Work Order

Fandom: Kinsey Millhouse mysteries; B is for Burglar

Warnings: Loose sexuality, sex. Click the blue arrow if this offends you.

Summary: Becky can do anything Kinsey wants, including Kinsey.

Three nights at the hospital left my apartment full of mail and my answering machine full of messages. Only one of them was worth listening to: Becky, my locksmith-come-handyman, whose work had been cut short before I'd gotten shot. "Um, hi," she said. "I'm Becky, your locksmith. I fixed your window. Well, I never got to finish and you said I could come back tomorrow, which was yesterday. When I came by you weren't there. I, um, just wanted to double-check about what time you wanted me to come in and fix everything up for you. And also make sure I didn't say something to make you mad… Just call me back. Thanks."

It was cute in an annoying way. Maybe a kid to babysit and fix up my apartment was just what I needed. I called her back, thankfully got her answering machine and told her when she could come by.

The next day she appeared, again tall and thin, with straight white teeth she flashed constantly and the low slung jeans, cowlick, and Ivory-soap smell. My cast alarmed her, and she gave all her sympathies. Then, instead of fixing my place up, I found myself on the couch, telling her about what had happened, being shot, having my arm broken, how that kind of alarm and fear and pain had felt.

"That blows," was her sympathetic reply. "I'll definitely put all those new locks in. I can put more than one in any of the doors too. Make it look real slick."

"Whatever you want to do."

She looked at me for a long time, sat down on the couch, and patted beside her. I found myself shifting closer. As I slid across the couch to sit down next to her, she put her hand between my thighs. "I can do anything you need," she said again.

I'm not proud of what happened next. Sometimes, though, that sort of thing is exactly what I do need.

"Take off your clothes," she said. Her wide-eyed, gawky youthfulness had shifted into something darker and more sensual. She managed to keep that tone even when we had to wrestle my sleeve over the cast on my arm, which left me more pained than horny. The tone shifted into a bit of awkwardness when she pulled out my generally unused pull-out bed. "I can grease these joints up for you so it's easier to get out," she said, apparently distracted by the prospect of another fixer-upper. "Do you have any lube?"

"I think I have some WD40." I started to get up to find it, but Becky gave me that 'are you crazy' look again even as she smiled, and I sat back down on the mattress.

"No, I meant the sex stuff."

I felt a little out of my league. "No, I don't have that."

"Oh, well," she said. I thought she was about to call the whole thing off. But, miraculously, she peeled off her t-shirt (no bra under, which gave me a shivery surprise), and kicked off her low-slung jeans. She was all woman beneath her clothing, despite the long limbed awkwardness that defined her. I was a little distracted by her neatly trimmed pubic patch; was that the norm with kids these days? Why was it every time I slept with a woman, I just felt old?

"I guess we'll just have to get you all slippery and wet all on your own," she continued. My body had a mind of its own: my legs fell open and I lay back, surrendered already.

Becky smirked at me and got to work.

-end-