Title: Still Waters
Author: Skylarcat
Classification: A Five Part Arc on the evolution of the Flynn and Vega relationship.
Rating: Rated R for the occasional bad word, nudity, and the adult-theme of this story. Reader discretion advised.
Feedback: Please add this story to your favorite list, to your follow list, and most importantly please leave me a review. Tell me you hate it, that you love it, that you're reading it while sitting on the toilet; I don't care, but tell me something.
Summary: It began just as sex. Two friends finding comfort in one another, but it quickly involved into something deeper, something real, and it resembled something that could promise forever. Important notes to consider, while reading: 1.) Don't get too invested in the case, I only used it as a means to progress the story. The story is the development of a relationship between Flynn and Vega. This is an adult centered story, with elements of sex. Don't worry, I was tactful with them. I consider this realistic fluff. 2.) Since the show hasn't revealed much on their past history, I created backstories for both of them. With time, the show could discredit me, or prove me correct, either way; it worked for the telling of this story. 3.) It took nearly three weeks to complete this, three weeks of painful agonizing, sleepless nights attempting to get this story right. Times where I thought this was the most amazing thing I ever written, and other times thinking this was the worst crap ever. Please, take the time to offer me your thoughts. :)
Note: Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.
Beginning
Part One:
"Still waters run deep in that one."
The broad statement took Angie by surprise; she pushed back her chair slightly, tilting it to the right, the wheels a screech across the linoleum floor, as she glanced over her shoulder, to the direction of where the younger woman stared.
Her partner of five years was entering the interrogation room; his lips drawn into a frown that reached down to the wisp of his dark beard, that made him appear scruffy and mysterious, and always left her with the desire to run her long slender fingers through the stubble at the most inappropriate times, such as now.
The cheap lightening above their heads cast dark shadows across his skin, down his cheekbones, and along the point of his chin, intensifying his brooding appeal. His brows were furrowed and drew to a point, over the rim of his glasses that perched on the bridge of his nose. His blazer was unbutton, hanging loosely at his sides, the fabric flapping wildly, like the wings of a bird, filling and lifting with air with every step that he took, boasting that quiet confidence that was his and his alone.
In his one hand, he carried a cup of coffee; the other was preoccupied with smoothing his tie down against the starch of his crisp white button-down dress shirt. Oscar Vega always dressed precisely immaculate, everything in order and neat. She was still curious if he even own a pair of jeans, and took a mental note that next time she was alone in his bedroom to investigate.
He placed the cup of coffee down in front of Anna Hill, the current woman they were interviewing for their latest case. He caught the stare of Angie, nodding his head in her direction, before strolling over to take his familiar seat across from her.
She bit down on her bottom lip, in mindless thought, studying her partner. He was carefully arranging the sheets of paper in front of him, his eyes reading over the meticulous notes, making sure everything was in order. He wore that intense, thoughtful expression that Angie came to recognize over the years; he often regarded her in the same manner.
Anna Hill had been right with her earlier statement; still waters did run deep in him. Her partner's placid exterior hid a passionate, subtle nature. Angie, herself, had only recently become acquainted to the fervent position that Vega could take when he believed in something or someone; he would fight to death and honor in its defense.
Out of the two of them; he was the resilient one; the strong, study, calm one. Reserved on the exterior, he was often hard to read. She liked to think that was part of what had drawn her to him, the never being able to read him, but wanting to regardless.
She was the opposite. She thrived on conflict and turmoil. She had a tendency to be reckless in her actions, act now and ask questions later. She was impetuous by nature that way. Five years of their partnership had proven that opposites really did attract; they balanced each other. And like water, he was the deepest points, where the water ran the most calm and smooth. She was the shallowest points, where it made the most noise, but like water, they always meant and flowed best when together.
Her partner picked up his pen and leaned forward in his chair, resting against the bent of his elbow. He glanced once more at Angie before returning his attention to Anna, clearing his throat, preparing for the round of questioning. He combed his fingers through the bristles along his jaw, contemplating his choice of words. "Mrs. Hill," he began, "Can you think of anyone who would want your husband dead?"
Angie pulled her eyes away from her partner; long enough to tilt her head and regard Anna. She cradled her chin in the palm of her hand, narrowing her eyes. Angie had been a detective for quite a long time now, long enough to know that the most mundane aspects could present the most important clues, so she observed everything.
Anna Hill was in her middle thirties, with transparent skin, and dark eyes, and long, straight chestnut hair that fell down her shoulders and flipped at the ends. From where Angie sat, even in the dimly lit room, she could still see the tears that resided in the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. She had just been informed that her husband of nine years had been discovered stabbed to death at a truck stop in the early morning hours of a Saturday, when most people were just beginning their days, over cups of coffee and plates of warm, buttery pancakes, reading the comics, planning out their day. Her husband had been taking his last breath, and for Anna, Saturdays would never be just another normal day again.
It was the aspect of her job that Angie could do without; the part that broke her down, that kept her up at nights. But it was also the reason why she stayed on as a homicide detective; the investigating and solving; it was like an addiction, or her life's mission, either way, it was what prevented her from walking away, from finding a less challenging, less dangerous job. It's what kept her going, kept her living.
Anna shook her head, clutching the wad of Kleenex tightly in her hand, her eyes darting wildly back and forth between the detectives. "I don't understand," her voice broke. She lifted a shaking hand to wipe at the tears that stubbornly fell down her cheeks, landing on the fabric of her pants, forming tiny pools. "He was well liked. We attended church on Sundays. He donated money to the local animal shelter downtown. Why would anyone want a man like that dead?"
Angie, who had been quietly observing the distraught woman up to that point, finally spoke up. "I know this is hard, but any information, no matter how unimportant it may seem could be beneficial…how was your husband's business doing? Any money problems?"
Anna sighed heavily, wiping the sleeves of her sweater over her tear-stained cheeks. "I don't know. He didn't talk business with me. His partner would know better than me."
"What's his name," Vega asked.
"Keith Adams." She paused, lifting a dark brow in thought. "I think I have one of their business cards in my wallet." She pushed out her chair slightly, reaching for her purse that sat by her feet. Angie watched as she pulled out her wallet, opened it and began to flip through its contents. She quickly found what she was looking for, and handed Oscar the small white business card. "That's all his information." She turned to face Angie, attempting to give her a faint smile. "Are you guys a couple?"
Angie immediately snapped her head around to meet her partner's stare; she wasn't expecting that question, nor was she expecting the reaction she was experiencing from it. It startled her, made her stomach become a bundle of nerves. Were they a couple? They hadn't really discussed it; was there a title for what they were doing? For his part, he didn't appear rattled in the slightest; still waters and all.
Anna must have picked up on the tension, because she quickly tried to explain herself. "My husband used to say I had a knack for reading people, for seeing things not so clearly defined. It's something in the way you look at one another." Her voice broke slightly as she dabbed her eyes with the tissue. "I'm sorry. I think this is becoming too much. Are we almost finished?"
Oscar nodded reassuringly, removing his glasses and placing them down on the table. He reached out his hand, brushing his fingers over the exposed skin on the back of Anna's wrist. "We're going to find whoever did this."
Anna nodded solemnly at Oscar's quiet comfort and Angie took the moment to clear her throat, indicating that they were finished with questions for the day. He got her hint and stood from his chair, collecting his items from the table, and followed her out of the interrogation room, heading down the hallway in the direction of their desks.
Angie was still pondering the earlier question; were they a couple? He could tell, like he always could, that something was on her mind. He reached out his hand, wrapping his fingers around her bicep, bringing her to an abrupt stop. "Don't worry; we'll figure this out," he said confidently. And for a moment, she wondered if he could read her mind. Of course, he was referring to the case, but he was right in both regards. They would figure this out in due time. He glanced down the hall, ensuring that they were mostly alone, and stepped closer to her, his mouth hovering above her ear. "Are you coming over later?"
She inhaled sharply, the presence of his sudden closeness making her legs feel weak and impossible to stand on. She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his and nodded. "Yeah, but stopping home first to pick up a change of clothes."
His eyes searched her face for moment and then he squeezed her arm slightly before dropping his hand away from her. She instantly craved his touch, and innately took a step forward when he took a step back, trying to narrow the space between them. "You know," he whispered softly. "When you're ready, there's a drawer reserved for you."
She folded her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing at it in consideration. "I know," she answered. He said nothing else as he turned, walking away from her. She stood alone in the hallway leaning against the wall, trying to quiet her mind down.
They had only recently started sleeping together. It just happened; except nothing ever just happened when it came to them. At first, it was just sex; two friends seeking physical comfort. The first time had occurred after a particularly difficult case, where a child had been murdered. The killer had gotten off due to insufficient evidence, and Angie blamed herself. So after a few shots of bourbon, she found herself driving to her partner's house in the late hours of darkness, needing reassurance or comfort or both. Maybe, partly due to the alcohol, and maybe partly in need to numb the pain and sadness, she moved, and he moved, and they kissed, and she thought she loved him, maybe a little bit, and before the guilt set in, and before the shock sobered her up, before she pulled away, but after her fingers were in his hair, she knew. It wasn't a little bit at all, so she kissed him again and again and again.
And when he could no longer rebuff her, when he no longer pushed her away, or told her to go home before they both did something they would regret, he finally kissed her back, needing human contact just as much as she, needing to feel something other than the dull stinging of failed cases that went on for too long. They moved quickly; where hands were rushed and ripped at the clothes that hindered them in a hurry, their bodies falling in a sweaty heap against the softness of his mattress. And when it was over, she woken the next morning, the sunlight creeping through the blinds of his bedroom window, casting light across their naked forms shamelessly; she quickly gathered her belongings and snuck out, without so much as telling him goodbye. It wasn't that she regretted it as much as the fact that it had been with her partner. Sex changed things. Changed people. And she wasn't sure she was ready for all of that.
They didn't talk about it for weeks. It was something that just occurred. So they went back to their routine of being partners, both pretending like nothing had changed between them. And, it might have stayed that way, if he hadn't shown up one night at her place carrying dinner. They had barely placed the food down on the table before they were going at it again, though this time it was slower and not as rushed. And afterwards, he didn't sneak out. So they reached an agreement, there was nothing wrong with them finding relief through sex with each other. It was just sexual; at least she told herself that, until that one night at his place, when everything changed for her.
She had straddled him, pressing her hands flatly against his bare chest. She positioned herself, so most of her weight rested on her knees, as she slowly grinded her hips over the length of him, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. When he took her by surprise; his hands gripping her waist tightly, flipping her over onto her back; she was pinned between the mattress and his body. "Look at me," he told her; his voice soft, warm, and as inviting as his lips, so she did. He pushed deeper inside her, securing her legs around his hips. Her breathing became rapid, as though there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. The beginnings of a climax rippling throughout her body, she reached down; gripping the cream-colored sheets tightly, the tension in her muscles building. He looked so intensely at her, burning her with scrutiny, and she had to look away, afraid of what she may see in his eyes.
He sensed this, and drew to a crawling pace, his hips stilling against hers. "Look at me," he repeated. "I want to see you as you come undone." He tilted her chin up, soft fingers carefully encouraging her to open her eyes. When she did, she felt the wetness of tears fall down her face. This was more than just sex. And as he quicken his pace, her legs began to tremble, her back arched, and she climaxed gripping tightly to his shoulders, never once removing her eyes from his. The only sound was the mumbling of his name, falling from her mouth, rendering her completely undone, and in that moment, she saw it. Saw it in his eyes; this was more than just sex. Felt it in her heart; this was more than just sex. It was there, clear as day; this wasn't just two friends seeking comfort and companionship; they were in love.
Neither was ready to title it that, so they allowed their bodies to say what their mouths were too afraid to. With early morning kisses along the jaw, and down the neck, and on the collarbone. And late night caresses, where fingers explored, and tickled, and held. Between cases that went on for entirely too long, and days that had no end, they told each other how much they cared through their bodies, and it was enough.
The spark had always been there, from the moment they first met; just waiting for the right moment to ignite, and now it smoldered everything in its path, burning her life to ashes. She needed him, not just in comfort, but because she loved him. And he needed her, too. So quietly and indirectly, they fell into this secretive relationship, that hadn't been given a title. Work was work, and they kept it professional, but she rarely ever slept alone anymore.