A/N: Time to leather up…

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"Shit!"

Don Flack Jr. stopped in his tracks outside the locker room. It sounded as if…

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

He had been right the first time around. Jennifer Angell was inside that locker room, and she wasn't happy at all by the sound of it. He decided to enter and see what was going on when he was nearly run down by Garcia, who was trying to get away from the same room as quickly as possible.

"Wouldn't go in there if I were you, buddy. She's going to want to kick some serious ass as soon as she gets up…"

Garcia's comment only served to inflame his curiosity even more. What the hell had happened in there? Flack got inside the locker room, not without certain trepidation, only to find Angell lying on the floor between the lockers and the bench. He took a step forward and then it hit him. The smell of leather made his nostrils flare, as well as other parts of his body. His keen eyesight soon found the source of the smell: it was coming from her; from the vest that barely covered her breasts and the slick pants that looked as if they'd been painted on her. He found himself biting his lower lip to suppress a growl that came from within a dark part of him he wasn't sure he knew existed before that moment. He took another step towards her, more hesitatingly this time around, unsure of both her reaction and his.

"Sleeping on the clock, huh?"

"Funny, Flack. Really funny. You're fucking hilarious."

"What happened?"

"Vice happened. The fucking morons expect me to walk in THIS…" Angell lifted one leg to show him a thigh high leather boot with 6 inch stiletto heels. "I can't even stand up, let alone walk…" He tried to suppress a smirk. "Go ahead, laugh. Just remember that I can kick your ass if I feel like it… help me out, dammit!"

Trying to keep a straight face, he reached out for her hands, which she batted away.

"No, no! Don't get me up. Get them off!" she said, shaking her legs as if trying to get rid of the offending footwear.

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he squatted and tried to yank the right one off.

"Ouch! Careful, dummy, my feet is in there!"

Flack shook his head in disbelief. Women! He'd never understand how they could go about suffering the way they did to look good. Not that he didn't appreciate the effort; he'd be the fist to agree he was a sucker for legs that seemed to go on forever when standing atop high heels. Still shaking his head in disbelief, he lowered both zippers and took the boots off.

Sighing with relief, Angell got up and sat on the bench. Throwing a hateful look at the boots, she grabbed them and tried putting them on once again, muttering under her breath something about how she was not going to let some stupid footwear from hell get the best out of her. Flack, still squatting, silently observed as she battled her legs into the tight fitting leather.

"Here, let me" he said after a while.

Positioning himself in front of her, he proceeded to adjust the boot and zip it up. She wiggled her toes inside and settled her foot in a more comfortable position.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded and he moved on to the boot on her left leg. This time around, his actions were slower. He took in the fact that the stiletto heels were steel reinforced, that the sole was indeed a cleverly disguised platform. He noticed how the leather stretched just enough to cover the calf, and he pulled the zipper up in an almost slow-motion fashion, marveling at how it forced the material to mold over her body. His right hand followed the trail his left one did as the metal rose in place and his gaze followed them both close behind. It wasn't until he reached the end of the boot, almost mid thigh, that his eyes looked elsewhere. And for the second time that day, Don Flack had to bite his lower lip.

The leather pants she was wearing were cut low, low enough to show her belly button, and Flack had to wonder if the silver ring in the piercing had always been there or if it was part of the ruse. It had actually been the zipper that got his attention, but not the small one below the press-on bottom at the waist. There was another zipper, smaller in width, running from the front to the back. For a brief moment, his Catholic upbringing had him perplexing about the usefulness of a zipper covering the crotch area. His hot blooded male side provided the answer. His gentleman ways tried hard to avert his gaze (he was openly staring at Angell's crotch, for God's sake!) but his bad cop instincts urged him to find out what was underneath the metal teeth.

His subconscious beat him to the punch line, and before he realized it his right hand was resting on her left thigh and not on the boot. The softness of the material made it all too easy for him to slide it downwards… and that's when he felt the sole and heel of her right boot firmly planted square on his chest.

"If you've gotten over your shoe fetish, I'd like to finish getting ready…"

Her voice harshly snapped him back into reality. "I don't have a shoe fetish. I don't have any kind of fetish… at all" he denied vehemently as he stood up and pulled her up with him.

"Could have fooled me…" she muttered softly as she tried her newfound balance.

"…Could have fooled myself…" he thought, wondering what the hell had just happened. He was a pretty straight laced guy with simple tastes. His mind fleetingly flew back to the last argument he had had with Devon before she "traded him in" for a new model: she had accused him of being boring and lacking a sense of adventure, mainly because he had refused to have sex in the back of his car while parked in the underground HQ parking lot. He hadn't had backseat sex since his days in high school, and wasn't planning on going back to them any time soon, not after discovering the joys of open spaces and comfortable surfaces and parent-explanation-free living arrangements. And if that made him boring, well, so be it.

He knew there were quirks and quacks for every taste out there. You can't work the streets of New York for nearly a decade and not know about them, and he'd seen his share of weird stuff out there, from transvestites to transsexuals to bondage gone wrong… he'd even been called on scene more than once when someone had taken autoerotic asphyxiation with a tad too much gusto. Sex did well in New York, as there would always be a customer for whatever it was that was on sale; something for everyone.

Except him. Until now. Now he didn't know what to think.

"So… what do you think?"

Her voice once more broke his train of thought and for a moment or two, he was almost certain she was asking about his reactions to her leather outfit. Unfortunately for him, she was indeed asking about the outfit and, even worse, she was getting a reaction from him. Reaction he wasn't sure he felt like sharing just then, so he shoved his hands into his pockets in an effort to disguise his already uncomfortable erection and to keep his hands from wanting to touch.

Angell, seemingly oblivious to it all, was happily parading around, twirling in a long leather coat and trying some crazy dance moves in her impossibly high heels.

"Ever since I saw "Matrix" I've wanted one of these babies" she purred, stroking the leather coat, "but I could never bring myself to chip out two hundred bucks that… Flack? You okay?"

Her voice full of concern, she took a step towards him, ad he unconsciously took a step back. She noticed it and stopped walking and he mentally cursed himself for his weakness.

"Okay… that's it. What's gotten into you today? Have I done something to piss you off or you just came in here with a bee under your bonnet?"

Flack considered for a moment if he should be truthful or try to get away with a not-so-white lie. In the end, he opted for the former, as he was sure she'd bust the latter.

"I'm sorry, Angell…it's not something you've done…"

"Then what is it?"

"I… well…aww shit… dammit Jenn, you look good!"

She seemed taken aback for a moment or two. "Well... uh... thanks… but…"

"Hell, woman, you don't get it, do you? When you say you look good I mean that you look real good…"

She at least had the grace of blushing, but she still didn't see the connection between looking good and having him acting weird. This was Don Flack, after all, and he had game, whether he liked to admit it or not. Flirting for him was as natural as breathing or eating.

"That's very sweet of you, Don, but… so what?"

He lost it just then. If she was going to be so stupidly naïve about it, there was no way in hell he was going to let her work this case, Vice be damned. Throwing all caution to the wind, he walked right up to her and caught her by the hips, pulling her closer. She let out a small yelp of surprise, and looked at him in the face; their height difference barely a couple of inches now that she was wearing such high heels.

"You look too damn fuckable for your own good" he growled almost in her ear and Angell felt a heat of wave washing all over her. "And I don't think I can trust myself around you just now, if you know what I mean…"

He pulled her even closer against him, and there was no way she wouldn't understand what his body was so plainly saying. She felt her cheeks burn red and her knees go weak and although she opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind not a single word came out. Instead, she had to fight the urge of leaning in and kissing him.

He was having the same problem and who knew what might just have happened later if Adam hadn't burst into the locker room looking for them.

"The dudes from Vice are back! And they seem to have assaulted every single adult shop in the city!"

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A/N: I know. Not too dark and not much of a cliffie. But I'm truing to keep things as light as possible while I still can!