A/N: You can't always get what you want…

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Rick Silva was a man used to get what he wanted, when he wanted. And at the moment, of the three things he wanted, he was getting none.

And that didn't please him in the least.

Take Agnetti, for example. Instead of listening to him, he had been paying attention to the moanings of Captain Patterson. There had been a few times in the past few days that Silva regretted having brought Homicide into the mix, although it was necessary for things to work the way he wanted them to work. So he suffered the old fool in silence; after all, what the soon-to-be-retired Chief didn't know couldn't possible hurt either one of them. So Silva nodded and then did as he saw fit.

Then there was Jennifer. Rick couldn't understand what the hell had gotten into her. He knew for a fact that she was only getting some from him. And he kept his visits carefully spaced so she'd be more than willing to accept his advances. It wasn't like her to turn him down, let alone give him hell for wanting some nooky. Perhaps she was in her so-called "days"? Why do women transformed into royal bitches once a month?

The other matter in his mind could be solved with a simple phone call; phone call he was reluctant to make, but knew he'd have to do it sooner or later. But first, he'd have to clear a few points with Ms. Angell. Who was calling the shots, for starters.

A small part of him, a REALLY small part of him, felt bad about what had happened. She was a good kid, and hardly deserved what Jergens had done to her. Rick had considered himself lucky; all five of the Angell males had paid him a visit, separately, and he had lived to tell the tale with nothing worse than a bloody nose. He had even been magnanimous enough as not to press charges against Mick for it.

But where the hell was she? She wasn't answering his calls, and she hadn't been home. She hadn't been at any of her regular water holes, and he had already checked the two dinners she favored. He'd gone as far as paying a visit, a highly satisfying visit at that, to Lady Alexa and still no signs of her. He finally gave up, and headed for Flack's place. It had cost him a couple of favors to get it, as no one in Homicide was too willing to cough it up, but there's always someone willing to take a couple of bucks in exchange for information.

He rang the doorbell twice, with no response. He frowned; the department car was parked outside and the doorman had said that he was home. Impatiently, he began pounding on the door.

The door opened somewhat violently, and Silva came face to face with a very pissed off Donald Flack Jr. Taking one look at him, Silva decided that the man in front of him was suffering an acute case of doorbellus coitus interruptus and was far from happy with the person responsible for it. He decided to state his case and leave as fast as possible; it wouldn't help his case to have one of the major players mad at him.

"Sorry to bother you so early Flack, but I can't seem to get a hold on Angell and I was wondering if you knew where I could…"

Silva didn't finish his sentence. Standing behind Flack, clad in what could only be a very expensive silk pajama, was Jennifer Angell. What the fuck was she doing there so early in the morning?

"What is it Rick?"

Her tone wasn't pleasant. Her whole attitude was hostile. How dare she give HIM attitude?

"I've been calling you for hours. I thought we had agreed that you'd check in with me on a regular basis. I thought you understood this was a delicate assignment…"

"I KNOW, Rick. I'm fine, as you can see. I don't need a baby sitter, and I don't appreciate you barging in here. I thought WE had agreed that I needed my focus on the case…"

"It doesn't look as if you're focusing hard enough…"

Silva regretted having said the words the moment they left his mouth. Or perhaps it was the moment he felt Flack's arm pinning him hard against the door frame.

"You son of a bitch!" growled the blue-eyed detective.

"Don…"

It was just one word, barely one syllable, but it held a ton of meaning. Reluctantly, Flack let go of the Vice detective and turned to look at her. Silva could SWEAR a whole conversation was taking place right in front of him, except there were no words used in it. When the hell had those two developed such rapport?

"Rick, if you have something to inform us about the case, by all means do it, and do it quickly, cause we have slept for barely 3 hours, and we have to be at the Oyster's Cult in less than eight, and I'd really, REALLY love to get back to bed NOW. If what you have to say is not related to the case, well… I'm sure it can wait until this whole thing is over…"



Silva opened his mouth to retort, but thought it better when he saw Flack closing in on him again.

"Just wanted to check if you were keeping up your side of the bargain. I'm trusting you are. Wouldn't want to have a repeat of Jergens, would you, babe?"

And before either one of the Homicide detectives had a chance to reply, he was gone.

Flack closed the door behind him, carefully bolting it before turning back to Angell.

"Anything I need to know?"

"There used to be something, but not anymore. At least, not on my side."

"Am I right in believing he just threatened you?"

"Nothing that can't be handled. Don't worry about him…"

"I worry about you…"

"Then there's no need to worry at all"

Jenn turned around and headed back to the bedroom, wanting to put an end to the conversation, which she knew where it was headed: Nico.



But Flack was not going to let it slide. In two strides he was at her side, his hands on her shoulder, turning her to face him. Her slight grimace as he did so did not go unnoticed.

"Jenn?"

"It's okay"

If she had said anything else, he might have dropped it. But her negative only fueled his determination. Before she had a chance to protest, he pulled down the pajama top. Flack was taken aback by the depth of the bruises on her shoulders. What had been barely visible just twenty-four hours ago was now a whole array of purples, blacks and yellows.

"Like hell it is okay! It is everything but okay! What the fuck did he do to you, Jenn?"

She closed her eyes. She knew she couldn't avoid the conversation anymore, not after she had been on his case to open up about his own feelings.

"Nico likes handling people a bit on the rough side… he just grabbed me by the shoulders with a little less finesse than I'm used to, that's all."

Flack wasn't buying it.

"Turn around"

"Flack…"

"I said turn around"

Knowing this was a lost battle, she did as she ordered. She cringed a bit when she heard his gasp and muttered swears. It didn't hurt THAT bad, but, then again, she had been chewing pain killers like tic tacs for the past 48 hours. She had assumed she'd bruise, but never, in her wildest dreams had she expected she'd have to show them to Flack.

Flack was at a loss for words, his eyes darting from one bruise to the other. What kind of animal would dare to that to another human being? He could count the eight finger marks, four on each shoulder, he could see the long straight lines that crossed her lower back… riding crop came to mind. And finally, the thin lines that crossed her torso from side to side. He'd seen enough torture paraphernalia to know only a whip, a nine-o-tails whip, could be responsible for such marks.

He ran his fingertip gently along the bruised skin and saw her flinch slightly.

"You call this "handling"? He whipped you, for Christ sake! Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I knew you'd be upset and I didn't want you to worry…"

"Upset? UPSET? I want to kill the motherfucker with my bare hands!"

"Which is exactly why I didn't tell you before! Seriously, Flack, they look a lot worse than they hurt, really…"

Flack lost his patience then. Grabbing her by the upper arms he turned her around and pulled her closer until he was literally on her face.

"I don't give a shit if you think they look better or worse! Bottom line is, that animal dared touch you, to hurt you… and that ain't fucking sitting right with me! But you know what's worse? That they seem to sit right by you! Are you outta your fucking mind?? Where is the strong independent woman I know and when did she get replaced by this pathetic vict…"

He was so angry that he didn't see her punch coming. Not until he felt her hands shoving him backwards and her fist connect with his jaw.

"Shut up! How dare you judge me like that?? One more word and I swear to God I'm going to kick your ass!"

Flack rubbed his jaw as it stung like hell. But it was worth it...

"Glad to have you back, Angell. I was kinda getting tired of the toned-down, water-colored version of yourself…"

He stopped short when he saw the heel of her right foot barely an inch away from his nose.

"Don't push your luck, Don. I'll break your nose, so help me God, I will, if you don't shut the fuck up right this moment…"

As if he needed any more fueling…

Grabbing the extended leg, Flack twisted it to the side, making her loose her balance and land hard on her naked back with an audible curse and a grimace of pain. Flack was kneeling by her side in two seconds.

"I'm sorry Jenn, I'm sorry… I'm such an idiot…"

"You ARE an idiot… gawd fuck it hurts!"

He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the bed, gently placing her face down and inspected the damage. The welts had acquired an angry red coloring, and one of them had opened and was bleeding slightly.

"Wait here… I'll get something…"

He hurried to the bathroom where he got a clean washcloth. Rummaging through his medicine cabinet, he found the ointment his mother used to buy to patch him up after his high school hockey games. He had kept on buying the stuff himself, as it did wonders on bloodied knuckles and messed noses.

Coming back into the bedroom, he sat gently next to her and began washing her back.

"You didn't have these checked, did you?"

"I hadn't had time to worry about it… besides; I can't quite reach some of them"

"You shoulda told me, Jenn… I would have taken care of them"

"It would have opened a rather unpleasant can of worms…"

"Well, the can's already opened, so…"

She understood what he was trying to tell her. Too tired to pick up a fight, she closed her eyes and sighing, told him about what Nico had done to her the previous night.

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Meanwhile, downstairs, Rick Silva was also nursing an injury himself. By the time he'd reached his car his frustration was beyond boiling point. He kicked the tires, hard, but it did nothing to appease him; then he slapped the car's roof, but that hadn't helped either. Finally, he whirled around and threw a punch at the wall behind him. And another, and another, until he felt one of his knuckles crack and saw the blood soaking his shirt's cuff. Grabbing the first aid kit form the trunk, he patched himself up as best as he could, and then sat at the driver's seat, fuming.

How dare she? How could she be fucking Flack and turning him down? He was so much better than the Irish bastard! Besides, it had been HIM, not Flack, at her side during her worst moments… didn't that mean a thing to her? Where was her loyalty?

The lying bitch had told him she loved him! Granted, she had not said it in a while, and he had never said it, but it wasn't about him, but her, and if she had said it she had to remain true to her words. He was the one calling the shots, not her, and he'd show her. He'd truly show her!

Grabbing his phone, he made the phone call he had been putting off all day long.

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After Angell had finally fallen into a troubled sleep, Flack lay awake, trying to come to terms with what she had told him. There had been times in the last 10 years that he had felt like taking justice into his own hands; his finger having faltered on the trigger of his service gun at least twice. Twice as well he had ordered the guarding officers to step outside while he had a "talk" with the suspect in custody, all the while rolling his sleeves up. And he was certain that if Frankie hadn't been DOA, he would have finished him off and Mac had better not gotten into his way.

But he'd never experienced the kind of blind fury he was experiencing now, a rage so primal that it hung to his skin and cursed his veins and he knew, he KNEW, that if push came to shove he'd forget he carried a badge and had sworn to uphold the law. Quite simply, if Nico Barbeito ever gave him the chance, Flack would kill him, consequences be damned. He'd probably enjoy it, too.

Flack had been raised to behave like a gentleman and he had never laid a finger on a woman with the intent to hurt her. He had never understood how a man could beat his wife simply because he didn't like the way the soup she'd made him tasted. But a man like Nico? Flack wouldn't even PRETEND to understand. How could a man grab a perfect stranger by the shoulders, force her to kneel and keep her there as she fellated two other men at gunpoint?

Nico had demanded Jenn to demonstrate her whipping technique and, having found it not to his liking, had taken into himself showing her how it was done. He has used her as demonstrating subject, claiming things learned the hard way were things you were less likely to forget.

And then there was the whole issue with the knife. Flack shuddered, thinking what had gone through her head, having being carved herself by a psycho, when she realized she was expected to become the carver, having Nico breathing down her neck the whole time, asking if she needed "a lesson". He could only imagine the terror when the bastard had, as a joke, strapped her down on a mechanical contraption, his "raping machine", just so she could experience what their victims went through, and rejoice in that feeling.

Flack made up his mind. Nico Barbeito would not set foot in jail. He'd go into Headquarters feet first, and Flack felt sorry for Sid. He'd have his work cut up for him, pun very much intended.

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A/N: If push came to shove… think Flack has it in him?