Well, because I'm stupid, and a sucker for reviews, and honestly, the thought of this story ending just makes me sad, I bring to you, another part! Love you guys! You're the best!

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If Betty Rogers had a penny for every time she was asked, if Flynn and Vega were a couple; well simply put, she would have enough money to buy those expensive Prada shoes she had been eyeing now for some time—and those were some killer heels.

It was only natural—this curiosity that people had about them. Even she had to admire, how they worked together—two strings in this perfect knot of harmony. She knew better than most, how rare it was for Detectives to find their other half; the perfect partner, and these two had struck gold when they found each other; and frankly, Betty liked them, not just as Detectives, but as people. They weren't just suits with badges and guns, they actually had personalities, and she would take working with them any day of the week over those other presumptuous tight asses that worked around there—insert Mark's name—he may be nice on the eyes, but the guy was a total tool—and Angie—and probably Oscar, would agree on that, but now, where was she?

Oh yes—Flynn and Vega's relationship, or there lack of—depending on how you looked at it; and she was almost certain that the pair wasn't doing the naked pretzel—so to speak, or at least judging by Angie's reaction every time she suggested 'tapping that' in reference to Vega—it was safe to assumed their relationship wasn't in the romantic sense—and by romantic, she meant two naked bodies wrestling.

Because, in all honesty—even without the sexual part; their relationship was romantic. They would bring each other coffee, or hold the door open for one another. Sometimes, she would just sit and watch how they interacted with each other, and she swore it felt like she was watching some old married couple. They would tease—bicker—but truly, what was the point in a lover's quarrel without the make-up sex?

That she would never know, but they had to be round-up, and constricted, like wine trapped in a bottle, just ready to pop that cork. All that pent-up frustration wasn't good for them; they should just fuck and get it over with, for their own sanity, if not for health reasons. That's how they should explain it to Mark. "We had to screw, doctor's orders." Yes, that would go over smoothly.

But they were indeed a sexy couple—even she "shipped" them, if that were an actual term. She was one of their biggest fans—just waiting on the sidelines, cheering them on—enjoying the slow build of will they or won't they—and when and where—she actually started a betting pool, though she would never admit that to anyone, that it had been her, especially to them, but she had a substantial amount of money riding on them.

And it was for that reason—the rooting them on part—not the betting pool part—that she didn't mind staying late and finishing the autopsy report they had requested. She enjoyed her job, but more importantly, she enjoyed watching Flynn and Vega as they took her findings, and formed a motive from it—it fascinated the shit out of her—the way their minds worked—like reading a mystery novel, and what girl didn't enjoy a good mystery?

She was almost finished, just a few more minor details, and the report would be complete. When her stomach growled, and instantly she opened her desk drawer, and frown when she found it empty, then she remembered she had given her last bag of Reese Pieces to Vega earlier—so much for a late night snack.

She glanced at the clock: 1:10 in the morning, she had to hurry, she had a date—well, if you could call it a date—there was no actual going out involved, more like her going in—a warm cozy bed of a really hot guy, so yeah, a date it was.

She quickly finished up the report and pressed one on her phone. Angie was quick to answer.
"Flynn," Angie greeted her.
"Well good evening, detective, or should I say morning?" She shut the file and leaned back in her chair, her voice slightly tired.
"Why are you calling?" Angie asked, a little surprised, and Betty mused there was something else on her friend's mind, or someone, she didn't have to ask.
"Um, the autopsy report you and your boyfriend requested, but I can drop it off, and you can just read over it, I have a date." She could hear Angie snort.
"You have a date 1:14 in the morning?"
She smiled inwardly, for Angie didn't correct her on her earlier "boyfriend" reference to Vega, which only meant she was having dirty thoughts about her partner, but for now she allowed that to go and simply answered, "Well those are the best ones."
"Yeah, for a booty call," Angie shot back.
Betty ignored that, and got the subject back to her and Vega. "So where is that fine glass of water tonight anyway?"
"If you are referring to Vega; he is sitting right across the room, and yes," her voice lowered slightly, as though Vega might hear her, and she added, "looking fine as ever."
"Oh, what is he wear…" she didn't get to finish her sentence.
"Gotta go, Betts," and the line went dead.

She grabbed her coat and purse and decided to take a little detour through the homicide department, and see for herself what actually was going on.

She had just made it to the glass doors, when she paused. There sat Angie, her legs propped up on her desk, head bent back, gazing at Vega, as though the man was pure sex on a plate.—Well that explained her distraction over the telephone—and what was this—Vega sneaking glances back in Angie's direction, looking very much like a hunter in pursuit of prey. What the hell was she witnessing here—a porno?

Thankfully, it appeared that Lucas was watching the same thing she was, for he was inching his chair closer to them. She just opened the door and slipped through, when she saw Lucas lose his footing and fall on his ass. She bit back laughter as she approached him. "Real smooth," she said when she finally reached his desk.

He turned a bright shade of red—and if she had to describe it—she would compare it to ripe cherries, or a fire truck—that intense hue of red. "You saw that?" he asked, sheepishly.

"That—and also what appeared to be soft porn—"she tilted her chin in the direction of where Flynn and Vega sat chatting, they were completely oblivious of her or anyone else for that matter—they only had eyes for each other.

Lucas gave her a knowing grin, and she shook her head, not even wanting to know —it was none of her business, for now anyways—she had a date—she would get the scoop from him later—but for now—she had a report to deliver. "Came to drop this off," she handed Lucas the file. "Just in case Vega or Flynn wanted to read over it, but I see they are too busy screwing each other with their eyes."

And with that, she turned, walking past Vega and Flynn, but paused turning to them. "Detectives…" They glanced up for a moment, and before she walked out the door, she simply said, "Get a room."

And then she was gone, heading to her car, but she couldn't help but wonder when those two would just go ahead and be together, because it was clear to see, they might as well be carrying around neon signs that read: WE LOVE EACH OTHER, for you had to be plain stupid, or Mark, to not see it.

In the back of her mind-the dirty part, so the main part of her brain—she wondered, if they tasted as good as they smelled—felt as good as they looked—fucked as good as they teased—and judging by how they were looking at each other, and considering that substantial amount of money she betted on them getting together, it appeared that she would be getting those Prada shoes earlier rather than later—pennies for thoughts.

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