/Surrender/
Summary: She had expected him to gruffly apologize Monday, not show up like this. Raydor/Flynn.
A/N: Found this lying around, thought it would do better to be shared than taking up space on my computer =). Just a small one-shot.
/
"Walk it off," her voice was hard, unrelenting. She had to hiss it through her clenched teeth, had to take a step in his direction and hold her hand out to stop him.
He was seething – cold angry eyes, so dark they reminded her more of a dark black night than the usual warm rich brown. Her lieutenant – her usual sweet lieutenant – was not calm. She watched him tremble with restraint, watched as he looked at her with just enough resent to make her feel dizzy.
She had never been afraid of him; had never really contemplated the raw look he sported whenever he got worked up. But she felt small compared to him; he was looming – anger so dark in his countenance that it overshadowed her presence, her rank. She felt brittle compared to his compact figure; the violent look in the depths of his eyes not doing anything to calm her down either.
He had a reputation of being aggressive and more forceful than necessary; but it was something in the past she had reckoned; something that belonged back in his rookie days. Something that rarely came out on display.
"Cool down, lieutenant – take a walk – now!" she snapped at him. She wanted nothing more than to let her voice be soft, calmly explain to him what the situation entailed – let him know she understood him. Let him know she had his back. However, it was not a feasible option. She had dealt with enough hotheads and aggressors through her line of work; they responded better to command than a soft voice. Once they had cooled off they would be ready to listen – he was far from rational now.
She had to take another step towards him before he complied; her eyes hard as well.
He spun around in an angry turn, left in a flurry that left no doubt in her mind it would take a lot more than a walk to calm him down.
She heaved a breath.
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye;
"Sit down, Lieutenant," she told Provenza, "Let him clear his head."
Provenza gave a reluctant nod and sat down again.
She turned to the persons who – besides herself – had been the root of all the anger.
"Chief Taylor, Captain Davis; let's go into my office," she told the two men, trying hard not to go after Lieutenant Flynn herself.
It was a mess; worse than she had imagined this morning when she had been awoken by her phone at 4 am.
/
Was it possible to despise a former colleague you had once been so fond of? Sharon felt ready to strangle Davis; felt on the verge of slamming her hand onto her desk and giving him a piece of her mind.
Yes, Flynn had been a bit too rough on the suspect. However it had been justified.
She cringed when a litany of regulations were thrown in her face; what – did that little brat think she was a complete idiot.
There was no videotape – apparently the feed had experienced trouble and all that was recorded was a lot of static. There was only Detective Sanchez and Lieutenant Flynn; and a whole street of witnesses that had been in the wrong angle and only seen Flynn throttle their suspect into the ground, bouncing his head against the gravel – maybe twice according to some accounts. The witnesses had not seen what had initiated the whole episode; namely the suspect landing a fist against Flynn before he took off on foot. That Sanchez had been in closer view of what really had happened was apparently being neglected by Chief Taylor and Commander Davis.
She shuddered; she had seen the pictures taken of their suspect. That their suspect was a child murderer was beyond the context; and yet it was very much the essence of everything.
Somehow Davis – and Taylor she added – neglected to see anything but the history of an officer who had a little too many complaints of excessive force. Despite being cleared, it was very much something that lingered in their minds. An officer who had a not so stellar background with aggression; problem with control and alcohol.
It was no puzzle it had driven him straight to anger; she would have felt the exact same if someone had verbally attacked her, bringing up a past that had nothing to do with anything. She had felt anger on his behalf but had fanned it down; she needed to keep a cool head.
Someone had to.
/
He stood in her office; still livid she could tell by his tense position and crossed arms.
He was beyond livid she amended when she saw his eyes.
"Sit down," she told him but he declined, defiantly standing up taller and trying to glare her down.
She sighed; she was not in a mood to comply with his prickly attitude – she had been in an endless meeting between department heads for the last two hours, negotiating his punishment and trying to keep him from being hauled off by his haunches and thrown to the wolves – while trying unsuccessfully to have the case remain a major crime. It was being relocated to robbery/homicide seeing the suspect was filing charges for assault on their whole division. It was a matter of conflict now. It was mostly a matter of public interest and media coverage now.
"Sit down, lieutenant," she hissed.
He continued to stand.
She looked to her ceiling; tried to calm herself down. Maybe it would go better if she tried to not be as angry as he was.
"Please," she sighed.
He sat down somewhat reluctantly, still glowering – arms crossed as if warding her off.
"Two weeks forced leave without pay. Mandatory attendance on a small seminar on anger management."
"You've got to be kidding me," he scoffed.
"Davis wanted you thrown out on your ass, retirement – Taylor wanted you on forced leave for months; no lieutenant I'm not kidding. The kickback on this case alone will probably cost us millions not to mention the bad coverage in the media."
He grimaced, "What about the dirtbag?"
She felt tension in her jaw, an ache behind her eyes; "There will be a court case against Mr. Jerhvin. Robbery/homicide will handle it from now on."
His face fell.
"We're off the case? No deal?" his voice sounded timid.
"No deal," she sighed.
He cursed.
"Andy," she started but he had already bounced from her office in an angry huff.
She sighed again, massaged her temple.
/
In the middle of offloading her car of groceries, one brown bag in between briefcase and folders, she nearly dropped everything when someone sidled up next to her and took the groceries right out of her arms.
"Here let me take that," a familiar voice grumbled.
Her mouth opened and she was about to reprimand whoever surprised her but the bedraggled look of Lieutenant Flynn, soaked through by rain and an almost sorrowful, apprehensive expression and she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.
She sighed, gave a small smile and locked her car – grateful for the extra hands carrying her groceries, a little apprehensive about his silence as he mutely followed her to her apartment complex – still silent when they went inside and took the elevator up. She kept eying him out of the corner of her eyes; he looked like a lost little boy or maybe a half-drowned grizzly bear. She had half expected him to launch a speech – or at the very least open his mouth. She was not used to him being contrite or this silent.
It unnerved her a bit; she had to admit.
It was a vivid contrast to the anger at the office.
Still, she did not say anything herself. She was not sure what to tell him, not sure what he wanted to accomplish by carrying her groceries. He did look apologetic, judging by the almost slouched shoulders – but he must know she understood him – understood why he had been so angry. She had expected him to gruffly apologize Monday, not show up like this. She did not mind though. She did not mind his presence, she found herself reflecting.
She turned her key in the door and opened the front door, turned around and watched him; still silent and the same look upon his face.
She noticed his jacket and jeans then, the wet look and the way his hair flattened, wet short tendrils that were more dark silver than the light silver she was used to. There was something intense about him like this, something that slipped underneath her skin and tingled in a way she had not contemplated.
"You're soaked through," her words were soft.
"I just came to apologize," he told her; already halfway out of her doorway again, the brown bag of groceries by his feet, just inside of her doorway. It was not much of an apology.
Her hands latched onto his jacket sleeves, ensured him inside and her door closed behind him.
"Nonsense," she said, her eyes narrowed as she took him in – he was likely to catch a cold, the outpour outside having drenched him through.
It came as a small surprise, even though she should have anticipated it, he took a step closer to her. Bending his head – eyes suddenly very much in her line of contact. Warm eyes, intense. It was a significant feature to him, expressive eyes – whether it be in anger or in delight, they burned straight through her skin but only whenever she deigned herself to acknowledge the intensity.
She had not thought this through, at all. It had been a dangerous little invitation; one she knew would inherently ensure he came closer. She berated herself for her lack of foresight, for her lack of control - her vision narrowed in on her hands around his clothed forearms, the sleeves wet beneath her touch and muscles tense underneath.
Why had she hauled him inside, her hands around his forearms, bringing him closer? Even if he was soaked to the bone – how long had he been standing in the rain? Was it some sort of self-punishment, standing in the rain till she arrived? Why hadn't he sought cover? It was a little aspect of him that sometimes nagged; she had a feeling he was at the core very much delicate, self-destructive.
Why were his hands on her hips suddenly, restrained by her own hands gripping harder around his forearms – trying to keep him away? trying to bring him closer? It happened without thought; touch suddenly upon her, suddenly pulling her into this moment.
They were standing close, silent – her eyes boring into his chest and the different color to his shirt collar now that it was wet, the muscles underneath her grip coiling, his large hands firmly splayed against her hips. She wondered if he was conscious of the touch, if he was aware of what he was doing.
She averted her gaze from his chest, from his arms and instead looked up; it was a mistake.
Eyes animated, seeming even more intense than when they were racked with anger – they locked on her – warm, apologetic; nothing remotely resembling anger in them.
She wet her lips with her tongue, felt gripped by a notion that one of them really should say something – anything to make this moment disappear.
Why were they getting into moments, why were certain moments suddenly in the midst between them? It was becoming a frequent event – a little thing that seemed to haunt them; small lingering innocent touches – small knowing looks shared – smiles that were anything but merely cordial. It would have been a normal little moment if not for the tingling in her skin – if not for that look in his eyes.
It was a look she was becoming more and more familiar with. She had tried to ignore it but in reality she treasured it; no one really looked at her like that anymore – it had been ages since a look had been such a concoction of warmth and fire, of barely hidden emotions and openness.
It was a look that drew her in, reined her in – but only when she allowed herself to contemplate it, only when they got caught in a moment.
His fingers pressed further into her clothed hips, insistent and she could feel the force as he took another step forward, how she stepped back and got pressed into the wall just behind her front door. She dug her own fingers into his arms, nails most likely hurting even through the cloth of his jacket.
Still he sported that ridiculous look.
Please, she pleaded in her head, not sure if she wanted him to lean down or if she wanted him to not lean down; it was not like her to be so indecisive – so careless.
It was very unlike her to even allow it, moments were usually pushed away. Why she had no incentive to ensure that they behaved professionally was a mystery to her.
Inevitably he came closer, the impression of his body suddenly very much solid, lips parting and on their way to her own, eyes steadfast on hers. Her heart seemed to throb almost painfully; god she wanted his lips to be on hers; she wanted it like nothing else – it was almost too excruciating to think about.
"Dinner!" she squeaked, her voice far from in a normal tone.
Abruptly he stopped his advance, lips still apart, confusion foremost in his eyes.
"Have you had dinner yet, Lieutenant?"
He shook his head, "No"
It was relief, the sudden little breath of air between their bodies. She sneaked past his body, hurriedly taking the groceries – felt almost instantly soothed by the presence of the big brown bag in her arms. The notion of actually kissing him, it filled her with dread, anxieties in amongst the tingling.
Caught in between wanting his lips firmly upon hers and then the almost nauseating notion that it would be wrong.
"How about I make us some dinner? Rusty will be here in a little while – and well, you look," she stopped, tried to gather her thoughts, tried to expel the little waver in her voice, "I've got some dry clothes you can hop into, I mean – well, that is – "
God, she was rambling.
It was something that usually did not happen, not that often anyway – she could tell it amused him, confusion quickly leaving, instead his lips curled into a small smile.
"Sure, okay," he replied; his voice rough, like a small rumble.
She realized he was as bewildered as her; just as completely thrown off course.
They were really a couple of tottering idiots – old tottering idiots, she berated herself.
He followed her into the kitchen, watched as she settled the bag on her kitchen counter; his eyes intensely on her, smile turning cheekier.
Tentatively she smiled back; her smile turning more relaxed when she heard her front door open and the voice of her boy calling out.
It was relief again; with Rusty here it would instantly stop anything, it would ensure they did not linger in any moment. Rusty was a marvelous chaperone that way; he would guarantee that she did not step across lines she had no business stepping across.
Even if she felt relieved, it was accompanied by a little feeling of regret. Alike a small sigh inside her body, expelled at the notion that nothing would happen now – the raw look in his brown eyes were immediately shrouded in a friendly veil.
It was for the better and yet she found herself morose at the aspect.
It was a little feeling she would take apart late at night, alone in her bed – it was a given. It was what had happened after all those other small moments they had shared; she ruminated about them in the dark – when no one was around to tell the secrets that fluttered around inside her skull.
Self-control was hard to maintain in the dark, after all; restraint was always pushed away by fantasies.
"Hey Sharon," Rusty came into the kitchen, stopped, then, "Hey Lieutenant."
"Hey Kid," Flynn greeted him with a smile.
She smiled at Rusty, he smiled back – she realized the smile was more acknowledging than she would have liked; he was astute in a way most kids his age were not. Judging by the little glint in his eyes he was neither surprised by the presence of Lieutenant Flynn nor opposed to it.
It only reminded her that she was slipping, letting too much show that she in the past would have been able to hide without any conscious effort.
It was hard however to linger too long on this grudging little problem, soon they were in the middle of making dinner, her Lieutenant in her ex-husbands jogging pants, his own t-shirt still dry – Rusty engaging him in conversation while she tried to steer her thoughts away from the familiarity of this, the little feeling of domesticity this whole scenario now presented.
Maybe it would have been safer to merely let him kiss her, maybe it would have been better if Rusty had not come home; this whole dinner spectacle turned out to be equally dangerous.
She wondered if it was already inevitably; if the accumulation of all these small moments would in the end only lead in one direction.
/