Emily (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-08-14 05:37 pm
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-08-14 05:37 pm
Flack/Angela - Contact
please don't ask me where this came from. please don't. because i'm not even sure i know.
Title: Contact
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iluvroadrunner6
Rating: FRAO just in case
Pairing: Don Flack/Angela Watson
Prompt: N/A
Content Warning: Sex. Not necessarily graphic, but it is sex. And spoilers for "Charge of this Post"
Summary:After all, all fairy tales have to end, and it’s just not always happily ever after.
Author's Note: Angie was on screen for all of ten minutes, so anything in her backstory I came up with. Also, I noticed that any time Flack referred to her by her name in that scene, it was Angie, which to me, seems a unformal and somewhat personal, hence, the backstory.
Disclaimer: I don't own Flack or Angie. They're owned by CBS.
She noticed him as she walked into the bar. It was kind of hard not to. He, for one, was probably the only man in the room who didn’t have fifty tattoos, twenty-five piercings, and actually gave enough of a shit about his hygiene to actually take a shower every once in a while. He was clean, he was good-looking, and he was a cop. Definitely didn’t belong here.
Angie had grown up around cops. Practically every man in her family had gotten into trouble with the cops in one point or another. And apparently, despite the fact that she was a girl, she was no exception. She had managed to get herself collared, and she had had various cops and lawyers come to her, taking from her, and giving her nothing back in return. It had happened so often that she had come to expect it, and she was skeptical of anything and everything.
Until Flack had been the one sitting across the table from her. She complimented him on his eyes, and he flirted back. He worked her over, and made her promises Angie knew he was never going to keep. He said he’d work something out, the same old lines she heard every single damn time, and she had just given up. She was too sick of it to be stubborn, too sick of it to be a smart-ass. She just wanted him out of her face. So she told him what he needed to know, and expected never to hear from him again.
Only two weeks later, she was out on probation, cleaning up Central Park and doing community service with a parole officer breathing down her neck. Not the most glamorous of options, but at least she wasn’t back in her cell with Baby G. The damn woman was insatiable it seemed like. And Angie had unwillingly been submitted to being her bitch. Because she didn’t want any trouble.
She slid up onto the stool next to him, and whether he noticed her at first she didn’t know. The bartender did though. “What can I get ya, sweetheart?” he asked, heading in her direction.
“Whatever he’s got looks good,” she replied, nodding over to the man sitting next to her. Flack had had a few glasses of whiskey already, but he hadn’t even touched the last one he was handed. He was just staring at it, watching the alcohol swirl in the glass. He was clearly lost in thought, so she decided to speak up, “Don’t cops usually have their own bar?”
He turned and looked at her, those gorgeous eyes of his fogged over from the alcohol. At first it seemed like he didn’t recognize her, but after a moment, he spoke softly, “You got out.”
“Yeah, I did,” she sighed, taking a sip of the whiskey that the bartender handed her, “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah, we do,” he replied, letting her know that he was sober enough to remember things and not be tripping all over himself, but drunk enough to slur his words and trip over his speech, “But I didn’t feel like drinking with people I know.”
He picked up the glass in front of him, as though to take a sip, but stopped. Hesitated with the rim of the glass hovering just at the level of his lips. Then he put the glass back down on the bar and resumed staring at the swirling liquid inside. Angie frowned. Where was the confidence? Where was the stronger man she had seen interrogating her?
What happened to him?
“C’mon,” she sighed, taking his arm and dragging her off the stool, “Let’s get you some air.”
“Put his drinks on my tab,” she whispered to the bartender as she led Flack out the backdoor. The musky New York City air hit them both, and Flack leaned against the brick wall of the alleyway, watching her as she stood in front of him. “I know I’m not exactly the person that should be asking this, but are you alright?”
He looked at her blankly for a second before shaking his head no. He didn’t want pity or sympathy. She hadn’t the faintest idea in hell what he did want, but she knew that those two definitely weren’t it. He wasn’t the type who would want someone’s pity. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, and he just stared at her for a second.
“Why?”
“You got me out,” she replied, “I owe you.”
“I helped you for helping me,” he sighed, “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I don’t feel like we’re even,” she replied, “Look, let’s get you home, alright? Can you remember your address?” He nodded slowly, and she walked over to the curb to hail a cab.
***
She walked him up to his apartment, and watched him as he fumbled with his keys, but he hesitated again. He turned to her, watching her as she stood there, playing with her hair.
“Why are you still here?” he asked. She shrugged aimlessly, not quite sure herself. Walking him up to the door seemed like the thing to do. She had never been the designated friend before, she had always been the drunk one. Inwardly, she wanted to get some more answers on what happened to him between the time he had visited her in prison to now, at the point where they were.
“You can go,” he replied, nodding toward the door, “You don’t have to baby-sit me.”
“You look like you need it,” she replied.
“I don’t,” he said, a flash of anger appearing in those blue eyes, “I wish everyone would stop worrying about me. I’m fucking fine.”
“Funny,” she whispered, “Twenty minutes ago, you told me you weren’t.” Angie wasn’t about to take bullshit from him. She wasn’t about to sugarcoat anything or baby him. She was going to call ‘em as she saw ‘em until he proved that she should do otherwise. Just like he would probably do with her.
“Why did you sit down next to me in that bar?” he asked, staring at the door instead of her, finding something entirely more interesting on his keychain in order to distract him from her.
“I don’t know,” she replied, “I just felt like I should do something.”
“So you did,” he stated, “Now go.”
“Why?” she asked, “You don’t want me to.”
His eyes squeezed closed, his body tensed, “Angie—” he began, before turning around to face her.
“Really want me to go, I’ll take off,” she replied, starting to walk past him, but he stopped her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back to him pinning her between the door and his body. “See?” she grinned, “Thought you didn’t want me to leave.” At that he kissed her, rough and hard just like she remembered. It’d been so long since any guy, let alone him, and touched her in this way, and she would rather it be him right now than anyone else. His tongue danced with her own, pulling her against him with one hand, while finishing unlocking the door with the other.
What they had had, once upon a time, was like something out of a fairy tale. They had both been young idiots who couldn’t get enough of each other, but they were both going in completely different directions. After all, all fairy tales have to end, and it’s just not always happily ever after. She was a mutt from the wrong side of the tracks, and he was a cop’s kid. Where the hell was this going to go?
Didn’t mean she wasn’t at least interested in seeing him when he came to interrogate him. Usually, the person she was talking to would call her Watson, or Miss Watson. Never by her name. But with him, every time it was Angie. Not even Angela. Angie. Something familiar, something she could cling to. And she was prepared to do the same for him. Give him something to hold on to.
“Don,” her voice came in a hoarse murmur in his ear as her back hit the couch, his lips tasting a salty trail down towards the hollow of her collarbone. Somewhere along the way they had both lost their shirts, and his hands now slid up her torso, slightly cupping one breast through the material of her bra, while the other slid around back to unhook it.
While he was distracted with that, she noticed the scars that crossed his torso. Dark lines marring his soft skin, that weren’t there all those years ago. She looked up at him concern in her eyes, and he shook his head. “Don’t ask,” he whispered, “Just don’t.” His swollen lips returned to hers, and hands started to wander, explore, find those points in each other that they had known like the back of their hand so many years ago. Her hands landed on the waistband of his jeans, and as she went to undo it, he stopped her.
“No,” he shook his head, hand on her wrist, “Not here.” She knew he would rather this be elsewhere. Rather them at least attempt to make it to his bedroom. But she didn’t want to do that. Because if she made it in there, she knew she’d never leave. And her leaving needed to happen.
“Yes,” she nodded, eyes meeting his with conviction, “Here.” She used her free hand to pull him back down into a kiss again, and he resigned in defeat. He released her wrist and they both made quick work of the other’s clothing. Then suddenly he was the one on his back, and she was straddling him, long black hair flowing over her body as she held herself above him. She noticed the look of recognition that was passing through his eyes, but at the same time knew it wasn’t for her. “Remind you of someone, Detective?” she asked, hovering slightly over his hard member, his hands balanced on her hips, able to pull her down on top of him, impale her on him, but not doing so. Letting her be in control, because at that exact moment, control was the last thing he wanted have, and he trusted Angie enough to know that she wasn’t going to kill him in his sleep.
“No one you know,” he murmured, before sitting up slightly and letting her meet him halfway for another kiss. With a roll of her hips, he was inside her, and the gasp he admitted from the sudden wet heat enveloping his sensitive flesh allowed her to take the kiss further moving her hips in time with the thrust of his tongue, sweaty bodies tangled in what seemed like a never ending dance of pleasure and passion, until they both gave in to their release, Angie grinding her hips down onto him as his bucked up into her, and then having them collapse onto each other, bodies exhausted and throbbing from their late night escapade.
She finally pulled herself off him, untangling herself from him, and then starting to pull her clothes back on. He watched her, confused for a second, before speaking up, “Angie, you don’t have to leave.”
“You know I’m not the one you want,” she whispered, “Besides, that’s not how we roll.” She gave him one last soft kiss, before pulling her shirt over her head and heading out the door. He watched her leave, watching the silhouette walk out on him, reminding him of another raven haired beauty, the one who’s name wasn’t Angela Watson, the one who’s name was the one coming off his lips only a few minutes earlier. The one who wasn’t ever going to come back to him.
Because not all fairy tales are supposed to have happy endings.
Title: Contact
Author:
iluvroadrunner6Rating: FRAO just in case
Pairing: Don Flack/Angela Watson
Prompt: N/A
Content Warning: Sex. Not necessarily graphic, but it is sex. And spoilers for "Charge of this Post"
Summary:After all, all fairy tales have to end, and it’s just not always happily ever after.
Author's Note: Angie was on screen for all of ten minutes, so anything in her backstory I came up with. Also, I noticed that any time Flack referred to her by her name in that scene, it was Angie, which to me, seems a unformal and somewhat personal, hence, the backstory.
Disclaimer: I don't own Flack or Angie. They're owned by CBS.
She noticed him as she walked into the bar. It was kind of hard not to. He, for one, was probably the only man in the room who didn’t have fifty tattoos, twenty-five piercings, and actually gave enough of a shit about his hygiene to actually take a shower every once in a while. He was clean, he was good-looking, and he was a cop. Definitely didn’t belong here.
Angie had grown up around cops. Practically every man in her family had gotten into trouble with the cops in one point or another. And apparently, despite the fact that she was a girl, she was no exception. She had managed to get herself collared, and she had had various cops and lawyers come to her, taking from her, and giving her nothing back in return. It had happened so often that she had come to expect it, and she was skeptical of anything and everything.
Until Flack had been the one sitting across the table from her. She complimented him on his eyes, and he flirted back. He worked her over, and made her promises Angie knew he was never going to keep. He said he’d work something out, the same old lines she heard every single damn time, and she had just given up. She was too sick of it to be stubborn, too sick of it to be a smart-ass. She just wanted him out of her face. So she told him what he needed to know, and expected never to hear from him again.
Only two weeks later, she was out on probation, cleaning up Central Park and doing community service with a parole officer breathing down her neck. Not the most glamorous of options, but at least she wasn’t back in her cell with Baby G. The damn woman was insatiable it seemed like. And Angie had unwillingly been submitted to being her bitch. Because she didn’t want any trouble.
She slid up onto the stool next to him, and whether he noticed her at first she didn’t know. The bartender did though. “What can I get ya, sweetheart?” he asked, heading in her direction.
“Whatever he’s got looks good,” she replied, nodding over to the man sitting next to her. Flack had had a few glasses of whiskey already, but he hadn’t even touched the last one he was handed. He was just staring at it, watching the alcohol swirl in the glass. He was clearly lost in thought, so she decided to speak up, “Don’t cops usually have their own bar?”
He turned and looked at her, those gorgeous eyes of his fogged over from the alcohol. At first it seemed like he didn’t recognize her, but after a moment, he spoke softly, “You got out.”
“Yeah, I did,” she sighed, taking a sip of the whiskey that the bartender handed her, “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yeah, we do,” he replied, letting her know that he was sober enough to remember things and not be tripping all over himself, but drunk enough to slur his words and trip over his speech, “But I didn’t feel like drinking with people I know.”
He picked up the glass in front of him, as though to take a sip, but stopped. Hesitated with the rim of the glass hovering just at the level of his lips. Then he put the glass back down on the bar and resumed staring at the swirling liquid inside. Angie frowned. Where was the confidence? Where was the stronger man she had seen interrogating her?
What happened to him?
“C’mon,” she sighed, taking his arm and dragging her off the stool, “Let’s get you some air.”
“Put his drinks on my tab,” she whispered to the bartender as she led Flack out the backdoor. The musky New York City air hit them both, and Flack leaned against the brick wall of the alleyway, watching her as she stood in front of him. “I know I’m not exactly the person that should be asking this, but are you alright?”
He looked at her blankly for a second before shaking his head no. He didn’t want pity or sympathy. She hadn’t the faintest idea in hell what he did want, but she knew that those two definitely weren’t it. He wasn’t the type who would want someone’s pity. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, and he just stared at her for a second.
“Why?”
“You got me out,” she replied, “I owe you.”
“I helped you for helping me,” he sighed, “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I don’t feel like we’re even,” she replied, “Look, let’s get you home, alright? Can you remember your address?” He nodded slowly, and she walked over to the curb to hail a cab.
***
She walked him up to his apartment, and watched him as he fumbled with his keys, but he hesitated again. He turned to her, watching her as she stood there, playing with her hair.
“Why are you still here?” he asked. She shrugged aimlessly, not quite sure herself. Walking him up to the door seemed like the thing to do. She had never been the designated friend before, she had always been the drunk one. Inwardly, she wanted to get some more answers on what happened to him between the time he had visited her in prison to now, at the point where they were.
“You can go,” he replied, nodding toward the door, “You don’t have to baby-sit me.”
“You look like you need it,” she replied.
“I don’t,” he said, a flash of anger appearing in those blue eyes, “I wish everyone would stop worrying about me. I’m fucking fine.”
“Funny,” she whispered, “Twenty minutes ago, you told me you weren’t.” Angie wasn’t about to take bullshit from him. She wasn’t about to sugarcoat anything or baby him. She was going to call ‘em as she saw ‘em until he proved that she should do otherwise. Just like he would probably do with her.
“Why did you sit down next to me in that bar?” he asked, staring at the door instead of her, finding something entirely more interesting on his keychain in order to distract him from her.
“I don’t know,” she replied, “I just felt like I should do something.”
“So you did,” he stated, “Now go.”
“Why?” she asked, “You don’t want me to.”
His eyes squeezed closed, his body tensed, “Angie—” he began, before turning around to face her.
“Really want me to go, I’ll take off,” she replied, starting to walk past him, but he stopped her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back to him pinning her between the door and his body. “See?” she grinned, “Thought you didn’t want me to leave.” At that he kissed her, rough and hard just like she remembered. It’d been so long since any guy, let alone him, and touched her in this way, and she would rather it be him right now than anyone else. His tongue danced with her own, pulling her against him with one hand, while finishing unlocking the door with the other.
What they had had, once upon a time, was like something out of a fairy tale. They had both been young idiots who couldn’t get enough of each other, but they were both going in completely different directions. After all, all fairy tales have to end, and it’s just not always happily ever after. She was a mutt from the wrong side of the tracks, and he was a cop’s kid. Where the hell was this going to go?
Didn’t mean she wasn’t at least interested in seeing him when he came to interrogate him. Usually, the person she was talking to would call her Watson, or Miss Watson. Never by her name. But with him, every time it was Angie. Not even Angela. Angie. Something familiar, something she could cling to. And she was prepared to do the same for him. Give him something to hold on to.
“Don,” her voice came in a hoarse murmur in his ear as her back hit the couch, his lips tasting a salty trail down towards the hollow of her collarbone. Somewhere along the way they had both lost their shirts, and his hands now slid up her torso, slightly cupping one breast through the material of her bra, while the other slid around back to unhook it.
While he was distracted with that, she noticed the scars that crossed his torso. Dark lines marring his soft skin, that weren’t there all those years ago. She looked up at him concern in her eyes, and he shook his head. “Don’t ask,” he whispered, “Just don’t.” His swollen lips returned to hers, and hands started to wander, explore, find those points in each other that they had known like the back of their hand so many years ago. Her hands landed on the waistband of his jeans, and as she went to undo it, he stopped her.
“No,” he shook his head, hand on her wrist, “Not here.” She knew he would rather this be elsewhere. Rather them at least attempt to make it to his bedroom. But she didn’t want to do that. Because if she made it in there, she knew she’d never leave. And her leaving needed to happen.
“Yes,” she nodded, eyes meeting his with conviction, “Here.” She used her free hand to pull him back down into a kiss again, and he resigned in defeat. He released her wrist and they both made quick work of the other’s clothing. Then suddenly he was the one on his back, and she was straddling him, long black hair flowing over her body as she held herself above him. She noticed the look of recognition that was passing through his eyes, but at the same time knew it wasn’t for her. “Remind you of someone, Detective?” she asked, hovering slightly over his hard member, his hands balanced on her hips, able to pull her down on top of him, impale her on him, but not doing so. Letting her be in control, because at that exact moment, control was the last thing he wanted have, and he trusted Angie enough to know that she wasn’t going to kill him in his sleep.
“No one you know,” he murmured, before sitting up slightly and letting her meet him halfway for another kiss. With a roll of her hips, he was inside her, and the gasp he admitted from the sudden wet heat enveloping his sensitive flesh allowed her to take the kiss further moving her hips in time with the thrust of his tongue, sweaty bodies tangled in what seemed like a never ending dance of pleasure and passion, until they both gave in to their release, Angie grinding her hips down onto him as his bucked up into her, and then having them collapse onto each other, bodies exhausted and throbbing from their late night escapade.
She finally pulled herself off him, untangling herself from him, and then starting to pull her clothes back on. He watched her, confused for a second, before speaking up, “Angie, you don’t have to leave.”
“You know I’m not the one you want,” she whispered, “Besides, that’s not how we roll.” She gave him one last soft kiss, before pulling her shirt over her head and heading out the door. He watched her leave, watching the silhouette walk out on him, reminding him of another raven haired beauty, the one who’s name wasn’t Angela Watson, the one who’s name was the one coming off his lips only a few minutes earlier. The one who wasn’t ever going to come back to him.
Because not all fairy tales are supposed to have happy endings.