A/N-There exist people in our lives who we will do anything for. They're there for us through good times and bad times, cheer us up when we're sad, celebrate our victories, encourage us, listen to us, and their very presence makes us a better person ourselves.

iLoVeRynMar is one of these people for me. She is the foot I dipped in the fanfic waters, accepting my offer to beta her brilliant In My Head, In My Heart nearly two years ago. She is more than my sounding board and one of my favorite writers. She is one of the best people I know, and just because we've never had the chance to be in the same room together doesn't lessen our friendship at all.

We share a mutual love for so many things beyond Everlark…and this ficlet, which started off as a planned one-shot that grew and grew and will now be a short WIP (probably 6 or 7 chapters, estimating 26-30K words to finish), is at her request. It's based on our common adoration for Brooklyn Nine-Nine and in particular, the episode "The Bet." I've taken some liberties with Peralta and Santiago to better reflect canon Peeta and Katniss, as well as with the rules and nature of detective work. All mistakes are mine.

This will eventually be rated M.

RynMar, I love you. Happy Birthday, you amazing lady. May the next year be even better than the last. (I'd save you a seat in MetLife on 11.16 if you could get here, LOL, but you have to settle for this story and some book recommendations instead.)


~*~Chapter 1~*~


~Peeta~


"Ten bucks says I can bank this off the coffeemaker and get it to land right in the trash can." I hold up the wadded up report, and arc my arm through the air to loosen it up.

Odair leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, a cocky grin on his face. "No rim."

"That's not what your mom said last night," I fire back, earning a guffaw from him, but a disgusted noise comes from my left. I swivel to flash Cresta my best smile of apology, the one that makes me resemble a guilty puppy dog, and sure enough, her green eyes soften immediately before they cut back to her computer screen.

"Get your wallet out, Odair," I declare, extending my arm and letting the paper fly across the room. As it approaches the table where the nearly empty coffee pot sits, a hand lurches out and snatches the wad mid-air. Everdeen's steely eyes meet mine, and she holds me in place with that cool stare as she deliberately drops the paper into the trash.

"Glad to see we're having a productive Monday morning, Mellark," she says dryly. She stalks past me and heads towards her desk. My eyes follow her perfect ass in those slim tailored pants she always wears.

Odair snorts and crumples up a new sheet of paper. "I don't know why you two don't just fuck and get it over with."

I shoot him a look and snatch the paper from him, firing a line drive at the trashcan. I don't even bother to see if it goes in and instead cut my gaze to Everdeen. She's already settled herself behind her desk, and she's shuffling through a stack of manila folders while her laptop boots up.

I keep watching, waiting for her to begin her little morning ritual: She'll flip through her case files twice (even though she always organizes her paperwork right before she goes home) then she'll choose one cold case to pore over while she drinks her coffee (2% milk and four sugars) and checks her email. She'll pull out her little neon Post-It flags and grab a green pen from her top drawer. She'll gnaw on the end of the pen, those lush lips wrapped around it while she chews, and by the time she's gone with her file, it'll look like the Lucky Charms leprechaun has done a mad jig over the pages.

I've made it a point to notice everything about Detective Katniss Everdeen since she started at my precinct three years ago as a rookie. She makes it a point not to give me the time of day.

Most of the station finds amusement in our situation, needling me about wanting to fuck her. It might be amusing if it weren't true. I'm insanely attracted to her, but it goes beyond her looks and wanting to get her into my bed. There is something about her that undoes me, and I just know we'd be good together—because we make a very good team. Her strengths complement mine, and thus, in the three months since she made detective and we became partners, we've solved a lot of cases and put a lot of scumbags behind bars.

Unfortunately, only one of us is willing to acknowledge how well we work together.

Ah, there goes the green pen. As I wait for Everdeen to tuck the pen between her teeth, my gaze flits to her lips, so full, so inviting, a pale peachy-pink hue without any kind of lipstick or gloss. I spend way too many hours wondering what those lips taste like.

Suddenly she looks up, directly at me. That pretty pink mouth of hers twists into a scowl, but rather than glance away or show any remorse for blatantly staring at her, I prepare that smile again. But I don't get the chance to flash it, because Captain Abernathy coughs loudly to get the room's attention. "Mellark, Everdeen, my office. Five minutes."

Everdeen looks up and barely acknowledges Abernathy with a weak bob of her head. She can be just as standoffish with our boss, and he still seems to favor her over all the other detectives in the precinct. Course no one has ever accused Haymitch Abernathy of being warm and fuzzy.

"Sure thing, Captain." I reply.

Abernathy grunts his approval then barks a few orders at Delly Cartwright, our civilian administrator, and with her usual bubbly enthusiasm, she scurries off after him.

Odair waves an empty disposable coffee cup in front of my face, distracting me from turning my attention back to Everdeen. "Okay, first one to get this to land on its end on the break table buys lunch?"

I grin. "Save that one for tomorrow." He grins back and tosses the cup into the trash, sauntering over to Cresta's desk for some shameless flirting. They don't even hide the fact that they're sleeping together. Not that it's forbidden or anything. The precinct doesn't have any rules against it, and Abernathy's stance, which we've heard many times over the years, is if you're dumb enough to shit where you eat, you reap the consequences. If things go south and you can't handle it, then you get the fuck out.

After preparing my tea at the beverage station, I head to my desk.

"Don't you two ever tire of your childish little bets?" says Katniss, raising only her eyes.

I disarm her with a smile. "Keeps things interesting, keeps things light around here. And I like a challenge; it's why I became a cop. Maybe one day when you and I can finally have a conversation that lasts more than two minutes and isn't about work, you'll tell me why you became one."

Everdeen exhales loudly, her back stiffening. She purses her lips and mumbles something before breaking our eye contact and going back to her papers. I take a sip of my tea and glance over my reasonably neat desktop, I swipe an errant Dove chocolate wrapper (one of my vices) into the trash and straighten the picture frame beside my computer monitor. Instinctively, I smile at the image of the only female that currently shares my bed: my yellow lab, Ilsa. She's a good cuddler, doesn't steal the sheets, and tolerates my morning breath.

Everdeen exhales again, this one sounding like a sigh of frustration, and I cock an eyebrow at her.

"Problem?" I venture.

She smiles tightly. "Not at all. Just could have used another minute or two to finish this up before seeing Abernathy." She pushes back her chair, smoothes her silk blouse down, and squares her shoulders, then she stalks off in the direction of Abernathy's office.

"No, that's okay, I'm right behind you!" I call, sarcasm dripping off my words as I follow her.

Everdeen assumes her usual stance in front of Abernathy's desk—arms crossed under her breasts, legs shoulder-width apart, jaw set, chin forward. Her countenance is impassive, but there's that latent fire crackling in those grey irises. This is what gets her going. I know that every time we're called into the chief's office, she anticipates being handed the Next Big Case. It's not like Everdeen solicits attention—far from it, actually. But she does thrive under pressure, and thus, Abernathy has started to throw the most difficult cases in our direction.

Abernathy pulls an unlit cigarette out from behind his ear and tucks it under his top lip. He quit smoking two years ago, but on most days there's still a cigarette to be found in his mouth. The rest of the time a large wad of Nicorette pooches out his cheek—he must jam six or seven pieces in there. Mason claims if they'd just let him drink on the job he'd be even more efficient. I sometimes question how she knows so much about our surly boss, but Johanna Mason is our resident Wikipedia. She seems to know everything about everyone, and is right about 95% of the time.

"Have a seat." Abernathy motions to the chairs. I start, but Everdeen remains fixed in place.

"I'll stand, thank you," she replies. Abernathy smirks and glances at me. I jerk my head towards her and offer my boss a sheepish smile. He shakes his head, bemused, and he leans forward to shove a file at Everdeen.

"Came through from the 2nd precinct. Apparently these lowlifes they've been scoping out for almost a year are now on our turf. Suspected trafficking of underage females. Going to involve some major surveillance and stakeouts. Acquaint yourselves with the logistics. This is your case now."

Everdeen is already intently scanning the first page in the file. That spark in her eyes is flickering again, and I know we're both thinking the same thing: this will definitely be big, if we can be the ones to shut the operation down.


~Katniss~


I can feel his eyes on me as I read. I won't give him the satisfaction of looking at him, but my peripheral vision is outstanding so I know Mellark's watching me. When Abernathy dismisses us, I tuck the folder under my arm and assure my boss that I'll be ready. I stride out of his office, leaving Mellark in my wake. Behind me I hear Mason make some sort of smart-ass remark at him, and he volleys back a "fuck off."

When he reaches his desk, he has a chocolate-glazed donut in one hand. I make a big production out of sitting down at my desk, rearranging my files, placing the new one open atop the stack.

He's watching me again. His blue eyes don't blink, and his jaw moves, almost hypnotically, as he chews his donut. I'm still surprised he has such a sweet tooth. He doesn't strike me as the type who would eat sugary crap, not with a physique like the one I know he's concealing beneath his dress shirt and slacks. I've seen him in much tighter clothing during our required simulation trainings. Furthermore, we have a gym in the station, and the first time I saw Mellark, shirtless and sweaty, bench-pressing three times my body weight, I cursed myself for gawking. A lot. Like, more than I should have.

I'm not oblivious to Mellark's good looks. He's hot I'll give him that. The problem is he's almost too attractive for his own good—he knows it too. And he's charming. There are times where I've just had to bite my tongue and sit back to allow him to interview a female witness. Watching them get all doughy-eyed and slack-jawed over him can be amusing, once in a while. The rest of the time it's just annoying.

Nearly everyone in the precinct gives me shit about how much he likes me, and how he wants to sleep with me. I definitely believe the latter is true. I have my doubts about the former though. He spends as much time teasing me as he does trying to have a normal conversation with me. And though teasing a girl to show you like her was okay in middle school, we're grown adults.

Nearly five minutes pass, and he's still staring at me, still chewing, and I finally glance up, our eyes meeting. He pops the last bite of his donut in his mouth and his lip curls into a smirk. I narrow my eyes.

"Did you want something, Mellark?"

I can see the subtle shift in those piercing blue irises, something stormy and dangerous and unnervingly sexy. He keeps them trained on me, not speaking, just smiling. Sure, my choice of words was suggestive, though the intent behind them was not. A skirmish erupts in my stomach, irritation dueling with desire. I let my brain intervene before my heart, foolish bitch that she is, can side with the delicious warmth that his stare is kindling in me. Why is he suddenly having this effect on me? I've been able to resist those big blue eyes and the boyish smile up until this point. Get it together, Everdeen—Jesus.

"I'd like to see that file whenever it is you're finished with it, Katniss."

I clench my jaw and ignore the molten heat oozing through my veins from the way he says my name. He does it on purpose, because I know for a fact he chooses to call me Katniss when he's trying to get under my skin. He says that partners should be on a first name basis, but I think it annoys him just as much that I refuse to call him Peeta.

I've tried it out a few times. In the privacy of my bedroom. Just to what it sounds like, how easily it tumbles out, the breathy vowels interrupted by that flick of my tongue on the 't.'

Shit, did I accidentally smile? I accidentally smiled, didn't I? His expression hasn't changed, though he's swallowed the donut by now. He just keeps staring.

"I'll need a few more minutes and then it will be all yours," I say curtly.

"I can wait," he replies.

It takes me a lot longer than a few minutes, what with the way he's distracting me. Finally he slides into his chair and logs on to his computer. Within several seconds, I can hear systematic little clicks coming from his mouse. I wait for him to start typing, or making notes in one of his files, but he just keeps clicking.

"Are you playing Solitaire?" I hiss. He looks at me innocently and shakes his head.

"Free Cell. Just passing the time waiting for you, Everdeen."

"And you have no other work you can do?"

He gives me a smile that's as sweet as it is condescending. "It's been a slow week. I'm all caught up."

"It's Monday!" I exclaim. "Your work week is a couple of hours old."

"And it's slow," he insists, his eyes cutting to the file in front of me. I mash my lips together and try not to let my simmering anger boil over. He's doing it again—goading me on purpose. Without a word, I smack the folder closed and thrust it across onto his desk. It hits the lone picture frame on his desk and sends it pitching forward. He calmly reaches over and rights the frame, then slides the file directly in front of him.

"Thank you," he says as he begins to read.

It's the last words we speak to each other for the rest of the day.


At five o'clock, I shut down my laptop, slide it into my computer bag, lock my files in my bottom drawer, and straighten up my desk. I sneak a glimpse at Mellark, but in that instance he looks up and catches my eye.

"You heading home?" he asks, his face a mask of indifference.

I nod. "I have dinner plans." He didn't ask, but on some level I feel compelled to let him know this little fact. He doesn't have to know that the plans are with my roommate Madge, and we're ordering pizza and wings to watch Monday Night Football on the couch. My last real date was seven months ago, and it was such a horrible experience that it took me a week to talk to Mason again, since she was the one who set me up with the self-absorbed asshole.

"Have fun." His eyes return to his paperwork.

"You're, ah, not leaving?" I hedge.

"In a bit." There's a chill in his tone, a bite to his brusque sentences. I set my shoulders and huff out a terse, "See you tomorrow," before heaving my bag up and walking out of the station.

Autumn has definitely asserted herself in recent days. Though it was a pleasantly mild day, now that the sun has started to set earlier, there's often a sting in the evening air by the time I leave. I shiver a little as I walk to my car, appreciating the golden glow the dying rays cast over the lot. The streetlights should be coming on soon.

I reach my car and shoot a disparaging look at Mellark's car. I don't make it a point to park next to him, but since I was the last one in that morning, thanks to my hunk of junk not wanting to start, I had no choice. His BMW Z4 is the nicest car in the parking lot. My piece of shit Civic looks even shittier beside the gleaming charcoal roadster. I don't know how someone like him affords it. We make decent salaries as detectives, and he doesn't have a wife or any kids that I know about that he supports, but it still seems really extravagant. I could replace my piece of shit, but getting out of my apartment and buying a place of my own needs to happen first.

When I turn my key in the ignition, the same foreboding sputter I've become accustomed to hearing greets me. Pressing my lips together, I crank the key again. Nothing.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." I slap the steering wheel then lay my forehead against it, frustration surging through me. Then I sit up, blow out a cleansing breath, and step back out of my car.


~Peeta~


It's after six when I grab my jacket from the back of my desk chair, say goodbye to everyone who's left in the room, and head out to my car. I made a lot of progress on a few open cases and got some paperwork done, so I feel productive and energized. I toy with the idea of using the gym or swinging by the health club that I still belong to, but I'll go for a quick run when I get home. Ilsa should have already gotten her afternoon walk, courtesy of Rue, my sixteen-year-old neighbor who I pay generously to spoil my baby.

When I exit the rear of station into the lot where we park our personal vehicles, I'm greeted by the sight of Everdeen's ass. She's bent over the hood of the clunker she drives. As much as the vision could spur all kinds of fantasies, I'll have to put them in the spank bank for another time, cause I know for a fact that it was four minutes past five when she shut down her laptop, locked her desk drawer, and went on her way.

She's been out here for over an hour? Didn't she say she had plans?

I have to find the situation somewhat amusing that Katniss Everdeen is so stubborn that she would rather struggle with whatever mechanical difficulties her rusty old car is experiencing than to come back inside the precinct and ask for help.

But as I approach her, I can hear her muttering under her breath, spewing a string of obscenities that would make a sailor blush. My shoes crunching on the gravel must give me away, because her back tenses and she goes silent. As she turns around, I see her glossy dark locks are disheveled, her braid having come half unraveled. There's a black smudge streaked across her cheek, and the third button down on her blouse has come undone, giving me the tiniest tantalizing flash of something red and lacy. Fuck, I did not need to know the color of her bra right now—it's just more material for late night fantasizing.

Her eyes are hard as she appraises me. There's also a trace of something like vulnerability flickering in them, but it vanishes quickly.

"Need some help?" I ask evenly, easing my jacket off my shoulders in anticipation of making myself useful. I nobly keep my eyes from drifting down to her partially exposed chest. I should tell her about the button, but then I'd give myself away that I was checking her out.

"I'm fine," she retorts.

"What's wrong?"

She hesitates. "It's nothing. Go home."

"Katniss," I say her name deliberately, the way a friend might say it, and not a contentious partner like I did earlier this morning. "I'm not going to leave you out here when you need help."

"I don't need help," she snaps. "I know how to fix a car. I used to work on them with my dad all the time. It just stalls." She leans back over the engine and fiddles with the battery wires. "We all can't have fancy ass convertibles."

I ignore the insult, toss my jacket on the passenger seat of my fancy ass convertible, and crack my knuckles. I take tentative steps towards her, halting my movement just a few feet from where she stands. I wait for her to sense me behind her, and when she straightens up again, I slowly raise my hand.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Her voice is hoarse and tight. I graze my thumb across her cheek, rubbing gently. Her skin is as soft as I imagined it would be, since she doesn't have a blemish or flaw that I've ever been able to see. I could keep touching her like this forever, if she'd allow it. Which I know she wouldn't, so I pull my hand back quickly and turn my thumb to reveal the grease. She immediately starts rubbing her cheek furiously with her fingertips, avoiding my eyes, but she mutters a thank-you.

"Do you at least have Triple-A? Because I do, and I can call them for you. As long as I'm—"

"Peeta," she huffs, "I can handle myself. It did the same thing this morning. It will start. Go on, I'm sure you've got somewhere to be, or some hot date to get ready for."

I'm stunned by the fact she used my actual name, but I smile as I say, "As matter of fact, there is a beautiful blonde waiting for me at home."

She tries to fight it, but I see her jaw lock and her eyes widen for a split second. "Far be it from me to keep you from her then, Mellark." She spins on her heel and ducks back under the hood. I lean back and rest my ass on the hood of my Z4, watching her tinker with the battery. She can be as stubborn as she wants, but I'm not leaving until I know she's safe in her car—her working car.

The Civic makes an awful sound, like some kind of animal in mortal pain, but the engine catches, and Katniss emits a squeak of triumph, nearly drilling her head as she backs away. She closes the hood and clears her throat. We stare at each other.

"Have a good night," she says, her voice much softer, and she climbs into her car, adjusts the mirror, and then she's gone.

Challenging is not even close to the right word to describe Katniss Everdeen. Maddening. Infuriating. Baffling. Better, but still not quite perfect. She's like one of those ancient riddles that have 300-some-odd possible solutions, but ultimately only one correct answer.

She's my cold case. And God help me, it only makes me want her more.


"Did you do this?"

I glance up from my desk, where I'm pouring over a transcript of an interrogation Everdeen and I conducted last Friday, trying to find a new angle on this particular case. I met her steely eyes, aimed right at me like daggers. She waves a newspaper clipping in my face.

"Oh you know, I was looking for that," I lie, lurching across our desks to yank the paper from her hand.

"You know damn well you put this on my desk, Mellark," she snaps, eyes flashing again. "I'll have you know I don't need a fucking reminder every time you get your name in the paper because of an arrest." She places her hands on her hips and straightens her shoulders. As she glowers at me, I can't help but notice how this antagonistic stance causes her breasts to strain just so against her navy button-down shirt, and the position of her hands makes me wonder what it would be like to have my fingers gripping that tiny waist as I thrust into her. It's a good thing I'm sitting down, the way my cock reacts instantly at the mere thought of fucking her.

"Language, Everdeen. There are children present." I thumb at the rookie who's training with Mags, our dispatcher, and I have to choke back a laugh when Everdeen scowls. She's so fucking hot when she's pissed. I'm not sure when I became such a glutton for punishment, but after the way she stubbornly rebuffed my help last night, I thought she could use a reminder at how well we work together.

As I watch her lips twitch, I can practically see her rehearsing a witty comeback for me, but all that she manages to sputter at me is, "That was my case, you know."

"I didn't realize that detective work involved us calling dibs on who solves what, like some kind of playground game…because like it or not, Everdeen, we are partners. If you keep reading, you'll see your name right there after mine. I gave you full credit for your outstanding work on our case," I say as I spin around in my chair and wheel across the floor to the snack station to grab the last plain-glazed donut from the box. Sliding back towards her, I watch her lips twitch and her eyes dart to the donut in my hand.

She only eats the plain-glazed ones. I've noticed. I wonder if she has any idea just how much I know about her.

"What?" I ask innocently. I look down to the donut. "Oh, did I take the last one?"

She presses her lips together so tightly that they blanch white, and her shoulders square again.

I push back and stand up, striding to where she stands beside her desk, and when I'm close enough to catch a whiff of her sandalwood vanilla perfume, I lean in and raise the donut to her closed mouth.

"Did you want this, Everdeen? It's all yours if you'd like it."

She inhales deeply and blows out a breath in an exaggerated huff. "I don't want the fucking donut," she grits through her teeth. "And stop leaving the local police reports on my desk. It's not a fucking competition."

"Oh it's not? You sure act—"

She cuts me off, as something wicked gleams in her eyes. "You want a competition? What the hell. Why don't we go ahead and make it one?"


I look forward to hearing everyone's thoughts on this. It will not impact my other WIPs in any other way, as this is nearly done, and it's just the editing that will take me awhile between beta work and stupid online trainings for the new school year. Thank you for reading. ~C