A/N: Alrighty, what happened is this:
Just4Me said it was impossible to stop thinking about RA/John doing tango after one of my latest five word prompts, Iamje asked for a fic where John would dance because we all know that RA can do it and even was in Cats, and then I saw his photo in a white shirt and those bloody black trousers (oh my ovaries! :D) from the Esquire Magazine photoshoot, and there was a caption there: "You can still see he is a dancer in the way he moves."
How can I stay away from it? :D So it's 3 a.m. and I'm still typing O_o
"Leary, step into my office!" Bloody fuck, that's not good. You don't want to step into Detective Inspector Grey's office, it never yields good results.
You come in and tuck yourself on one of the uncomfortable chairs. He is flipping through something that looks suspiciously like your personal file. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
"So privileged childhood, Leary, and now all of a sudden a police officer. Perfect score in shooting practice, and yet you are pushing papers in the office. How do you explain such contradictions, my dear?"
Well, 'my dear' hopefully means you are not in too much barney. His icy grey eyes are sparkling warm-heartedly, and you smile.
"I've always wanted to be a copper."
"And now you are a lid? That is slightly below your 160 IQ and the best firearms training results in the division. Not enough ambitions?" Yeah, ambitions are no problem. You are ickle and had a back injury, you'll stay a lid till the day some random bomb under your panda car blows you to bits. But it's all in the file, why is he even asking? "You see, my darling, I need an officer with a very specific set of skills, and it seems that you are our best choice. But I need to know you are up for it."
Bloody hell, of course you are up for it! You prim up on the sodding chair, and he smiles, "Do you happen to have a fancy dress, my dear?"
XXX
All you can say about your first, wonderful undercover operation is "fucking sod it". It has three main elements, and each one of them has been substantially covered in your conversations with your psychologist through your lovely privileged adolescent years. You are to dance, and you have stage fright, you are to look sexy, and your self esteem is as high as the deepest of moats around your parents' castle, and yes, they bloody have a castle. You have emancipated from them fourteen years ago, you don't give a fuck. And number three is you are a very patient person, you build relationships well, you are diplomatic, but once in a while you happen to have... let's call it a glitch, and out of two hundred people there will be that one person whom you'd happily end in with a spoon. One doesn't need to be Dr. Freud to recognize a pattern. The persons you happen to be allergic to, as your friend Thea puts it, are usually male, attractive, self-assured and wankers. Cantankerous, narcissistic, chauvinistic wankers. Cue exhibit A. Detective Thorington. Six foot four, a body of a Greek god, not Apollo, more of a Hephaestus, no limp, though you'd love to give him one, elegant hands, and no, you didn't look, and the best "collars" in the divisions. And he is every bit as stubborn and self-centered as they make them somewhere in Wankerville.
He looks good in a white shirt and the bloody perfectly cut trousers. Oh, did you forget to mention that unlike you he is completely comfortable with his ancestry and his family tree that is as old and as big as Bowthorpe Oak? He wears cufflinks at work! Cufflinks! Conceited, puffed up, inconceivable…
"Leary, are you asleep?" His tone is grumpy. And yes, you are going to use this term towards this gorgeous specimen, because that it is exactly what he is, a grump and a grouch! And a tosser! You gulp and check your makeup in the mirror again. "Stop fretting, Leary, you look fine." Fine? Oh you sodding arsehole! It is a bloody Dior, a perfect little black dress, slanted hem, you are even wearing heels, your makeup is all sexy and provocative, your eyes are slowly being dissolved by all this disgusting paint on your lids, mascara makes you feel like your lashes can create turbulence, and for once your daft hair is styled as opposed to your usual braid at the back. You are making an effort here! What an ungrateful fuck.
OK, the plan is simple, it's a tango club, you come in, attract everyone's attention with your passionate dancing, miserably fail, because the only passionate desire you have at the moment is to clobber him to the head with your Jimmy Choo and rush home to wash off the bloody makeup. Oh, and then you apprehend a drug baron and everybody gets a promotion. Easy peasy.
He steps out of the police van and throws his jacket over his shoulder. You climb out, and of course you just had to stumble. He grabs you under your elbow. "Seriously, Leary, what was Grey thinking? Two left feet, and a ginger. A mop handle has more charm than you! You are supposed to be fit and mind-blowing and distract all men there!" He gives you a disdainful look over, and you see red. You want mind-blowing, wanker? You'll get mind-blowing!
XXX
You pretend to be sipping your drinks, you are having a virgin mojito, you can't drink, and his eyes are running around the club. Wanker or not, he is an excellent detective. You hate his guts. And no, you haven't noticed how nice his chest looks in this shirt. Bugger.
He steps on the dance floor, tugging you after him, and you dig your heels into the floor. He turns to no doubt hiss at you, and you lift one brow. We have already started dancing, you tosser. Something changes in his eyes, and he throws your hand aside as if in disgust. And then he twirls and makes a few perfectly measured steps away from you. Damn, these buttocks! Concentrate, Wren! You throw your body ahead, slide along the floor, almost flying, and slam your body into his back, wrapping your arms around his waist. You will think about the magic this created in your fanny when the baron is arrested, you are home and your vibrator's batteries are charged. Damn, you haven't had a proper shag in two years.
He grabs your hands, and you slide your bend leg up his thigh and brush your knee to his arse. My oh my… Later, Wren, later, all thoughts later. He squeezes one of your hands in his and twirls you. You give him three full turns, he said you are not fit! He catches your hand again, and you fall all the way back, fully trusting him with your weight. He doesn't disappoint, he locks your clasped hands and lifts them, pretty much stretching you flush along his body, he is so bloody big! You bend your leg, hike it up on his waist, another one straight, along his, gee, that's an unnatural ratio of legs and torso, and he swirls you one and a half turn, and then straightens up and bends you backwards. Remember the back injury? Well, you can't run for long and can't lift heavy stuff, but this? This you are good at! You do a lot of yoga. Momentarily the world is upside down, and then he jerks you up, your hands lie in his, and you start the sequence of steps. By then the whole club is staring at you.
You do look good together, he is tall, wide, heavy but it's all muscles, damn his muscles, black trousers, white shirt, an exotic ponytail, ebony and silver in his hair, you are a flaming ginger, and also you are livid! One can probably light a cigarette from you! You are fuming! If tango allowed kicking he'd be bent in half holding on to his wedding vegetables. But unfortunately it's not NRW, it's a dance. And damn he is good! At some point he twirls you couple times and then lets go, allowing you pretty much kneel in front of him, he is looming, and you slide your palm over his leg in a pleading submissive gesture, but simultaneously you lick your lips. Did you mention the red lipstick? Yeah… He grabs your hand, as if in disdain, tango is all about acting, and pushes it away, steps back, you rise, and now it is your turn to be the predator. He is retreating, you are prowling towards him. You might be skinny, but the magic of hips is not about a curve, it is about imagining what you are going to do with your prey once you catch it, and you have a very vivid imagination!
One, two, three, he suddenly stops, and slides on the floor on one knee. You immediately turn around, the hunt has lost its charm, and you sense him move, and suddenly one of his massive arms snakes around your middle, and he pulls you flush to his body. He leans in and his lips brush your ear. You are so buzzed that you stopped understanding where your acting stops and where your just being randy starts. He pushes your leg with his from behind, and pretty much start fully controlling your movement, his legs pressed to yours, his arm around your ribcage. You allow a few steps like that, and then try to twist out of his grasp. His other hand lies on your throat, and you submit. By then you are the only pair on the dance floor.
He releases you, and it is time to execute your revenge. Both your tango counterpart needs to establish her independence, and you need to stick it up to him! Not mind-blowing my arse! You continue walking in front of him, as of still allowing him to dictate the steps, and they you pick up speed and now it looks that the last few steps you are making are taking you from him and towards some bloke sitting at a table. You honestly don't even see what he looks like but you concentrate all the heat that accumulated in your body on that one punter, and seriously, is Thorington running a fever? He is scorching! You fix your eyes on the face of the poor chap who deftly chokes on his drink and in one last gliding step you move to his table, arch and place your palms in front of him.
Thorington grabs your elbows and then does that move that is super dangerous, one chick in your dance school actually dislocated a spinal disc doing it. It's when a partner spins you pretty much over his arm. He places his splayed palm on your nape, and then twists his arm over your head, as if trying to snap your neck, turns you and you bend backwards, all your weight supported by his palm between your shoulder blades. You need to do it with a partner you trust and you need a lot of practice.
His palm is scorching, goosebumps run down your spine, and there is this moment when the world freezes and all your can see and feel is Detective John Thorington. He leads your whole body around his arm, your eyes meet for a nanosecond, and you fully relax, submit and accept his surrender, because tango is all about giving and taking, and fighting and letting another one win, and kaboom, your body is arched and his hot hand is your only link to reality.
He then moves, wraps the second one around you, supporting you and helping you to straighten up in a graceful fluid motion, and pulls you into him, all passion and tenderness, all his previous fake anger gone, and you jump up and your knees go on his bent leg, and you nest comfortable on his lap like a bird on a branch while his second leg is straight and stretched in a perfect black line.
The club starts cheering and clapping, and you slide off him, not forgetting to brush your palms over his pectoral muscles. Firstly, according to your legend you are married, secondly, you can indulge yourself just a bit, right?
XXX
Eventually there is still shots fired. A bullet grazes his upper arm, and you knock the goon with the handle of your gun. Good thing the plonker is short. Thorington is sitting on a bench, a medic is bandaging his arm.
"Pity about the shirt, looked good," your teeth are chattering. You are coming down from the adrenaline, it is also nippy, and you are not wearing much, let's face it. They give you a blanket, and you wrap it around your shoulders.
"You did well, Leary," his blue eyes are twinkling with smile, and you make a scornful noise.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Detective." And then he guffaws. Apparently the posh toff can laugh.
"Don't snarl at me, Leary. I just said what needed to be said to get you into the mood. See how well it all worked out?" What a puffed up wanker!
You turn around to leave, when he gently touches your arm.
"Common, Leary, let's have a drink. We have a lot to celebrate."
"I'd rather not," you can't come up with any snarky reply so you just start walking away. You make one step, seriously, one, and he grabs your arm and jerks you back to him. You get your lungs full of air to yell at him about treating a woman like a commodity and manhandling her like a sack of potatoes but he gives you puppy eyes, and you choke on your dignified speech.
"Don't run away, Leary, it's not fair, I can't run after you." Oh, right, he got hit with a pipe under his knee. You twitch your nose, and he pulls you towards him. You are standing between his spread knees, and seriously, is he hiding a furnace under this shirt?
"Wren," you didn't realize he even remembered your first name, "I strongly believe you have more charm than a mop handle, you definitely have one left and one right foot, I love that you are a ginger and you are the most fit woman I have ever met. Please, have a drink with me?" You keep your face cold, while your mind is torn between two possible answers in panic, and then he gives you a lopsided grin. "And I will need help to get out of this shirt. They froze my shoulder." You growl and start walking away.
"Leary, come back!" He yells, and everyone, officers and medics, turns to listen to your exchange. Bugger, bugger, bugger! "Common, we obviously click. No one dances like that the first time! I saw you stare at my chest, it'll be easier to do when the shirt is off!"
You turn around sharply and give him a middle finger. He guffaws. You both know it's not the end, but right now you are going home. You need a bath, and he needs to learn how to talk to a woman.