THIRTY-FOUR: 953 Reasons [FLASHBACK]

Bruce McLeod had been in the bar since early afternoon, since he'd snuck away from the cemetery before the service had ended – he hadn't wanted to be seen. He'd been in town for a few days, almost a week since he'd heard from his sister-in-law Hannah that Vic Donimari had been found dead in a hotel bathtub, blood all over the place and his wrists slit. The family suspected foul play – he'd never known the man to be suicidal – there wasn't a note to be found but there was no evidence to support the murder theory and the police had closed the case. Hannah was a mess, but at least she had her husband Lex Collins to lean on.

He'd dropped everything he had going on, sneaking back into New York like a thief in the night because he'd expected to get a call from his estranged wife. His phone had remained ominously silent. His daughter hadn't called either and it was because of the silence that he'd even shown up at the grave site today. He'd feared the worst, relieved when he'd seen his precious Cherry leaning on their sixteen-year-old for support, sobbing as though the world was going to end. He wanted to move from his hiding spot, wanted to go to her and pull her into his arms but the time where he felt like he had the right to even touch her was long past.

He'd been maintaining a nice numb buzz for the entire afternoon as it bled into night, as the lights dimmed and the radio playing behind the bar was switched over to the noisy jukebox. He slouched lower in the booth, motorcycle boots up on the seat across from him, knees bumping against the underside of the table. He saw her the moment she walked in, overdressed for the shitty atmosphere, in that same little black dress she'd had on earlier. She'd spruced it up with a little flash of bling around her neck and in her ears – her legs looked incredible in a pair of black stiletto heels.

It had been a long time since Charity had stepped foot inside the bar known as McGinty's, a few years, in fact. The place held a lot of sentimental value for her as it was the first place she'd really gotten to interact with Bruce – they'd had a few dates between these walls. She'd also lost her virginity to the man down in the basement. His cousins owned the bar and since they'd separated, she hadn't wanted to step foot in there. This evening was different. Ever since she'd gotten the news that Vic had been murdered, Charity had felt as though she were on the verge of a panic attack. She'd kept it at bay with Xanax at the beginning, but as the days progressed, the meds weren't doing the trick any longer. She needed something stronger.

Charity had arrived a couple hours before and had been drinking whiskey and Coke. Since walking into the bar, she'd gotten a lot of stares and even a few drinks bought for her by some guy named Jason or James. She wasn't sure – it wasn't like it really mattered. Going through the motions, forcing herself to focus in on the attention this stranger gave her rather than the raw grief of her father's death was helping. A little. Every time she started to feel that grief start to creep back in, she ordered another drink or a shot of something strong. She wasn't too far from being completely blitzed which was why she wasn't objecting to Jason/James' hands roaming all over her body. Her arms went around his neck as she giggled and let him kiss her, not even caring when he started getting a little bolder. At least she wasn't thinking about her father.

"Jimmy O-fuckin-Riordan Junior," there was quite a bit of bass in the voice that spoke from behind the pair, "does yer Da know yeh're here, feelin' up the help? How 'bout yer wife?"

The man stopped his groping, turning on his stool to stare at the intruder who'd dared to interrupt him, eyes narrowing when he saw the man standing there with the silver in his hair, more salt than pepper in his beard and goatee. Jimmy scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Piss off, old-timer," he said dismissively, turning his back on the man and returning to kissing Charity.

Bruce stood there for a moment, making eye contact with the tender behind the bar as if looking for permission to cause a scene. When she turned and started arranging the glasses that had just come from the dishwasher, he reached out and tapped Jimmy Jr. on the shoulder again. "Excuse me, fella. That's my goddamn wife you're pawin' at."

The man she'd learned was Jimmy pulled back from her. Charity, who seemed to be having a bit of trouble keeping her eyes open, blinked blearily up at Bruce, wagging a finger at him. "Ex-wife, ya mean." She jabbed that finger at the air accusingly, "...'cause ya left and I haven't seen you in years." She turned to the bartender, smacking the top of the bar to get her attention. "Hey! Gimme a shot of whiskey?" Bruce had seen her drunk plenty of times, but never to this extreme.

The tender's eyes slid to Bruce and he nodded, accepting responsibility without a word.

Charity was served her shot of whiskey and didn't hesitate in downing it. "And James has been keeping me real good company tonight."

"Ah, has he now?" Bruce took in how sloppy drunk she was, shaking his head. He opened his mouth to say something else, only to be cut off by Jimmy as he let go of Charity's waist and moved to his feet.

"Listen here, gramps," Jimmy was right up in his face, half a head taller than the scarred Scot. "She's clearly not interested. Why don't you fuck off before you get hurt?"

Bruce smirked, rolling his shoulders. "Funny, was just thinkin' the same thing meself."

That last shot of whiskey made it so it was hard to hold her head up. "You're wrong, Jason; he's the one who isn't interested." Luckily the bar counter was behind her, helping her stay upright. "Bruce, you left.... And things are just a tiny bit spinney." She closed her eyes for a second, reaching out to pick up her half-empty whiskey and Coke. "Eureka and hot damn." She grabbed the glass, sloshing some over her hand as she lifted it to her lips.

Jimmy took another step towards Bruce who reached out and plucked the glass from Charity's hand before she could finish guzzling it, tossing the rest of the contents in Jimmy's face. The Irishman sputtered, taking a wild swing at Bruce, only to get knocked on his ass thanks to a great sucker punch. He was on his feet in an instant but the bouncer intervened, grabbing his arms from behind.

"He started it!" Jimmy shouted, only to find that nobody was listening as the bouncer forced him back through the crowd.

Sliding onto the recently-vacated stool, Bruce rested his elbow on the bar and turned towards Charity. "Hello, lovely."

"Hi, Bruce." Her words were slurred as she looked at the man, feeling her heart shattering all over again – God help her but she still loved him and seeing him now, dressed in a dark button-down shirt she'd never seen before, she couldn't help but feel the gulf between them. That sorrow clawed its way through her euphoric buzz and she struggled to breathe, feeling her pulse pounding in her temples. Her voice came out small, strangled as she averted her eyes. "Can I get my drink back? I'm... feeling a tiny bit parched."

"Aye. Sorry. Where are me manners?" He nodded to the tender who rushed to prepare a new drink, this time only pretending to add whiskey to the cola before setting two glasses down. "There ya be, Cherry-love." He pushed one of the glasses towards her, lifting the other as if he wanted to do a toast.

She turned slightly in her seat and stared at him, her bottom lip quivering. Even in her drunken state, she knew that she wouldn't be distracted. Seeing Bruce brought up so many feelings and pain, some fresh and some that had decided to come out of hiding. "I'm not your Cherry-love." Her eyes looked down at the glass he'd pushed to her. "Three fuckin' years." Her words still slurred as she drank, not really noticing the absence of the liquor from her glass.

"Nine hundred, fifty-three days," Bruce replied, his voice low and conversational, despite the painful topic. "If today counts, of course. Otherwise... fifty-two," he shrugged. "Not that am countin', mind."

Charity took a shuddering breath, wondering if he was trying to hurt her. "Why wouldja count? Why the hell would you even say that? What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

He rested his elbow on the bar, feeling a headache looming behind his eyes as he frowned. "Cherry-"

"Shut up." It was a half-laugh, half-sob that slipped out next and then she was wiping her cheek, her lashes feeling sticky with tears. "My dad still loved me, though. He..."

"I know." He reached out to touch her arm but she pulled away.

"I'm not allowed to... I can't..." the words kept getting stuck behind the lump in her throat. "Nobody to love me anymore. Not now that someone decided to take him." Her voice quivered as she put her elbows on the counter, burying her face in her hands. "I gotta... I gotta leave. I can't fuckin' breathe."

Bruce leaned in close, resting his arm around her shoulders, surprised when she didn't resist.

"Too many memories," Charity mumbled. The panic attack that had been brewing for a few days felt like it was well on its way now.

"Shhhh... jus' breathe. In an' out. Slowly. Like this." He took a few slow breaths, falling into that old role with ease. It wasn't the first time he'd done this. After their son had passed, she'd had many nights waking up in a sheer panic from nightmares. He tried to focus on that, trying like hell not to take what she said to heart, even though she was right. He'd been gone far too long. "Sorry I missed the service," there was actual regret in his voice even though he was lying. "He was a good man... hell of a father. He loved all of ya so much."

Her chest felt so tight. Lifting her head, she looked around and then at Bruce. "I gotta go... I don't wanna be here..." The tears were streaming down her face as she took her hands away from her face. Pushing herself up from her stool, she was trying to stand on uneven feet.

He caught hold of her, steadying her with an arm around her waist. His lips were close to her ear, his breath warm when he murmured, "c'mon, then. Jus' lean on me, love. I'll get you out of here."

"H'okay." She let him lead her outside, not even feeling how cold it was. Even with his arm around her, she stumbled a few times in her heels. "I wanna go home but I can't... Bruce... I... I can't go back there." She was struggling to breathe. "Just help me to my car.... I'mma sleep in there."

Without the ambient bar noise, he could tell how distraught she actually was. He could hear the panic in her voice and the way she was breathing so fast, almost as though she was close to hyperventilating. "Sure," he said softly, looking around the nearly-full lot, "tell me which one it is."

"It's uh... white." She brought a hand to her chest and held it there. "Nissan.... Versa." She didn't realize it, but she was shivering. It was cold out, damned close to freezing now. "You don't gotta stay.... I'm just gonna....." Her arms wrapped around herself.

"Nonsense." He shook his head, releasing her for a moment, long enough to shrug out of the leather jacket she remembered so well. He settled it over her shoulders, resuming their walk towards the little sedan. "I'll..." the word caught before he could say it. He couldn't swear to stay when he knew he'd just have to leave in the morning. "Can't just..." he trailed off, cursing at himself silently. Every word felt like a minefield, as if he was going to blow her right over the edge if he stepped wrong.

Once they had gotten to her car, she still felt tight-chested. The tears kept coming and now her nose was running. "You can go, Bruce." She felt so utterly alone and terrified, overwhelmed as that familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the leather filled her head. It made her want to scream until her lungs gave out and she wasn't sure she was going to be able to keep herself from doing it. "Just fucking go." With her back against the driver's side, she slid to the cold ground and brought her knees to her chest, not even caring that she was wearing a dress. "I can't fucking do this." She was shaking hard, her breathing short and shallow. Her face went back into her hands, muffling another ragged sob.

"Can't go," came the answer, punctuated by the crunch of gravel as he took a knee beside her. He didn't really feel the cold with the layer of leather chaps over his jeans but if the wind kicked up again, he was definitely going to regret this choice. He finished the thought with a soft chuckle, trying to distract her from her spiral. "Yeh've got my coat."

"Yeah, I guess so." She remembered that second time they'd met where he'd given her his jacket and then had conveniently 'forgotten' to get it back. "You loved me then."

"Wha-"

"I felt safe and loved... and.." Clumsily, she took the jacket off and held it towards him. "You're gonna leave again – goddammit." Her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she finally looked into his eyes. He could see how much she was hurting and had been hurting.

"Cherry..." he sighed, doing his best to banish his accent in the hopes that it would keep her level. "You're drunk and talkin' out of yer arse. Why the fuck do ya think am here right now, hmm?"

"Because your family owns the place."

"Jesusfuckin'-" he cut himself off, sputtering in frustration. "Was in California when Hanny called me, beside herself. Dropped everything, Cherry. Got on the next flight out – needed tae make sure I'd be close." He closed his eyes, feeling that ache. She always managed to do that to him now, make him feel foolish without saying a damned word and he bit his lip to keep from asking her why she hadn't called him. The answer wouldn't do either of them any good.

"I just wanted to forget," her voice came out small, "somebody murdered my daddy and I came here to try to forget-"

"I know." He let the jacket fall from his hand to the ground in front of her before moving back to his feet. "Am sorry, Cherry." He didn't look at her, couldn't bring himself to because he knew she would see the damage written all over his face, the facial hair that had gone white from the abuse he'd suffered on The Circuit after he'd walked out of her life. He knew he could never tell her about what had truly happened to him there, could never really explain why he'd allowed Jackson to drag him down to the depths of hell, using his soul as a bargaining chip for his own freedom.

"Don't say that. You don't get to be sorry." She was talking in almost a whisper. "I just wanted to forget even for a night. I just wanted to feel something good and..."

"I know," he repeated it, shaking his head as he closed his eyes, trying to tell himself the doubling in his vision was the wintry wind and not the gaping wound that was having salt rubbed into it with every syllable that dropped from her beautiful lips. "I should've left well enough alone. Should've stayed away. I..." his voice broke and he cleared his throat, "I'll go, then."

"No." Her hand was like ice against his hot cheek and when he opened his eyes she was standing there, leaning against the car with her sad eyes boring into his. "Don't. Please don't go. I need you."

"For what?" He chuckled ruefully, "gonna take it out on me? Well then, have at 'er."

Her thumb was caressing over that old scar on his cheek. "Tonight, okay? Just come... and stay with me? I don't wanna be alone."

It felt familiar and strange all at the same time as her fingertips stroked his face before sliding into his hair – it was longer than it had been when he'd left, almost back to the way it had been when they'd met and it took all his effort not to close his eyes, not to break down completely because the way she was looking at him made him believe in silver linings and unicorns and that there might be a happy ending for even the worst sort of villain. He stared back at her for so long it felt like an eternity, his dark eyes bottomless and unreadable until he swallowed hard, breaking eye contact. "Then gimme the keys, Cherry. I'll drive."

Instead of grabbing the keys, she threw her arms around him, burying her face against his neck. He could feel the warm wetness of her tears, could hear her whispering something that trailed like a cold finger of dread down his spine. "Take me home, Baby. I'm all yours."

"Hush now," he murmured, balking at the thought of taking advantage of her when she was in this state. "No need for tha', awright?" The hint of that Scottish accent crept back in, that softening of the syllables as he pressed a kiss to her temple before bending to scoop up his jacket, settling it around her shoulders again. "C'mon, now. Let's get you home."