Chapter 1:

Her fiance is dead.

The sentence disquiets her as she stares in to the depths of her beer, a miniature whirlpool of liquid amber created as she tips the heavy pint glass this way and that. She's not comfortable saying he's dead, not even in her own mind.

If his body had held out just a little longer, she would be a widow. Instead she's just this... mess, half of whole, trudging through the day to day, each patient a familiar face. She's played this game by herself for the past few months, poking at her memories, picking at the scab of them before tucking them away where no one else can see. Now, she's branched out, leaving the safety of an apartment ensconced in darkness to inflicting her misery on the population at large by drinking in bars.

Molly's to be exact.

Of all the asinine places for her to sit and brood, she had come to this one. To be fair, it hadn't been totally her choice. Three weeks into her 12 week suspension, she had been quite content to sit and stare at her walls or -when she was feeling particularly adventurous- glare murderously at happy couples while she sat in a diner down the street.

It was Shay's fault. The blonde had all but beaten down her door, unwilling to accept clipped text messages that were meant to both reassure her partner that she was fine and a not so subtle attempt to get her to back the hell off.

Shay was nothing if not dogged, no doubt likening Rafferty to her own experience with the clinging black fog that was depression. That had been a surprise, the sarcastic armour of her blonde partner seemed almost impenetrable. The ever helpful rumour mill had filled in the blanks, Shay being all but abandoned by her best friend when she needed her most. Getting that little gem hadn't taken much, a throwaway comment about Dawson to Severide had him relaying tidbits of the story, the rest of it pieced together from the others.

Rafferty wasn't sure why she cared enough to bother fitting the puzzle into its proper place. Maybe it had initially been a desire to have one up on Shay but that had faded quickly. Now it was more about understanding, and working harder not to spit venom at the other woman when she tried to help. Sarcasm and ball busting were still fair game but it had been weeks since she had taken a serious verbal swing at Shay.

Her gaze slid over the crowd to the blonde in question, standing behind the bar cleaning glassware, her attention split between her task and a woman Rafferty assumed was Shay's flavour of the week. If nothing else had made it past the rumour mill she still would have known of Shay and Severide's legendary conquests, the pair running through Chicago women at a break neck pace.

It didn't bother her. She wasn't homophobic, not really. She had aspirations of being a doctor, immersing herself in science. Rafferty had no particular dogma to cling to that would breed intolerance toward anything but stupidity and incompetence, Shay harboured the characteristics of neither.

Even her previous partner hadn't been an issue until all the ridiculously lovey and overly sexual conversations while Rafferty sat in the rig, unable to escape. The woman insisted on throwing feelings in her face when all Rafferty wanted was to put her head down and wait for the worst of her grief to blow over.

The homophobia schtick had been an easy enough trick to back Shay off, keep a proper distance between them, competent at work without having to delve into tragic pasts. It wasn't as if Shay had a dead fiance behind her -at least not to her knowledge- but scuttlebutt said she had a less than stellar track record with women. And then there had been the man who shot himself.

They all had their own crosses to bear.

The lack of beer as Rasfferty attempts to take a sip brings her back to herself, she's on empty. It's the perfect time to bow out, she's had her requisite drinks, shown up so Shay knows she hasn't dropped dead in her apartment, now she can wallow in peace.

She looks across to signal her impending exit to Shay, eyebrow raised to see the blonde leaning halfway over the counter to talk to her friend. The new woman must speaking just a little too low, forcing Shay to lean in that much closer to hear. It was a blatant flaunting of her ability to capture the blonde paramedic's attention. Rafferty rolls her eyes at the play, Shay should know better than to fall for such cheap tricks.

"It's not like they're making out, ease up on the death glare," Severide leads with, sliding his body into the booth seat in front of her.

"I... what?" Her attention is on him now, hoping for an explanation.

"You, hate staring holes into the back of that chick's head. I get that you're not all, into ladies liking ladies and what not but they're not doing anything wrong."

She pursed her lips, tempted to overthrow his theory about her but chooses against it, shrugging as she twirls her pint glass on the dented wood table. "It's her bar."

"Yeah, it is, and her life. You can disagree all you want but..."

"Shay's the golden girl who can do no wrong, I get it." Rafferty holds up a hand to stop the impending lecture about the brotherhood of 51. They closed ranks around their own and taking shots at Shay or Dawson was tantamount to treason. That had never been her, not in high school or university, or med school where everyone spent as much time sabotaging their peers as they did focusing on their own studies. She had been on her own for most of her life. She wonders what it feels like, to be one of these people able to poke a bear because you knew an army would be at your back. "I really have nothing against her personally." She didn't want him to think her a total waste of humanity. "She can do whatever or whomever she likes, I just don't want it..."

"Shoved in your face, yeah, I got it." The look of muted disgust as he speaks means he doesn't, in fact, understand. Rafferty rolls her eyes, it's not that she doesn't want two women shoved in her face, she doesn't want anyone shoved in her face, period. Doesn't want to be exposed to second hand feelings, afraid they may catch.

She isn't stupid, eventually the tragedy of her fiance's death will lessen. Some time in the unforeseen future, she might want something with someone, somewhere.

But today is not that day.

"Hey, get you guys anything?" Shay asks, appearing at her elbow and motioning to the empty glass. "Rafferty, refill?"

"Alliteration, I'm impressed," she tips the pint glass at the blonde in a loose salute.

"I'm impressed you know that word, that's..." Shay took a moment, contemplating, "three more syllables than I thought you could handle."

"Ass."

"Yeah, that's more along the line of what I expect from you. What's the matter, they don't teach you insults in breeder college?"

"I'm going to head over there before blood is drawn," Severide stands, motioning over to the rest of the Squad tucked in a corner near the jukebox. "Call me if you need back up."

"Coward," Rafferty calls out, nodding at Shay when the woman motions to take his place. "Busy here tonight."

"It's picking up, it definitely helps that we're the only game in the neighbourhood. Never thought I'd thank the mob for something but..."

"Gift horses and all that."

"Got that right. So, enjoying your time away from your couch?"

"Hey, my couch misses me. I'm pretty sure it texted me to come home."

"Well, how about blowing off it, and your throw pillows, and heading back to my place after we close up here?"

"I know I asked you about lesbian night but if you're thinking of trying to convert me, ain't we moving a little fast? Don't we listen to Melissa Etheridge first?"

"I already got you drunk. You're what? A three drink lesbian, max."

"You'd better break out better than that tap water you call beer if that's what you think."

"Scotch it is. And we're playing poker, I hope you brought your wallet," Shay calls over her shoulder as she heads to the bar for a refill. She follows the woman with her eyes, frown fixed in place when Shay leans over to talk to the platinum blonde at the bar. She isn't, repeat, is not, going over to Shay's place to watch those two suck face all night.

She searches her mind for a decent reason to beg off, other than what she deems as a perfectly fine answer, she simply doesn't want to go. Shay won't let her off the hook that easily. She would spend the rest of the night answering so many drunken texts she would end up with less sleep than if she acquiesced. That's how it had gone down last week.

Shay was quick to return, two tumblers of amber liquid in one hand and a fresh pint of beer in the other.

She slid the beer and a glass of scotch over the table, taking a pull at her own drink.

"So, is De Jour coming over for poker as well?" Rafferty asked, inclining her head toward the bar.

"De Jour?" Shay follows her gaze, landing on the annoyingly pert blonde who waved coyly at them. She doesn't bother with anything resembling a smile in response before turning back to Shay whose grin borders on 'shit eating'.

"Her name is Brittany."

She can't help the gagging sound that overtakes her at such a vomit inducing, cheery name, accepting the snap of the bar towel as her punishment.

"She's very..."

"Clingy? Obvious? Over the top?" she supplied for Shay.

"Friendly, was the word I was going for, you know, the opposite of you."

"The opposite of me is boring, stupid and unawesome."

"There, there, dear," Shay patted her hand, "I'll still love you, even when I'm seeing other people."

Shrugging off the hand, she raised the glass and took a deep pull at the scotch, the burn sliding down her throat.

"And no, despite how much I enjoy watching you squirm, Brittany's not actually my type."

"What? Breathing?"

"I'll have you know, I have standards."

Rafferty's raised eyebrow calls bullshit.

"Low standards given recent history," Shay admits, "but standards none the less. Judging by her tan line, she's not exactly available." Shay tapped her ring finger to be sure Rafferty's got the drift. "But what's the harm in a little shameless flirting?" Shay's attention turned to the bar, Dawson flagging her down to help wade through a sudden influx of customers. The blonde stood, sliding her glass over the table to be finished. "Poker, in or out?"

Rafferty looks around the bustling bar, surprisingly comfortable ensconced in the lair of 51. The majority of that comfort rests on the shoulders of the woman in front of her, Shay's dogged, relentless insistence of caring had kept her afloat these past few months. She throws back the last of her scotch, a determined nod settling the internal debate.

"In."

...