Disclaimer: This story is fan fiction. The characters are the property of Steven Bochco Productions and/or ABC.

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Denby paced back and forth on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass. He'd lost weight over the last six weeks, and he knew his suit didn't fit him as well as he would like. He checked his watch by the light coming from inside the restaurant, and looked up and down the street. It was 7:35 p.m. She was late, she was 5 minutes late. Was she coming? He suddenly pictured himself, and he laughed silently. How long had it been since he was this nervous about meeting a woman? A long time, that's for sure. Had he been 17? 16? Even his ex-wife at her most teasing and provocative had never made him feel this way. Had never made him feel the way that Diane Russell did just by thinking about her.

Physically, he still felt fragile. Six weeks without a line of coke or a shot of Scotch, and there were still times when every nerve in his body screamed at him for a fix. But intellectually, emotionally, morally even, the cop in him put up a fight against the cocaine. Cocaine was illegal. Start with cocaine and you're playing with the bad guys. No, stick with the cop's drug of choice, stick with the booze. If only he could learn to handle it….stop it, he thought. If he started thinking about how much he wanted a drink, he'd get the shakes again. And he wouldn't do that in front of her.

Then he saw a figure walking down the street, and he breathed a sigh of relief. She had come after all. He felt his heart start to beat faster. His throat started to tighten, and he swallowed nervously.

"Hey, Denby."

"Hi, Diane."

"So, you're finally out."

He nodded. "As you can see - straight, and dry as the Sahara Desert."

"That's not a bad thing. Are you set up with an AA meeting yet?"

"No, I've been getting my bearings today. They gave me a list at the hospital."

"First thing tomorrow, you've got to get on that."

"Yeah, of course."

She looked through the lace-curtained window at the diners. "So, why are we having this meeting on the sidewalk outside a restaurant?"

"There are a couple of reasons, Diane. In the first place it's not a bar, which, considering the circumstances, probably would not be a good idea."

"Right."

"In the second place," he continued, "I'd like to show my appreciation for your help."

"Anyone would have done the same."

"Not for me they wouldn't."

"Whatever."

"And lastly, I've got something I'd like to celebrate. Besides getting out of the hospital, that is."

"What's that?"

"Later. Will you come in with me? Please?" he added earnestly, motioning towards the entrance. "It's just dinner."

"This is not a date, Denby."

"Of course not, Diane. It's just two - friends? - having some calamari and lasagna - or whatever you have a taste for."

"No booze."

"Not even a glass of the house red." He raised his right hand in the Boy Scout salute. "Scout's honor."

"You're no Boy Scout."

"I was, once."

She shook her doubtfully, thinking about it, not believing she was going to accept the invitation. Denby waited anxiously.

"Just dinner," she said, finally.

"Just dinner."

"And I'm not 'seeing' you," she added, sketching quote marks in the air.

"Absolutely not," he agreed.

So they went in, and they did have the calamari and the lasagna. By unspoken but mutual agreement, they didn't talk about cases, or cocaine, or alcohol. They talked, amazingly, of inconsequential things: the weather, the Mets, Shakespeare in the Park. Denby could be charming when he tried, but he knew if he tried too hard it wouldn't have the effect he wanted. Mostly, he let her talk, which was an interesting experience for him. Diane relaxed, although she never completely left her guard down. You couldn't do that with Denby, she knew.

Over coffee, Diane again asked what they were celebrating.

"The review board issued their report today."

She smiled. "It must be good news if we're celebrating."

"Well, there's good news and then there's...the rest of it."

"OK, so start with the good news."

"The good news is I get to stay on the job." He smiled grimly, raising his coffee cup as if in a toast.

"That's great!" She was truly happy for him. He had been involved with Jill's problems, but he hadn't been the cause of them. "And the rest?"

"Ah, the rest." The smile vanished. He put his coffee cup down and looked away. He could recite most of it from memory, but he couldn't look her in the face as he did it. "The rest would be: no finding of criminal misconduct, but serious errors in judgment on the part of the assigned undercover detective. An official reprimand on my permanent record. Off the task force. Out of narcotics entirely, to be reassigned...", he waved his hands, "who-knows-where? And last, but not least, and I quote, 'Demotion one grade to the rank of detective with commensurate loss of pay and seniority.'"

It was hard, but no harder than she had expected. She hesitated, then reached out to take his hand. "You can get through this," she said, squeezing it briefly. Denby looked up, and she took her hand away. He looked in her eyes as she met his gaze. He saw support there and maybe, the beginnings of friendship, but nothing more. Six weeks couldn't wipe away the memories of how they had first met.

"Denby, you had to be prepared for this."

He shook his head. "I thought I was, but...," his voice trailed off. "Diane, I was, I am, a good detective, a good cop. Whatever else you may think of me, a drunk, a skel, whatever, I'm a good cop. I had a case, and I lost control of it. It took me over. People died, people's lives were destroyed..." He paused, considering. "To be honest, I don't know if I think I should be punished less or punished more."

"Why don't you just accept what's on your plate right now?" She looked at her watch. "Hey, I've got to get going. Some of us have to work tomorrow, you know."

She got up, and he rose with her. "I'll see you home."

"Nah, that's OK, I can catch a cab. This was not a date, remember?" He sat back down, looking a little disappointed. She gave him a consolation prize. "You call me in a day or so, OK? I want you to keep in touch."

"Sure."

She put her hand on his shoulder. "I had a good time. I'll see you." Then she turned and left.

"Good night."

After she left, he felt guilty that he had lied to her. But he didn't know how to face her when she found out. He knew where he was being reassigned. And if Dante had created a circle of hell just for him, it couldn't be worse: the 15th precinct. What mis-begotten bastard had assigned him to the 15th? The 15th, where he'd been paraded through the station house under arrest, in handcuffs, and put in a cell with the other skels. The 15th, where the boss and the other detectives would always hold him responsible for bringing down Jill Kirkendahl. The 15th, Diane's precinct.

Every day. He'd see her every day. Well, what was so bad about that? That was what he wanted, wasn't it? He'd show her, he'd show them all. He'd show her he was a good cop. They could become friends. Sure, friends. She'd learn to appreciate him, she'd...she'd be there to judge him. Every day.

He called the waiter over to the table.

"Scotch, straight up. Make it a double."

When it came, he sat and stared at the glass.

The End