It's another late night at the office, trying to sort out the rat nest of files that have hit his desk in the past twelve hours. Berkley curses his team of men again. Diana's going to kill him for canceling their dinner date, but he's going to kill her for taking their reservations and using them, anyway. Misery is supposed to be shared; it was much like the amazing French dishes that they would have swapped up town.
Berkley really hates the sandwiches the corner store sells. It looks like that's all he'll be inhaling for the night.
He takes a coffee break, or what would qualify as one if he had coffee. The machine's busted again and the filters are old, anyway. He reminds himself to put money aside in the budget for a new one—replacing some other request that mattered only to one of the detectives of the Criminal Investigations unit. Maybe Parker's plea for a new computer. He considers the merits of that against Laytner's newest complaint about the smoke alarm that keeps going off as he strides down the empty hallway, shoes clipping against the floor.
Except one of the office doors is wide open, light spilling out into the dark hallway. Berkley pauses, takes a detour, and swings into the room.
Someone in jeans and a sweater is rummaging through Adams' desk.
Berkley clears his throat. "Excuse me."
Luckily enough, it's Adams' head that pops up. "S-sir!" he stammers. "You startled me—sneaking around like that, jeez!"
"I could say the same," says Berkley wryly. He crosses his arms and leans against the door. "Lose something, Adams?"
"My apartment key," admits Adams, running a hand through his hair. His lips are still pale from the winter cold. "I took it off this morning to lend my car keys to Ted, but then forgot to put it back on. I was out all night, so I didn't realize until—well, they're right here, anyway. No harm done."
"Indeed." Berkley studies him. He's seen Adams in his work outfits before, of course—plenty of style, a natural taste for fine things and the best labels. Berkley knows his salary is as bad as every other cop's in the city, so he must be saving the cash better than his fellows to afford such things. But the Adams of tonight is sporting worn jeans and a sweater that's been stretched enough that it's dipping down on one shoulder. The hem is a mass of frayed threads.
Adams must know what he's thinking. He flushes, crossing his own arms as if to ward off the considering stare. "I don't want to ruin my nice stuff. And it's cold."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to," Adams replies snippily. He fishes through his drawer a bit more, ears red, and makes an "ah-ha" sound under his breath. The key, presumably to his apartment, is slipped into his pocket. He straightens and makes as if to leave. "If you'll excuse me, sir—"
"Hey." Goddammit. He hadn't intended to say anything, but Adams looks so pathetic as he passes that Berkley can't help it—his hand reaches out without his permission and jerks Adams' chin towards the light. "You're going to cry because I looked at you?"
Adams stares at him. Then, coming to, he yanks himself back and out of Berkley's grasp. "No!" he replies hotly. "I'm not crying at all, you—you absolute—"
Berkley smirks. "Right. Your eyes are squinting."
"Shut up, why should I care if you don't like how I look—"
"I never said that, detective," says Berkley mildly.
"You didn't have to!"
Berkley steps forward, purposefully filling the door so that Adams has nowhere to go but back, as well. Adams stiffens, his foot falling back. "Hm," Berkley muses. "So you went out tonight, looking like that. Did someone say something to you?"
"Sir, it's none of your—"
"Come on, JJ, did it upset you that much? After all, what I think should mean nothing to you—what's the real problem?" He reaches out and touches the edge of Adams' desk, the pressure light but visibly firm, and traps the detective between himself and the stationary blockade. "Are you worried no one finds you desirable now? Did you try to come onto someone and they rejected you? Is that it? Or were you just ignored? You don't seem to have any luck keeping attentions, after all."
Adams gapes at him. No doubt horrified by his perceptiveness, Berkley thinks in vague amusement. But then, Adams is an easy card to read. Berkley likes Adams, most days, because he annoys Laytner and does his work well. Sometimes he even gets Parker off his ass long enough to do some real footwork. And as for the final reason, well—
"W-wait," says Adams as his hip strikes the desk edge, and then Berkley presses against him and kisses him.
Adams' reaction isn't sweet blankness like from Ryo, nor Diana's impish straightforwardness. Rather, he freezes and then thaws within a moment's time, fingers dragging into Berkley's collar as if to keep him in place. He tastes like some fruity drink Berkley would never buy, and smells like gunpowder, bar counter, and cologne. Berkley demands entrance to Adams' mouth with his tongue, and it's given, open and immediate and hot and wet. They both know how to kiss like they're devouring something. Adams is too small to fit neatly into his arms, but that just means Berkley can engulf him completely, owning him through those pliant lips and the small of his back as Berkley roughly slides his palm across the skin waiting there.
It's so good that Berkley is tempted, if only for a second, to take it a step farther. He's sure Adams would look amazing draped across the surface of the desk, panting and legs spread, squirming under his hands. But then Berkley sighs mentally, remembers the dinner reservations that have pissed him off, and pulls away.
Adams inhales loudly and sways against him. "Um," he says, wide-eyed.
Berkley steps back and pats his shoulder. "You look good," he informs him. "You're nice to look at, Adams. And if anything, that little number you have on makes it even worse. Trust me, go out and give it one more try with someone who doesn't have their head up their ass in denial of what they are. Just come into work on time tomorrow after you've bagged your man."
"I—are you—did you just—"
"Good night, Adams." And Berkley turns away, hands shoved in his pockets and faintly annoyed now that his body is thrumming and alive. Screw work. Diana should still be on her second drink at the Flamingo, there's no reason he can't catch her in the act of ogling the waiters before the food even cools. She'll have a good laugh over this one. And if he's lucky, it'll be an early night with plenty of time left over for Berkley to get Diana into some casual wear, too.
He's always liked the way her breasts almost show when she's wearing her old t-shirts, after all.
(The next morning, Berkley is running a little later than planned and he runs into JJ at the entrance of the station. It's not just the cold that makes the detective go red. But the sheepish grin he gets is well worth it, and besides, Berkley likes it when his team runs smooth and doesn't take breaks to bitch about their love lives. That, and he meant what he said—the kid really is something to look at. Fine things, indeed.)
