at words – no, he's more a man of action, she thinks wryly – and he lets the moment lie. "I'll call you tomorrow, see how you're feeling," he offers, and she smiles wanly and agrees, and tries to convince herself she didn't just make a total fool of herself.

The house is silent when she lets herself in, and she decides at that very moment that she hates it. It's obscenely large; it had been when there were three of them, and now it's just her and Kim, and soon Kim will be off to college and it'll be Lenore on her own. And what does she need with six bedrooms, with four bathrooms? It's full of memories from a life that's over now, and she wants a new beginning, a fresh start. That would be on her agenda tomorrow, after taking the three Advils she's sure she'll need.

She hears Bryan's car start up after she flips her bedroom light on. Despite her lingering embarrassment, Lenore smiles.

Hours later, everything is dark and the world is quiet when she awakens to the dip in her mattress beside her, the rustle of a sheet before a slim arm slings around her middle. "Kim?" she mumbles, keeping her eyes closed in order to not aggravate the headache that – as predicted – is throbbing at her temples. "I thought you were staying with your father?"

"I know," her daughter whispers back, her cheek pressing against Lenore's shoulder. "I thought you might need company, though." Lenore smiles in the darkness, despite the pain in her head, and her hand closes around Kim's, holding tight. They're two of a kind sometimes, Kim and her – Bryan may have said that Lenore needed 'alone time' but her daughter would know that it wasn't true, not tonight. Neither of them were particularly solitary creatures.

"Thanks, sweetie," she whispers, and she sighs heavily. "I'm sorry to put you through all of this again." This, of course, being more upheaval, another divorce, when really all Lenore ever wanted was to make a stable home for Kim, to give her a proper family. When she realized Bryan wouldn't leave his job until the bitter end, she'd looked for that elsewhere, and now it's Lenore who botched it, who brought her daughter a second broken home.

"It's okay," Kim whispers. "We're going to be okay. We have each other."

It's the best reassurance she's had all day – the only one that really matters, in the end.