In short, he reminded himself, to hell with it. To hell with every last damned bit of it. He knew that such a cynical stance should not include innocent bystanders and those concerned for his welfare, and it was this errant thought that made him regard Allie with an expression of apology. It was the first time in weeks that he had acknowledged caring about anyone or anything other than where he might acquire his next drink.

Reaching out to grip the doorjamb in an effort to steady himself, Quinn drew a deep breath and tried to blink past the bourbon. “I just miss her, Allie.”

“I know you do,” Allie said, placing one hand on his arm. “But that’s not good enough, not right now.” She nodded toward the door. “Go and get yourself cleaned up. Until you do, I don’t want to see you around here.”

“Come on, Allie,” Quinn said, genuine regret taking hold in his alcohol-addled mind, at least for a moment. “You know I’m just a harmless idiot.”

“Don’t make Tom ban you outright,” Allie said, her tone now firmer. “Go sleep it off. I’ll check on you when I get out of here, okay?”

Unable to resist one more leering grin, Quinn eyed her with mischief. “Promise?”

Allie’s response was to push past him and open the door, after which she prodded him toward the street. “I mean it, Quinn. Not until you clean up your act.”

Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Quinn nodded. “Okay, okay. I get the message. You’ll be sad when I’m gone, though.” The parting comment would have been more effective, he decided, if he had not chosen that moment to trip on the steps leading down from the door to the cobblestone walkway.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I hate when that happens.”

He turned back to the bar, but Allie was already gone, the door closing behind her as she made her way into the crowd and back to work. His last sight of the comely bartender was of her shapely, leather-clad backside.

Anyone who doubts the existence of a supreme being need only look at that.

Chuckling at his lascivious thought, Quinn cleared his throat as he looked up the street, getting his bearings. Humans and other assorted species, some wearing Starfleet uniforms but many more dressed in civilian attire, were walking past the various storefronts or sitting at tables positioned outside some of the establishments. Stars Landing had its share of bars and restaurants, catering to a wide range of clientele and cuisines, but for Quinn none of them held the charm of Tom Walker’s place. Feeling a wave of lightheadedness beginning to wash over him, he considered stumbling his way back to the apartment that had been provided by Commander ch’Nayla on behalf of Starfleet Intelligence for “services rendered.” He frowned at that idea, knowing that the suite of empty rooms and their Starfleet-issue furnishings would provide him nothing in the way of solace. It was little more than a place to grab a few hours’ sleep and a shower, but it was not a home.

“Guess it’s another bar, then,” he muttered, the fingers of his right hand fishing into his trouser pocket to retrieve his credit chip. He tried to focus his bourbon-fogged mind long enough to recall his account balance, and decided the best way to verify the state of his funds was while buying another drink.

“Quinn?”

Turning at the unexpected summons, Quinn had to blink several times before the figure walking toward him came into focus. When recognition finally dawned, he could not help offering a broad, toothy grin. “Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit—if it isn’t Timothy Pennington, superhero journalist to the stars and beyond.”

“Cervantes Quinn,” Pennington replied with a smile, “I’d heard you were dead, or in jail.”

Quinn shrugged. “The night’s young. How they hangin’, newsboy? Still trying to write your own chapter for the history books?”

“I’ve been looking for you, mate,” Pennington replied. “Seems like we’re always missing each other these days. If I’m not off following a story, you’ve been busy doing whatever it is … Commander ch’Nayla’s having you doing.” His expression turned somber. “I just wanted you to know how sorry I was to hear about Bridy Mac, Quinn. I’m truly sorry I didn’t get to say that to you before now.”

Holding up a hand, Quinn shook his head. “Don’t sweat it, ace.” Had it really been that long since he and Pennington had last seen one another? Quinn tried to do the arithmetic in his head, but abandoned the notion when the numbers began drifting in and out of the haze clouding his brain. All he knew was that it had been a while—plenty of time for Pennington to show up before now to offer his condolences. He did not know the reasons for the journalist’s not being able to find him before today, and the more he considered the issue the less he cared. “These things happen.”

Pennington frowned. “I know what she meant to you, Quinn, just as I …” He paused, clearing his throat, and Quinn sensed that the journalist was recalling an unpleasant memory. “I know what you’re feeling, is all.”

“Oh,” Quinn replied, “you do? Well, then. Maybe we could just hug each other until the pain goes away.” Though he knew the reporter was divorced, there had never been mention of some other lover who might have met some tragic fate. That in itself was an interesting notion, considering the amount of time the two men had spent crammed inside the Rocinante, Quinn’s late and very much lamented Mancharan starhopper. Of course, now that his thoughts turned to his former ship, they served only to deepen his foul mood.

Thanks for that, Quinn mused. Jackass.

His expression darkening further, Pennington cast a glance toward a pair of passersby who had overheard Quinn’s comment. “I was thinking you might want to talk about it, maybe over a cup of coffee or something.”

“Talking about it means I have to remember it,” Quinn countered. “And coffee would only get in the way of my drinking, which helps me forget about it, or at least gives me a break from thinking about it. I like my plan better.” It was such a straightforward idea. Why was it that no one besides him could see its simple beauty? Still, even the bourbon he had consumed could not keep Quinn from asking himself why he was coming down so hard on Pennington. Had the journalist truly done anything to be the target of such ire? Quinn had decided that one of the advantages of not caring about anything was that it liberated him to direct his anger at anyone he chose. That included innocent bystanders, idiots taking up space in his favorite bar, or even the man now standing before him.

Friendly fire’s a bitch, ain’t it?

Sighing, Pennington said, “Look, Quinn, I’m just trying to make sure you’re all right. I know you’ve been having a rough time of it.”

That prompted Quinn to offer a disapproving grunt, and before he realized he was even uttering the words, they seemed to just pour forth from him, unimpeded by any filter he might once have used to parse his comments. “Seems like everybody around here knows how rough I’ve had it. I’m surrounded by people who want to be my friend. Well, let me tell you something, newsboy: I don’t need any friends. Life was easier when I didn’t have friends, or didn’t give a damn about anybody.” Despite the occasional stumbling block, that attitude had served him well for most of his adult life, and returning to that path held a definite appeal.

“That’s the booze talking,” Pennington snapped, his irritation now evident. Stepping closer, he held out a hand as though reaching for Quinn’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you someplace where you can catch some sleep.”

Before he even realized what he was doing, Quinn was swinging. His right fist connected with Pennington’s jaw, sending the reporter staggering backward until he stumbled and fell to the faux cobblestone street. Other Stars Landing visitors stopped in their tracks, turning to observe the altercation, and Quinn was sure he heard at least one person using a communicator to summon station security.