You can all thank (or blame, if you don't like it) Gracielinn for this once, because I think she was the first one, forever ago, to request Wyatt's side of this little escapade.

Disclaimer – writing his POV made it that much more clear that Lucy had had a lot to drink, so Wyatt sleeping with her in that state is not ideal, consent-wise (nor is the reverse, given that he'd had a lot also). I only made her chug so many because I wanted to make it clear that her inhibitions were lowered; in retrospect, I should have had her drink less. Sorry; hindsight is 20/20.

In any case, scientifically, she likely wouldn't have been feeling the effects quite yet because it's only maybe 5-10 minutes later that she prompts him to come have sex with her, but either way, let this serve as my disclaimer that I don't actually condone anyone taking advantage of anyone while that inebriated, and that this was just meant to be frisky Lyatt fic fun. I don't think the 'real' Wyatt would actually follow through had she actually had that much to drink. Sorry if this puts anyone off the fic.

Either way, thanks for reading on if you chose to do so! And thanks to those who left lovely reviews on 'Home Again'.

Wyatt sighed and downed another slug of his whiskey as he watched the door slam behind his two buddies. They'd completed the surveillance mission of what had been believed to be North Korean infiltration of some of the elite Silicon Valley computing companies, and the guys had wanted to get a little celebrating in before they all headed back down to Pendleton over the next few days to await assignment to their next operation.

Celebrating, with a secondary goal of getting Wyatt laid.

Which, well, it may have been his friends' goal for him, but let's just say wasn't Wyatt's goal. Ever. Not since Jessica. His goal was justice for her. And beyond that, without her, he just didn't give a rat's ass.

Of course, his buddies weren't always the brightest crayons in the box, so, thankfully, a heavy dose of smarmy flirting on his part with the under-21 crowd running around was enough to appease them any time they took him out with such an objective. He played it up every time, letting them believe he'd take some little blonde airhead back to his place.

Inevitably, they'd leave, as they'd just done, their own wives summoning them to go out for a celebratory dinner of their own. Or some other couple-y bullshit like that.

Leaving Wyatt right where he was, drowning his widowed sorrows in whatever number whiskey he was on.

It was just as well. Drunk and alone would likely be how he spent the rest of the week anyway. None of them had to be back down at Pendleton until the next Monday; he'd have preferred to just dive right into whatever their next mission was, anything to keep him distracted. But the woman in the travel office had basically laughed off his request and booked his return flight for Sunday, telling him to enjoy San Francisco for the weekend or something. Never mind that the rest of the guys got to go back right away, wives in tow.

He finished his drink and waved to the bartender for another; sure, it would be cheaper to just go home, but he could maybe convince himself it was a little less pathetic if he was out among other people.

Still, when the tiny bleached-blonde cheerleader type that he'd been shamelessly hitting on earlier to appease his buddies returned from giggling in the ladies' room with her equally shallow cheerleader friends, he shook his head and shrugged her off coldly.

Thankfully, she gave up without a fight; the worst was when they got offended and whiny that he was blowing them off.

So he was able to go back to his drink in peace.

Or at least he was until she blew past him to the stool a couple seats down.

Now, normally the women (who were barely old enough to be called that) in this particular bar, selected by his buddies for both proximity to his place and to the university, barely registered on his radar once the guys had left. But this one…

She probably had some ten years on pretty much everyone else in the bar aside from him, and instead of the sweatpants, ratty Uggs, and messy ponytails sported by most of the female set around, she was sharply dressed in a blazer and heels. A hell of a lot classier than anyone else in the bar.

And she was stunning.

And apparently hell-bent on getting wasted, he observed, as she quickly downed two shots and beckoned for a third.

Still, his brain was stuck on the stunning part. Which, all things considered, was an odd place for his brain to be in. Even when going through with the farce of the flirting with the young little Barbies running around to put up a front for the guys, the women themselves barely registered.

But this one…

Before he knew it, words inexplicably slipped from his mouth, unfiltered and inadvertently still reeking of the smarmy asshole routine from earlier. Force of habit. "Careful, ma'am. Might want to pace yourself. Not exactly a young student anymore, are ya?"

She was even more beautiful face-on, despite the withering glare she was shooting him.

"Fuck you," she snapped.

And as quickly as the odd little flicker of unexpected attraction had flared in him, it was tamped out. Not only was she well out of his league, he'd just painted himself as a complete ass, and she was clearly having none of it. It was just as well. Fucking some random woman, no matter how much better than the college-aged twerps she looked, wasn't going to get him any closer solving Jessica's murder. And Jessica was his priority.

Downing the last of his drink, he figured at that point, he may as well just seal the deal as a right pain in the ass and then just get the hell out of there. He shouldn't have even stayed as long as he did.

So, allowing himself a gratuitous once-over of the woman's figure, he smirked. "I'm game."

Which he figured would be enough to royally piss her off and just get her to leave him alone.

It seemed to work; she practically choked on her drink, and as soon as she'd recovered, it earned him a highly offended-sounding, "Seriously?"

Wyatt just turned away and shrugged, fully prepared to pay his tab and just leave. But it turned out the bartender had misinterpreted his finishing his last drink. The glass had been refilled.

It was of little consequence, though; he could easily down that in a split second. He took another sip, his gaze darting, without his permission, over to the woman.

She caught him stealing that glance, shooting him her own smirk and challenging, "Thought I was too old."

And fuck, he wanted her. Why did he want her? It was a sensation he hadn't felt in years, and in no way was he comfortable with it. He didn't want random women. He wanted justice for his wife. This… attraction needed to go away. Immediately.

Wyatt knew he needed to piss her off again and just. get. out. She'd hated his insinuation about her age when she'd first walked in, so he went to that as a fallback. "At least I know you're legal," he taunted. "Ma'am."

She scoffed, once again offended, so Wyatt, figuring he was now safe, took another slug of his drink, trying to push the whole encounter – and his unexpected, unwanted reaction to it, and to her – from his mind. He was just about to reach for his wallet to settle up and leave when he heard her stool scrape against the floor as she stood.

"You know what? Fine," she declared. "Let's go." And she was off, swinging her hips and smirking back at him over her shoulder as she headed for the front door.

You could have knocked Wyatt over with a feather. He swallowed hard, his heart thumping and his mind racing. He didn't do this. He flirted to put on a show for his buddies so they'd get off his back about getting back out there. He didn't actually do anything with anyone. Certainly not with this… this woman, so out of place in this bar, but somehow so intriguing in spite of his long-standing unspoken vow to not bother with sex or dating or… anyone, ever again.

No.

But there was no way out of the situation he'd gotten himself into without facing her. She was on her way out, and would just wait for him outside. If he stayed at the bar, she'd eventually come back in looking for him.

Fuck.

With a sigh, he threw down a few bills to cover his tab and drained the last of his drink. He'd just follow her, talk to her outside, apologize for being a dick, and then just go home – alone – and deal with any lingering attraction the same way any other pathetically single guy would.

In spite of her having gotten a head start, Wyatt somehow managed to catch up to her just as she was exiting through the front door; he refused to believe it was because he'd hurried after her.

He reached for her, intending to just tug her elbow, turn her around, apologize for his behavior and any misunderstanding about where the evening was headed.

Somehow that innocent reach turned into his hands on her waist, her nails raking over his chest, and her lips meeting his in a searingly hot kiss.

Holy fuck.

Wyatt had no idea how they'd ended up wrapped around each other, but the soft little noise she whimpered into his mouth when his tongue slid over hers was more than enough to cloud his better judgement. It had been so long since he'd had the privilege of feeling a woman pressed against him, getting to taste her, able to inhale her intoxicating scent. He almost whimpered himself when she took it a step further and caught his lip between her teeth.

Oh, this was such a bad idea… He did not do this. But she – this mystery woman, this siren – felt so damn good against him and even if he still had a mind to resist her, his body was betraying him, his jeans tightening rapidly as she pressed her long, lithe body against his and slid her arms around his neck.

With her tongue teasing his once more, Wyatt wasn't able to stop himself from sliding his hands into the back pockets of her tight jeans, squeezing and tugging her tightly to him.

She pulled away from his mouth with a breathy gasp, but the way she ground her hips against his crotch told him that she was hardly complaining. And though he missed the raw, sensual slide of her mouth over his, her pause to catch her breath just gave him the chance to get a taste of the smooth, bare skin of her graceful, enticing neck.

That earned him a hiss of pleasure from her, a welcome sound that only encouraged him further; he raked his teeth just under her ear. Which was apparently also well received given that he could feel her hands trail down his back, her fingernails sinking in to his skin just beneath the waist of his boxers.

Wyatt let out a shuddery groan of his own against her neck at the feel, then slid his hands up her back, pulling her in for another fiery kiss.

It was then that that little voice resurfaced; what in the actual fuck was he doing?

He pulled back roughly, panting.

He should have walked away right then. Because clearly he'd lost his mind. He didn't do this.

But damn it all if she wasn't fucking gorgeous, staring up at him from in the shadows of the front of the bar, all big brown eyes and shiny kiss-swollen lips, her chest heaving and offering just enough of an enticing glimpse of cleavage as she, too, fought to catch her breath.

Fuck it.

Maybe he did need to do this. Maybe he just needed to stop fucking thinking so hard.

No other woman had been able to get him even close to considering it; if he didn't do it now, with her, whoever the hell she was, he probably never would. Which, even though that had been his intent, was goddamned depressing.

He warred with himself for another split second, then, against his better judgement, grabbed her hand and began making a beeline for his place. He was too far in now to lose his nerve, which might just happen if he waited any longer.

Halfway down the block, she piped up, a curious and still breathless-sounding ,"Where-" assaulting him from just behind him.

Wyatt whirled around to face her before she could even get the rest of her question out. "My place is down the block," he explained. And hopefully not sounding nearly as desperate for her as he felt, he added, "Don't bail on me now." When she didn't immediately protest, he pulled her closer, angling for another kiss. It was insane; he'd been in her presence for barely fifteen minutes and he felt like he needed her. At the last second before his lips brushed hers once again, it registered that, even if he hadn't quite sounded desperate, it had been his dickish asshole routine that had gotten her to agree to this in the first place. So he taunted her with the same thing that had gotten her fired up in the bar. "Ma'am."

It worked well enough that she dodged the kiss, apparently even more focused on the next level than he was. With a wickedly gorgeous smirk, she eyed the direction they'd been going in, towards his place, and taunted, ""I'm not seeing any follow through..."

Jesus, she was infuriating and intoxicating all in one, and Wyatt wasn't sure he'd ever felt anything like the pull he was currently feeling toward her. The last thing he wanted to do – right then or ever – was examine that particular revelation too closely, but what he did know was that if she felt this good against him in the middle of the sidewalk, he needed her wrapped around him; he needed to be inside her. As soon as possible.

So a split second later, he had her hand again and they were off down the sidewalk again.

The block and a half left to his place was clearly far too long for him to not be kissing her; practically without even realizing how it happened, he had her pressed to the door, their mouths fused once more as he fumbled blindly with his keys.

Which didn't work so well when the door swung open behind her, but thankfully he had a good enough grip on her that she didn't end up falling. Instead, she hung on to him as an endearing giggle slipped from between those inviting lips of hers.

He couldn't help it; he kissed her again, before they even got to the stairs.

But that was only going to last so long when they were this close to his place. She ended up tugging him up the stairs, and before he could think twice, they were in his apartment practically attacking each other.

Which was pretty much how it had to be, Wyatt knew, because in his place pretty well meant the point of no return. There'd be no stopping the strangely magnetic pull she was wielding over him one they got going, so rather than give himself the chance to talk himself out of it at the last minute, he pushed her blazer from her shoulders and with a swift tug upward, and ensured that her little sleeveless blouse followed in quick succession.

He was struck dumb for a second there, seeing her frantically work at the buttons of his shirt as she stood there in her bra.

She really was stunning.

Wyatt was still in a bit of a daze as he allowed her to yank off his button-down and then tug his t-shirt over his head.

At least, he realized, she seemed to also be rattled ever so slightly once shirts were off, so, again knowing what had pressed her buttons earlier, he teased lightly, "Like what you see, ma'am?"

It worked. A breath later, she was hissing a, "Shut up," at him, even as she launched herself at him once more. And when her nails raked over his back and shoulders, it was only fair that he do the same, right? He sucked on her lower lip as he popped the clasp of her bra, and let out a shuddery breath when he let his hands stray to her chest to slide it off. Her nipples were responsive, already hard, and was it crazy that the weight of her breasts fit perfectly in his palms?

He was so distracted by the feel of her in his hands, and her tongue against his, that he didn't even register where her hands had drifted to until he felt the brush of her hand against him. Inside his boxers.

And fuck, the only hand that had been there in years was his own. Even that barest brush was enough to reduce him to gripping her rib cage, leaning his forehead on her shoulder with a shuddery groan. When she grasped him tighter, he couldn't help but press his hips closer to her, into her hand. She took the hint and pumped him slightly; the only way Wyatt could stifle the pathetic whimper that threatened to escape was to latch onto her neck, the closest part of her to where his mouth had happened to land.

Not that that lasted, unfortunately.

"Hey!" she yelped, yanking her hand from his pants and leaning back. "No marks. Save that for your barely-legals."

She may have been scolding him, but in that moment, Wyatt couldn't care less. His gaze was fixated on her lips, needing more of them. He had to laugh at how pathetic and mesmerized by her he was, even as he gave into the urge and pulled her in for another kiss.

Except she pulled away all too soon for his liking. He might have complained were it not for the fact that, upon backing up a step or two, she slid her jeans down her long, long… endless legs, kicking them away with her shoes.

Leaving her standing there like a freaking goddess, only skimpy little black boyshorts left covering her.

Wyatt was pretty sure that he was due to wake up at any time, because there was simply no way that she, or the fact that this was happening, could possibly be real.

Real or not, she raised an eyebrow in a silent taunt, eyeing his lower body.

It was probably the quickest he'd ever managed to get his pants off. And boxers, shoes, and socks with them.

He'd have been more embarrassed at his own desperation, but her breathy plea of "Bedroom?" sounded equally as desperate to his ears. Though that was probably wishful thinking, he knew; he couldn't help but smirk at the ridiculous notion that she wanted this even half as much as he did. It was absurd. Still, it was of little consequence in that moment as her magnetic allure drew him in once more; he was helpless to keep away from her.

Wyatt hadn't done this in a while, but his long-dormant instincts took over, and he found himself skillfully, guiding her down the hall to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving hers even as he also managed to nudge her underwear down over the swell of her hips and ass.

The flimsy little slip of fabric had just slipped away down toward her feet when Wyatt's calf banged into the foot of his bed. Thrown off balance, he just gave in, pulling her down next him as he let himself fall back on the bed. He wasted no time climbing over her, pressing his body to hers, skin on skin.

But her writhing under him wasn't enough.

Wyatt reached up to the small drawer in his bedside table, saying a silent thank you to the gods of sex – and one of his buddies – for the annual tongue-in-cheek-but-also-kind-of-serious 'Wyatt needs to get laid' birthday gift of a variety pack of Trojans.

He snagged the first packet he could get a grip on and pressed it into her hand.

Losing the feel of her lips on his was lamentable, but it was most definitely a worthy sacrifice given the feel of her pumping him a few times and then rolling it onto his erection.

Of course, that still didn't come close to the feel of her gripping him as she leaned back, guiding him between her legs.

A shuddery breath escaped as he eased himself into her slick heat. It took all sorts of restraint and concentration for Wyatt not to lose control right then and there; even then, as he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, he couldn't help but grin at the fact that, considering how long it had been, he may well have absurdly been saved from utter embarrassment in this moment by having desensitized himself from too many times with just him and his own hand.

He was so lost in the feel of her that he almost missed her soft sigh of "Fuck…" murmured in his ear.

More than happy to oblige, Wyatt forced himself to refocus on her, adding another dose of the cocky attitude that had gotten her in his bed in the first place. "Yes, ma'am."

Steeling himself to be able to maintain his composure, Wyatt slid nearly all the way from inside her, then sank into her even deeper than before. He was rewarded with the sweetest of moans in his ear and her legs tightening around him, urging him on.

Needing to hear more of those enticing noises, he reluctantly passed up the feel of her tongue on his once more, instead opting to brush kisses up and down her neck, down over her collarbone, to her lovely nipples and back up. All the while, little gasps and sighs tumbled from her as she raked her nails over his scalp.

Fuck, he wasn't going to last much longer if she kept doing that tilt-y thing with her pelvis every time he retreated from her.

So he took matters into his own hands, gripping her hips and shuffling a bit further up, angling himself deeper. And, needing to taste her again, he recaptured her lips, kissing her deeply.

She pulled away just enough to put a breath between them, murmuring, "Please," as she clung to him, squirming more and more with every thrust.

Wyatt was just as close as she seemed to be; he drank her in, speeding his hips and slipping his hand between them to nudge her that much closer to the edge.

When he felt her nails sink even deeper into the skin of his upper arms, he tore his mouth from her lips and fixed his gaze on her.

Then she tensed around him, frozen for a split second before her eyes fluttered closed and, with a strangled moan, she clamped down on him, writhing uncontrollably. And god damn it all if it wasn't the most beautiful, erotic sight Wyatt had ever seen.

It only took him sliding into her a few more times before he tumbled right after her, the electric sensation of release overtaking him with an intensity that caught him off guard.

When he could finally see straight again, his muscles the consistency of jello and his face buried in the crook of her neck, he couldn't bear to pull himself up off her. He couldn't bear to lose this connection, this connection that was never supposed to have happened in the first place.

Wyatt didn't quite know what to do with urge to stay there. Which in and of itself was enough to, ironically, make him want to leave. Fuck, his brain was a messed up place.

Regardless of that inner turmoil, he knew he had to be heavy for her, and he didn't need the condom spilling anywhere. So he reluctantly slid off, and out of, her as gingerly as he could. He missed the connection immediately, and it was only a small consolation that she looked nearly as stunned by the whole encounter as he felt. Still, the bathroom was calling. But not before he gave into the unexpected impulse to press a tender kiss to the side of her head as he mumbled something about cleaning up.

Once in the bathroom, he quickly tugged off the condom, disposing it and wiping himself up. He relieved himself, and only then, as he washed his hands to wrap up, did he catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He looked… dare he admit it… happy.

And, if he had to admit it, he kind of was. He'd fought so long against it. But something… something about her had been enough to change that.

Maybe that meant something. Maybe it wasn't coincidence that she was the one person to finally get through to him, get him to feel something again. Maybe, Wyatt begrudgingly allowed, just maybe, there could be something more for him. With her.

He didn't even fucking know her name.

Against his better judgement, and against the judgement of his bitter, grieving self from the past five years, he told himself to go back in there, and start over the right way. Names. Real conversation. And maybe have it actually go somewhere.

But when Wyatt stepped back into his bedroom, there was no sign of her.

Good god, was he fucking pathetic enough that he'd imagined the whole goddamned thing?

He hurried down the hall, out to the living room.

She was more than half-dressed already, contorting herself back into her bra.

"You're leaving," he choked out in dismay, the words escaping him without permission.

"Uh, yeah," she stammered, bending down to snatch up her blouse. "I'm supposedly so old, right?" she added, more confident snark very clearly now growing more evident in her voice. "It's probably past my curfew at the senior home." She punctuated that by tugging her shirt on over her head.

Wyatt felt a knot in the pit of his stomach and dismay at her leaving faded where anger at himself flared. He was a fucking idiot. He'd played up the arrogant ass role so well that there was apparently no redeeming himself in her eyes. So why not once more? "Yes, ma'am," he scowled.

He watched silently, practically seething as she gathered the rest of her belongings, slipping out the door without another glance at him and nothing more than a muttered, "Uh, thanks for... Well, thanks."

The door slammed closed behind her, effectively also closing the door on Wyatt's ill-fated foray back into the world of women.

Unable to stop himself, he slammed his fist violently into the wall next to the door. All it accomplished was eliciting a hiss of pain from him and leaving a dent in the drywall that the military housing office would probably be less than thrilled to pay for.

His mind raced as he endlessly cursed himself out for being such a fucking idiot. He never should have gone along with any of it, no matter how enticing those big, brown doe eyes had been. Fuck. She was probably just some lame soccer mom, bored of her snot-nosed kids and bland accountant husband who was cheating on her, just wanting some one night fling with some random 'bad boy' from a bar. And he'd fucking walked right into it. What a fucking dumbass, thinking that it could possibly have meant something. That there was anything special there.

Idiot. Pathetic fucking idiot.

Reaching down, Wyatt snatched up his boxers from where they still lay as a nasty reminder of just how pathetic and desperate he'd let himself become in wanting her. He pulled them on and strode over to the kitchen counter. He didn't even know where the top ended up given how quickly he yanked open the bottle of whiskey and downed the first slug.

He deserved it. He'd let himself get distracted, and for the first time since her murder, hadn't prioritized Jessica. So yeah, he got burned. And yeah, he fucking deserved it.

Wyatt gulped down another swig of whiskey, relishing the sting as it erased the taste of her from his lips and mouth.

Fuck her.

Except not. He was never making that mistake again.

A few hours later, for as much as he'd wanted to drink himself into enough of an oblivion that he would never recall the events of the night, Wyatt found himself cooling his heels in some waiting room at Mason Industries of all places. Trying to forget her. And trying to sleep off a bit of the haze of booze.

A bit of a nap did eventually grant him a moment of peace, until the door to the room flew open, accompanied by some futile complaining from some woman.

Eyes still closed, Wyatt tensed at the sound, then immediately chastised himself for even thinking that the voice sounded just like hers. There was no way that even he could have luck that shitty.

But then the owner of the mystery voice snapped at him in a way that was all too reminiscent of earlier at the bar, griping at him about their ages.

He reluctantly opened his eyes, peering across the room.

Well, it looked like the universe did hate him that much.

Fuck.

FIN