Title: Forty Winks
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just the idea.
Spoilers: None
Summary: While a city sleeps, a wife tries to get her husband to do the same. Rather odd pairing...Bash me, and I shall sic my goons on you!
'Come to bed.' I said from the threshold of our bedroom, my head resting against the white trim door frame.
Eliminated by the single lamp on the desk, his head bobbed up, a content smile coming to his lips as my figure came into view.
There he sat, hunched over the dark mahogany desk, case files covering the surface in a gory canvas of blood, death and everything else that should be unspeakable. Not a lot of people can do his job, and those who have, would rather have forgotten all they've seen, but unable to escape. Known and unknown faces forever burned into the mind and etched into the soul.
Very few understand what this job means to him though. Sex Crimes is one of the more mentally and emotionally difficult units in the service. It takes a special kind of person to hand this job, and a special kind of spouse to handle him and his job. That's where I come in. Of course, I would exactly call myself special but yes, I understand this particular member of New York's finest.
That's why I know that after a sixteen hour work day and another three hours at home starring at crime scene photos, he's not going to get anything. Exhaustion has already taken his body hostage.
Unknowingly he proves my point when he leans back in the black cushioned swivel chair, closes his eyes, and massages his temples with roughened fingers. Those five digits who grip the butt of his service revolver with precision and a deadly knack for aim, yet caress and sooth with angel kissed gentleness that can consume my very being into an indistinguishable pile of goo.
He's always been able to do that. Ever since we met. A single touch, cautious, yet at the same time, so sure, a smoldering look, even at a glance, I can feel down to my toes, a smile, rare in appearance but genuine in warmth, makes me forget my name. Only he has this ability.
By the time he opens his eyes, he sees that I've moved from my previous position, to walk around the side of his desk, running my fingers along the fine grain of the wood. A scratch there, a dint here, a coffee stain over there. It was a beautiful desk when new, but years of abuse have made it all that more alluring. Every line a roadmap to some event in history…some more scandalous than others, but still part of out past just the same.
As I get closer, I take the time to study him. A chiseled jaw bone juts out to evoke intimidation, yet manages to hold the same amount of sincerity and determination. A five o'clock shadow has long developed into a 2am shadow giving him a rustic Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry look. The corners of his mouth twitch as his lips curve into a smirk, probably aware that I'm blatantly ogling him. Tired eyes peer back at me, mischief seeping through under a layer of exhaustion.
Again, to prove his devil may care is till on high alert, he reaches out and pulls my hands towards him, my knees yielding only momentarily on the front of the chair before taking lift to settle straddling his thighs, hands resting on his shoulders, while his slide up my thighs and around my black panty clad backside.
'Come to bed.' I say for the second time since moving from the doorway, sifting my fingers through his short locks, silky smooth yet evoking elegance and nobility.
His eyes close again that night as he leans back, perfectly content to allow my sometimes too long nails to rack across his scalp, each finger applying a different amount of pressure over the contours of his skull. A sigh escapes his lips. He's always loved my nails. So he tells me, apparently they hold two purposes for him. One; relief of daily stresses in the form of hair sifting and massaging, and two; erotic stimuli with blood red scratches down his back and nail indentations on his upper shoulders. Though occasionally, my nails hold no conscious purpose at all. Those are time where he lazily plays with the ends of my fingertips, as we sit on the couch enjoying the company of each other.
Those are times like now, when neither one of us wish to break the silence, when a soothing touch is all you need.
As the silence between us lengthens, my fingers start to travel. Eyelids flicker lightly under the pads of my fingertips, blatantly aware that one wrong move and I could cause some serious eye damage. Further south, lips part as thumbs caress the supple pink flesh, warm breathe dancing across the lips to meet my own skin.
My fingers work their way down to the collar of his now wrinkled button up shirt. I take my time undoing each white, flattened little pebble. He doesn't open his eyes as I untuck the offending garment and pull the final button from its counterpart hole, white tank underneath. He knows I'm not trying to seduce him, if I were I'd have grabbed both fronts of the shirt and pulled, and that my removal of the article is strictly in preparation for his arrival to a bed he severely needs.
By the time I look up from completely my task, his tired eyes have opened and one of his adoring smirks graces his lips. His 'Detective Invincible' resolve is weakening as I've thoroughly distracted him from his case. His hands leave my panty covered backside to run up the back of my pajama shirt…well, his old navy blue service shirt, 'NYDP' contrasting in faded white, and gently pulls me to him.
Third time's the charm, or so they say.
'Come to bed." I murmur against his lips, fingers fiddling with a button on the discarded shirt, while his continue to travel up and down my spine, pausing briefly to trace an old childhood scar in the middle of my back.
Our lips meet tentatively, though not lacking any of the passion that first consumed us all those years ago. His lips are still as sweet and still as gentle, though I'm unable to decipher if it's because of his love for me, or his exhaustion.
I pull back to bury my head in the crook of his neck, as he moves his right hand to sift through my dark hair, his left still lost under my shirt. He's always loved paying with my hair. He says it matches my equally dark eyes. He says the way it looks cascading over his chest as I sleep makes me look like an angel. I laugh at him until he makes some smartass remark.
I feel his head move and I know he's looking from me, to the piles of case files on his desk, then a back to me. I'm used to be second when it comes to his work. I understand that, and greatly accept it, but there are times when a wife knows what's best. And like so many other times, this is one.
I feel a surge of pride, albeit shameful, when he reaches over and turns the pages of the case booklets closed. Getting off of him, I reach across the desk, past his shoulder holster, badge, and long forgotten glasses, to turn off the light. New York nightlife engulfs our rather spacious apartment, but for now he pays no heed to the crimes that could be committed, (he can't save them all, right). Instead, his hands move to their previous place of dwelling, under my shirt; though this time, resting on my hips, as we head to the trice mentioned bedroom.
Don't worry, New York. In five hours, John Munch will be up to protect you.
Author's Note: Please, no bashing, or hate mail…
I know this might have disturbed a few people, but I really don't care. Richard Belzer is gorgeous! And Munch is my absolute favourite character. So deal! I've always found older men attractive…as I am only 19… but good god! Grey hair and sarcasm makes me weak in the knees.
Ok, guess who the mysterious woman is in Munch's arms? Give up? … just some random person really…though ironically, the description matches me to a tee! From the dark hair and eyes, to the too long nails and childhood scar on my back. I wrote this with me in mind. Sorry, I'm in a fangirling wood ;)