A/N: Bonus chapter of smutty smut (edited to FFnet rating standards) to make up for yesterday's cliffhanger... starts off with a minor time rewind for Amanda's POV leading up to that kiss that ended last chapter.
A double shift is never a fun part of Amanda's week. She knows there are officers who love the overtime, but most of those are those with families and mortgages and all the financial demands that go along. Back to back double shifts are even worse when she doesn't need the money.
She does her best to keep her desk duty at the beginning and end of shift, because she may have a full complement of officers for the day shift, but they always need backup. There's been one too many training classes about how sergeants being out on the streets helps reinforce the patrol officers' own training. Fewer incidents escalate, when a ranking officer can arrive on a scene.
It's why she's on the scene as fast as possible when the call comes in that two of her men have a gunman holding up a liquor store. She's grateful as hell that the clerk's smart enough to flee when the junkie gets distracted by the fact that he's held up a store where two uniformed cops were eating lunch next door. The man's not even smart enough to try to run himself.
Nothing helps calm the guy down. Every technique the older of the two officers applies, everything Amanda adds when she arrives, nothing sinks in. In the end, it is what it is, and a man is dead. They won't even know for days if it's Amanda's shots that ended the standoff or one of her officers. She hopes it's hers or Jeffries. The other officer is a rookie, and rookies almost never return if they have to deal with killing someone on the job.
Jeffries is a decent enough guy, not at Lamson's level, but never one that's given her any trouble, either before or after she became a sergeant. He's genuinely freaked out as he sees the blood. It takes them both a few minutes to realize it's from hitting her head on the way down. Both slugs that the perp fired are easily found in Amanda's vest.
"Jesus Christ, sarge," Jeffries mutters as they hear sirens approaching. "You got the luck of the angels." He orders his partner to keep pressure on the head wound while he secures the scene.
Amanda just laughs, reassuring the terrified looking kid that doesn't look old enough to be a cop by her humor. "I've always been told I keep my guardian angel working overtime." It was Mama McGinley's favorite saying, about both her adopted kids, but Amanda always more so than Daryl. Her brother has better self-preservation instincts than Amanda.
Later, there's the hospital and the interviews. She leaves with two cracked ribs, enough bruising already forming to make her realize she's going to be a fucking rainbow by morning, and seven stitches in her hairline. It's a hell of a way to get out of a double shift. There's also a message from Shane, delivered by a concerned looking deputy, that she needs to touch base with Rick at home.
Worried about what happened while she was taking care of her day job, she takes a cab to Rick's building. Driving is off the table for a while, even if the doctors don't think she managed a concussion. The worry keeps her mind off her battered body, and all the other uncertainties she has about Rick himself. They're pushing into dangerous territory now. It's not just about protecting Merle and Beth.
The apartment smells heavenly when she steps inside. It's earlier than Rick should be home normally, his shifts running differently than patrol, but he's in the kitchen, scrubbing away at already spotless counters. She frowns, trying to figure out what's going on.
When it isn't about their case, she feels a flicker of anger wash away the worry she felt all the way here. With the worry not keeping the pain at bay, she's aching and resenting the detour from being at home in her bed with the bottle of pain meds she's got in her pocket. The idea that Shane implied she was needed as a favor to Rick halts her rising temper. She can't imagine what the hell is going on.
Rick's voice shakes, just a little, when he states she was shot today, but it's his body language that is more telling. He's gripping the counter's edge like it's the only thing keeping him upright. Telling him that she's perfectly capable of looking after herself seems cruel, but clarifying she's been shot before and handled it solo seems to tip him right over the edge.
When he looks up, all she can see in those clear blue eyes is the same fear she felt earlier, when first one and then a second impact hit her chest like a freight train. The difference is that Rick's fear is not for himself, but for her. He sounds wrecked, like her being shot today terrifies him. She thinks that he's closer to breaking than any person she's ever seen before.
Of all the things for him to say, begging her to stay was not what she expected. It's that second please, when that cultured voice of his breaks completely, that drops a weight right onto the mental scale she's had running ever since she met this confusing, intriguing man. Kissing him? It's like coming home.
There's a heady power to how fast his body responds to hers being pressed against it. As soon as she lets him up for air, he's sliding gentle fingers along the bruising on her face, brushing against the line of tiny sutures. "Shane said you'd been shot," Rick says huskily. "This isn't from a gun."
"Hit my head on the parking block when the bullets hit my vest." Why she raises her shirt so easily to show her bruises, she isn't entirely sure. His touch is so light it almost tickles, not touching the lower impact point, but edging along it hesitantly. That's the one on her ribs, the bruising rippling from the slug's impact point like water after a stone thrown in a pond.
The other is higher. There's less immediate bruising there. Fatty breast tissue doesn't show damage as fast as the thin flesh over the ribs.
Despite the kiss and Rick's physical response, there's nothing amorous as Rick lays fingers next to the upper impact bruise. She's not wearing a bra, because anything tight rubbing directly against her bruised left breast just isn't happening. "He aimed for your heart."
"What better way to make me return fire?" she replies quietly. "Everyone knows we wear vests on patrol, Rick. If he really wanted to kill me, he wouldn't have aimed for center mass."
Those blue eyes are intense as they meet hers, and she knows that look. She's seen it twice before, and his kiss is light and tender, not demanding like hers had been. He's not as in control as the kiss implies, because the hand at her breast shifts, curling to cup the warm weight.
If her mind wasn't already made up that she wasn't running away this time, Rick cements it when he eases back from the kiss at last. "Let me make you feel good," he says huskily. "Please."
Apparently begging is her weakness, because she nods slowly. Her body remembers exactly how good he can make her feel, because heat pools in her groin as she recalls what he did last time. Getting to the bedroom is a slow process of gentle, exploring kisses. He's careful to avoid any pressure where he shouldn't, easing her shirt over her head and frowning when she can't hold back the pained noise.
"I don't want to hurt you," he says, and she thinks he might back off if she doesn't insist. His gaze is on those bruises, and he's probably half right that the movement they're intending isn't going to feel good. But she doesn't want to wait. They've waited, because she's made them wait, and now, it's been long enough.
"You won't." He doesn't step away as she finishes unbuttoning his shirt, letting her slide it off his shoulders to puddle on the floor. She still doesn't have skin access, because he's got an undershirt on. "Off," she demands, going for his belt.
Rick complies, tossing his undershirt even as she gets past his buckle to unhook his slacks and lower his zipper. When he kisses her this time, the texture of his chest hair against her skin is enough to make her not care about her bruises. He presses one hand against the small of her back, drawing her to him.
It isn't the bed she feels as he backs her up, but the warm glass of his bedroom windows. The alarm at the exposure must convey through her body language, because Rick stops kissing her long enough to reach out to flick a switch next to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. Instead of the room being lit by the light of the setting sun, it dims suddenly, the only light now coming from the balcony doors.
"Smart glass," he tells her, smiling even as he kisses her again. She isn't the only one getting someone's pants undone, and her uniform pants being edged down mean it's not just her naked back against the windows. He captures the hand she has down his own pants. "Later."
He drops to his knees, freeing her the rest of the way from her clothes. Amanda really needs the support of the window behind her when he kisses the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee. Part of her wants to let him continue the journey upward, because she can remember exactly what that feels like. The more dominant part of her wants something more.
"Rick." Her hand in his curls halts him, even as clever fingers drift ahead of his exploring lips, making her forget about every ache and pain in her body. She whines when he stops, even though it was her own idea. "I want you."
The man was so intent on being on his knees in front of her that it takes him a minute to register what she's asking of him. "You'll get me, I promise."
Arguing further is beyond her, and it's so close, so fast, that she can't decide if she wants him to stop or bring her to the climax that's hovering around the edges of her senses. Her body decides there's no waiting. She could have died today, but her body is cued to the fact that she didn't, and that there's gentle hands keeping her upright.
Even as she feels too off balance to stand on her own, she is pliant as Rick turns her to face the windows. The view she's admired before is obscured by some magic of technology. The city skyline is still visible to an extent, but it's like there's fog across the buildings now. It shows her own reflection, from her blissed out face to the livid bruises on her torso. He places each of her hands against the glass and kisses her shoulder.
"Hold yourself up for me for just a minute," Rick asks, gaze intent. The reflection doesn't allow her to see the rims of bright blue around his pupils, but she knows they're there. She's seen him this far gone before. With an effort of will, she braces her forearms against the glass.
Behind her, she hears clothing rustle, and flashes of movement in the glass let her see Rick stripping away his slacks and boxer briefs. Part of her wants to turn, to see his beautiful body clearly again, but she doesn't. Pressing himself against her, he begins a slow exploration she can see in the reflection. His gaze is intent on following his hands. Jaw, throat, collarbone, lingering along the curves of her body.
"Now, Rick, dammit. Now." It's not begging, not by a long shot. It's a demand.
He finally complies, and she lets her eyes slide close. When she opens her eyes, the intensity in his expression makes her ache in ways that are centered more in her chest and don't have a thing to do with sex. This isn't just slaking lust, and she feels a flicker of fear that she locks away. Her self-doubt isn't taking this moment from her.
He presses a kiss just under her ear before speaking softly. "Don't let me hurt you." His right hand strokes up her hip, tracing the lines of the tattooed cherry blossoms that spiral up from her hip to curl under her ribs on her uninjured side.
Amanda isn't sure she could feel her injuries right now if she tried, but she manages a hoarse reply. "You won't."
His free hand leaves her side to rest over hers against the glass, lacing his fingers with hers even as his lips return back to that soft, tantalizing spot below her ear. She can see the muscles in the forearm raised to twine with hers are tense with the control he's exerting. As much as he wants her, this is about her pleasure, and she knows it each time she catches the flash of his eyes in the window. She can feel his breath in pants against her skin, and he starts up a litany of telling her how beautiful she is and how good she feels. It lasts through her body exploding through a second climax, and she can't hold herself up anymore. Rick catches her, withdrawing long enough to turn her to face him.
Bemusedly, she wonders if he could bring her to a third climax when he's lifting her up. Wrapping her legs around his slim waist is easy enough, and strong fingers dig into the flesh of her ass and thighs to support her weight. His gaze is focused on her.
It's when she connects how much he watched her in the reflection before. He needs to see that she still wants him this close to her. The intensity is almost too much, and her body is pushing beyond what she's ever managed during sex. That third wave of pleasure is beyond her right now, she thinks, but dragging him into a kiss isn't. "You won't hurt me, Rick. Let go," she whispers into his ear. "I'm alive. Make me feel it."
"Oh, Christ, Amanda." It's his breaking point, pushing him beyond the reminder that she's injured. Or maybe that's part of it, needing to feel that she's alive and well, just like why she threw caution to the wind and kissed him in the kitchen. He isn't gentle now, and with his release his mouth worries at her throat, leaving a new bruise for her collection, but this one, she welcomes.
It takes an effort of will on Rick's part to keep them upright, but he manages somehow. He nuzzles kisses along her throat and jaw, finally claiming her lips as he eases her legs back down. She sways against him, smiling through the kiss. Her ribs ache, but it's a dull throb under the allure of what they just shared.
Rick looks abashed when he finally meets her gaze. "I didn't hurt you?"
She shakes her head. "Far from it." Pressing a kiss against his chest, she laughs tiredly as she feels how sweat slick they both are, and she can still feel the grit and smell the gunpowder of her day at work. "We need a shower."
The gentle exploring caress along her hip ends as he draws back to smile at her. "How about a bath for you? Bet that would feel even better."
Remembering the big unused bathtub, Amanda decides to give in to luxury for once. "Sounds perfect."
He leaves her relaxing in a steaming bath that soothes the day's injuries and adds to the languid pleasure in her body from sex with him, promising the food she distracted him from earlier. Laying in the water, she draws the soft washcloth along her body. Reaching her thighs, she freezes.
In wanting to chase away the lingering anxiety and fear of being shot, she forgot to insist on protection, and the evidence that Rick hadn't used a condom is on her skin, even in the warm water. Swallowing hard, she fights off the momentary panic. It's easy enough to pick up the morning after pill at any pharmacy, and even if she can't use hormonal birth control normally, she knows it should still be effective.
They'll just have to be more careful next time. It'll be okay.
Finding Amanda dozing in the bathtub after he gets the food set out makes Rick lean in to kiss her affectionately, feeling an intense relief when she smiles before playfully swiping a wet hand across his bare shoulder. The warm water is making the bruising bloom further, but she looks too content for him to complain. He suspects she's probably feeling the early stages of the pain meds she took right before getting into the bathtub.
Instead, he enjoys the sight of her fully naked and relaxed under his gaze. He'd glimpsed flashes of her tattoo before, but both times he hadn't had the leisure to figure out what it was, other than something floral. It's actually a slender tree whose branches climb upward to curve under her right breast from her hip, covered in pale pink blossoms. At the base of the tree, there's a delicately inked heron.
"I'm tempted to join you," he tells her, thinking he's going to explore all that ink in detail the first chance he gets. "But your meds say you need to take them with food. You want to eat in the kitchen or in the bedroom?" Hell, if she asked, he'd feed her right here, but he wasn't thinking of her being in the bath when he made supper.
She laughs. "I thought it was supposed to be breakfast in bed."
"We can do that, too, in the morning." Jesus Christ, after finally feeling her heat around him, the only reason he's not trying to coax her into round two right now is they've already pushed their luck enough with her ribs. He could have hurt her so easily at the end when his control failed, and not just her ribs, but he'd been lucky.
Amanda accepts one of his old King County Sheriff's Department t-shirts, the logo covering the exact spot where one of two slugs could have stolen her away if her ballistic vest had failed today. He's been a cop too long to completely trust vests, and if that particular bullet had been a few inches higher, it would have missed the protective gear entirely. A bullet to the throat is almost always fatal, and even junkies get lucky. The collar of the shirt does nothing to hide the mark he'd left at the base of her throat. It's such an immature thing, marking her skin, but he'd remembered the one she left on him and couldn't resist.
"Where is this from?" she asks, after making a happy sound as she takes another bite of chicken piccata. The way she shifts on the barstool flashes long bare legs clad only in an old pair of novelty boxer shorts of Rick's.
Rick motions toward the stove, quirking a half smile at her. "Chef Rick's."
Amanda pauses in gathering the whole wheat pasta on her fork. "You cook?"
"It was something I picked up later in life," he admits. The first few months of realizing he couldn't make much more than eggs and toast for Carl when he was with him had been humbling. "Grandma Jean gave me a bit of an abrupt crash course after the divorce." Along with a lot of life advice he should have listened to earlier.
"You made everything I've eaten here, haven't you?" She is starting to look drowsy again, but this time it's taking on the glassy effect of medication. Half the plate is gone, slowly eaten in the time it took him to finish his food, so he hopes it's enough.
"Probably. Takeout does make it into the fridge from time to time, especially if it's just me home." Whatever she was going to stay in reply is cut off by a huge yawn, which makes her giggle softly. The pain meds are definitely kicking in, and the side effect seems to be making her appear tipsy. "How about we get you tucked into bed?"
Rick tidies her leftovers into the fridge, leaving their plates to wash up later. He is so used to her being almost rudely independent that it's surprising when she slides off the stool to drape her arms around his waist when he circles back to where she's sitting. She pets at his chest absently, and he is glad she probably won't remember his grin about the way she watches her fingers slide through his chest hair. "C'mon, bed's this way."
He actually wishes his hallway wasn't so short, because she's teasing and affectionate, without a trace of the barriers she normally throws up between them even just as friends. She even backs him up against the wall outside his room, petting his chest again and making an idle observation about how the texture changes when her hand reaches his navel. Then the little wretch realizes he's actually ticklish there, and that sets her off to figure out where else he might be sensitive. If her ribs were in better shape, he'd carry her off, but instead he just enjoys her touch.
Getting Amanda tucked in his bed is easy, although she complains when her ribs make using him for a pillow impractical. The meds apparently make her amorous as well as loopy, because she keeps wriggling against him, seeking lazy kisses. Her wandering hands are back, and instead of looking for ticklish spots, now she's deliberately looking for erogenous zones. She laughs softly when he arches under her hand as she tweaks a nipple, but smiles slowly when he slips his arms behind her head to give her free reign to explore.
It's arousing, her curious fingers on his skin, but the urgent need to be inside her isn't there now, sated just enough earlier. When she tugs at the waistband of his boxer briefs, he sheds them obligingly, spreading his thighs to let her continue to map out everything she wants to touch. Finally, he eases the shorts off her slender hips and discovers the third orgasm she couldn't reach earlier is achievable now. If he hadn't been trying to help her do exactly that, how fast she falls asleep might be hard on his ego.
Rick isn't optimistic enough to think she won't run again, so he's going to enjoy having her close for as long as he can. He'd promised himself to let things go and hope the attraction would fade. But after the desperate need to see for himself that she was okay today? Now that he's tasted her again and felt her body slowly yield to his? He knows he's in trouble.
Pressing his lips against her uninjured temple, he whispers the affection she wouldn't accept from him yet if she was awake. Of all the risks he's taken in the last four years, risking his heart for the woman next to him is the most worth it.
A/N: It's cold, yucky, and wet here, typical southern winter weather. Some nice warm smut is great, right?
I just couldn't find a stopping point for the last chapter, and it kept going and going and going... hope you enjoyed!
As always, the full E-rated chapter is on Ao3 under DarkTidings. This chapter actually does lose a wee bit of content that couldn't stay under FFnet rating guidelines important to their relationship, but the information should come up in later chapters.