A/N: Muse took a vacation and was kind enough to take me with her this time around…

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She closed the door behind her and for a moment, for the briefest of moments, considered screaming her head off.

The thought was discarded along with the boots and the overcoat, all of them impractical. The sentiment, however, remained, and she wondered how she'd get rid of the frustration and the restlessness that surrounded her, threatening to engulf her completely. She ended up grabbing one of the frilly throw pillows from the sofa (really, what had her mother been thinking) and screaming into it. The muffled sound gave no relief, but at least she had fed the urge. And that would have to make do for the time being.

She looked at her watch and realized she had little over forty five minutes to get ready and meet Flack and his mysterious companions. Since she had washed her hair earlier that evening at his place, it only needed a quick shower; she had time to spare. Then she remembered that her stupid water heater had seemingly forgotten what the word "automatic" meant, and what its mission in life was. Sighing, she turned the darn thing on, set the timer for 15 minutes, praying water would at least lose its chill before she got into the shower.

Opening a kitchen drawer, she took out an old cigarette pack that seemed to have been around since forever. At the moment, she didn't care how long it had been there, or who had forgotten it in the first place; she was simply grateful to have something to occupy herself in while waiting for her shower. She didn't trust her thoughts at the moment. Lighting up, she stood near the window and watch the shadows dancing outside.

Soon the game of light and darkness playing hide and seek wasn't enough to derail the cacophony of ideas threatening to spill from within, and she gave in. No use in fighting back; sooner or later she'd have to face it all.

But where to start? Nico and his house of pain were not the best of choices, not if she wanted to keep her sanity intact for the remainder of the night. Rick Silva? She shuddered in disgust. The man was playing her, that much she was certain, trading her peace of mind for a corner office and a bigger badge. There had been a time, somewhere where the past became a forgotten notion, that they had shared a true feeling. But that was before the whole Jergens mess exploded in their faces.

It had been so simple, really. He was already working his way into Vice, still a uniform, yes, but he knew what he wanted and he knew what he'd need to do to get it. She was barely out of the Academy, her own uniform so new it still felt stiff around the shoulders. Having just moved out of her parents place, away from the shadow of her brothers, she felt 

daring and able to eat the whole world in just three bites… and free to do so with whomever she pleased, her dates no longer having to suffer the scrutiny of the Angell clan. And the fact that this dashing young man seemed not to give a damn about her family background… she was smitten, he swept her off her feet, and they lived in a world of wine and laughter and poetry and sex. Then Rick had become obsessed with cracking the Jergens case, sure it was IT, the break he needed to make it into Vice as a detective and not a simple officer, and she vowed to help him in any way she could. Any way.

His way had nearly cost Jenn her life. Their relationship and her self-esteem had not been so lucky.

Silva stayed with her, more out of guilt than love, but they had drifted apart soon after she left the hospital. They had stayed friends, sort of… rather, and in all honesty, they had become a comfortable booty call. She was convenient in between his relationships and he… the fact that he was the only man she had trusted to see her naked before today kind of made up for the lack in everything else. Booty call, nothing else.

Which was exactly what he had had in mind when he called her under the ruse of going over her recording from the interview. She should had known better, but she was too distracted to notice the slight changes in his manners that lead him to think she'd willingly go to bed with him. It wasn't until he suggested she left the boots on that she realized what it was all about. To say Silva had paid dearly for all her frustrations with the case would have been an understatement, and he wasn't a happy camper. He tried the low blow route, reminding her no other man would want her, and for the first time Angell wondered how much of his bullshit she'd believed in before…

And that line of thought brought her straight to Flack, and she shuddered at the memory of his hands and his lips and his eyes. Those eyes of him were going to be the death of her, and quite frankly she couldn't care less. His words still rang in her ears, words of devotion, of passion and need, and she was painfully aware of how much she wanted him as well…

She'd met Don Flack, Jr. (don't ever forget the Jr. part) upon her return to work. She had requested to be reinstated as officer in Homicide and in all honesty the brass had been in no position to deny her anything at that point of her life. He noticed the young detective, so new to the job that he still dressed casually in slacks and leather jackets, the very first day she had reported to duty. Not that it was hard to notice him, not with that hair and those eyes and the endless entourage of females that seemed to circle around his desk whenever he was around. She didn't doubt he knew that back then his desk had been nicknamed "the revolving door". His antics were cooler gossip material; his and Messer's, and she had kept her polite distance.

More and more often, however, she got to work under his command, and they soon became regular small-talkers, the weather and the Yankees and the Rangers common topics of conversation during those quiet moments together before busting a suspect or waiting for the CSI's go signal.

The turning point had been a punk, high as a kite, who had stabbed three people and was giving them a hard time at the station as they booked him. The idiot thought that a female hostage was his ticket out, and made a lounge for Angell before Flack or any other agent could do anything about it. Half a minute later, the perp laid on the floor, broken nose and cracked ribs and still wondering what the hell had just happened. Flack had asked the same, and she had just shrugged it off saying her brothers had taught her how to make her way around a street fight, and that had been that.

Or so she thought. Flack had been duly impressed and began to regard her as something more than just a subordinate. He had noticed her sharp observation skills and the way she handled herself during every case, and when the time had come, he put in a word for her. A couple of months later, she had gotten her promotion to detective. The promotion meant they didn't get to work together as often as they used to, but their friendship became stronger every passing day and soon she knew all there was to know about Donald Flack, Jr.

She knew things the higher-ups were unaware of, like the fact that there had been a time when he had taken too much of a liking to bourbon bottles in the middle of the night. She knew things his parents blissfully ignored; like the fact that he had done drugs during his last year of high school or that he had helped paid for the neighbor's abortion, unsure if he was the father, or if his best friend was. She knew things Messer would hopefully never find out, like the fact he had actually fucked Monroe in the evidence room while they both had been pissed at Danny and under the influence of huge amounts of alcohol…

Her thoughts were disturbed by the ringing from the kitchen counter, where the cow-shaped timer danced merrily about, announcing that her time was up. Thankfully, her time to get going was also running out, meaning she'd have to put all thoughts of Flack and his damn eyes away for the time being… and that included wondering why the hell were they meeting at some obscure bar at three in the morning.

Halfway across town, Don Flack Jr. was wondering exactly the same thing, as he cursed for the umpteenth time the instrument of torture he held in his left hand. How the fuck did women manage..? Frustrated, he flung it out of the door and held to the bathroom sink, fuming.

A few moments later, Stella came into the bathroom, holding an eyeliner in her hand.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe this is yours…"

He growled in frustration and embarrassment, fighting the urge to snatch the offending pencil from her hand and pretend nothing had happened. But that would be hard to do, given that he was already decked in leather pants and a black sleeveless shirt so tight it bothered his scar and made his chest hair feel uncomfortably sticky. Stella was bound to notice, in fact, she was pretty much checking out his wardrobe as she waited for his response, a smirk in her face.

"I got the winning ticket in the Vice lotto" he simply said and all traces of merriment left Stella's face.

"What do you need?"

"Frankly? Another two or three years of practice. But since I can't have that, I'll settle for second best. How on earth do you apply this??"

Stella smiled once more.

"Sit down. I'll do it for you just this once and you better pay attention cause I ain't planning on becoming your personal make-up girl…"

Obediently, he sat down on the closed toilet and aha-ed and hmmh-ed quietly, trying to move as little as possible. As much as he trusted Stella, there was a pointy object nearly touching his eye and he wasn't keen on going blind any time soon. By the time she was done with the make-up and the explanation, Flack was sure he'd never do it on his own and his admiration for all the women, and men, out there who did this daily grew a notch or two.

Stella had taken a step back to admire her handiwork and had kept on staring at him, wondering if he had any idea just how handsome he looked right then and there. Don Flack was a manly man, but the eyeliner… a touch of gloss on his lips and he'd be the hottest boy toy she'd ever laid eyes on. Had the circumstances been different, had this happened before Frankie or before his feelings for Angell had deepened… Stella was certain she'd have jumped his bones right then and there.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked, worried at her lack of response.

"No. Nothing's wrong. You just need a touch of gloss, that's all…"

Flack closed his eyes and wondered what on earth that gloss thing was…

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Robert Radford-March was having serious second thoughts about the whole thing as he sipped on his drink. He'd heard enough about this Don Flack to know Bryan had been head over heels, completely smitten with him. Granted, that had been ten years ago, and now Bryan was married to him and yet… it didn't help much that this Flack character looked like a GQ model. The bastard had the audacity to still have a whole head of hair! 

Robert touched the balding spot on the back of his head and poked his somewhat soft belly; he had been out of active duty for many years now, happy to work as a union representative inside the Force. The pay was good, the hours were regular and he had met Brian when he had to defend him when his upper ups decided to fire him on false grounds just to hide the fact that they were firing him for being gay and open about it.

His musings were cut short, however, when the man he had been having second thoughts about materialized next to the table he and Brian were sitting at. He wasn't alone, and Robert felt a guilty pang of joy when he saw the stunning brunette standing next to Flack. And was he wearing makeup?

"Wow… baby, the gay have left the building..."

"Very funny Bry, very funny. Jenn, this is Bryan March and his husband, Robert"

As they exchanged pleasantries, Robert had to admit that he couldn't hold a grudge against the younger detective. In one simple gesture, he had acknowledged their relationship and paid his respects to the bond that joined him and Bryan. A fine man he was, just as Bryan had told him he was. But Bryan had told them they were there to help by observing the other couple interact, and watching he was. And the sexual tension between those two could be cut with a knife. In any other circumstances, he'd be secretly giddy with joy, God bless his matchmaking soul, but for the time being, the fact that they harbored feelings for each other was dangerous.

Deadly dangerous.

Bryan March was aware of it as well, the discreet hand squeeze from Robert unnecessary. But he knew Flack well enough to know he could talk until his face was blue, and the stubborn son of a bitch would deny it forever. With Flack, you had to demonstrate or you lost the argument before you had said the first word. So demonstrate he would, in due time. Bryan had been asking around, and this Nico guy was one bad motherfucker, the kind of bad motherfucker you don't get to mess with and live to tell the tale. And Bryan wanted Flack around for another decade or two, if only to bugger him with memories of his gay days.

"So… you guys dating or something?"



The expression on their faces, albeit brief, was good enough answer for him. Not dating, certainly not fucking, yet, but dying to do so. But there was something deeper in there, and Bryan wondered if Flack had fallen in love with his partner. As for this Angell gal… she wasn't a smitten teen with starry eyes, that was for sure, but she bear the unmistakable look of a woman on the verge of something… something that might be bigger than herself. And it scared her.

Well, that and the fact than in less than 24 hours she'd have to hand in the man she loved to a sadistic psycho and pretend to be ecstatic about it.

"What's the plan?" Robert asked, trying to bring the attention back to more pressing matters. "How do you want to play this?"

Flack quickly outlined their game plan: they had met at Ollie's to test his "gay factor" and then they'd move to "The Oyster's Cult", an underground sado bar, to give their mistress-slave act a trial run. Bryan and Robert nodded in understanding; their job was to be brutal judges, and they were set on helping the other two detectives out inasmuch as they could.

"Okay, Donnie, so here's your first test…"

And before Flack had a chance to ask what Bryan had in mind, the other man quickly pulled Jenn into his lap and kissed her, hard. She gave out a surprised yelp, but quickly recovered and played along. When Bryan released her, Flack exploded.

"What the fuck was that all about, March? You're supposed to be testing me, not trying out your straight fantasies!"

"I was testing you, and you failed miserably" Green eyes flashed, coldly.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Confusion mixed with anger.

"Do you honestly think this Nico guy is going to keep his paws off her? If Robert and I can see how smoking hot she is, do you think he's not going to take notice and want a piece of her ass? If you ask me, he's already helped himself to a taste or two…"

Jenn flushed, letting them all know that Bryan had hit the nail right on the head. Flack decided he'd question her about it later, when it was just the two of them, for he was certain she had not told him everything about her first meeting with Nico. Right now, he was adamant in knowing how he'd failed the so-called test.

Robert broke in. "What Bryan wants you to realize is that, while you're playing your role, you can't react to what happens to her…"

"So if the bastard feels like raping her I just have to stand there and watch? Is that what you mean?"

"Would you please get in that stubborn straight head of yours that you simply can't show that you care for her? She's your mistress and you're gay, dammit!"

Bryan's hand banging on the table was loud enough to garner the attention of the nearby patrons, and he made an effort to bring his voice down.

"Don… I want to have you both over for dinner sometime in the near future. I want to see her make an honest man out of you. Heck, we'd love to be your firstborn's godparents if you ask us… but that will never happen if you die at the hands of a miserable piece of shit just because you can't hide you're so fuckingly straightly in love with her!"

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A/N: Wonder how Flack plans to answer that last one…