she's an angel for sure (but that remains to be seen)
She's an Angel for Sure (But that Remains to be Seen)
She wears her hair up and chews her straw and slips off her shoes and he’s so distracted by her that the only scene he can remember was the one that had the hobbit from Lord of the Rings in it.
CSI: NY Don Flack Jr./Jessica Angell.
1261. pg.
[So I wanted 'Don and Jess do karaoke' and this is what I ended up with. And I wanted to mention the fact she speaks French and is deadly. And, you know, this is probably the first time in a long time that I've written a fic in less than 12 hours, so I'm gonna file this away as a victory.]
There’s a chase. It’s a given, these days; every criminal with a set of legs takes to the street; running from the law becoming more and more literal. She runs as fast as she can, hair whipping behind her, badge tight against her hip.
He’s gaining ground; heart in his chest; sound of running footsteps on the sidewalk pushing him forward. He’s still behind her, somewhere, but all he can focus on is what’s in front of him.
She gains momentum and launches forward.
Knee pressed into his back, she cuffs him in no time, pushing her hair out of her face as he approaches. There’s applause, she smirks and he chuckles, helping her to her feet. Hauling up the suspect, he shoves him into the back of a waiting police car.
“Sure you’re not some kind of angel?” he smirks. Her laugh comes out breathless; she stands a bit too close and time seems to stop.
“You’ll find no halo here, Flack,” she smiles. He chuckles in return.
(Somehow, he’s not quite sure about that.)
“So, what do you do for fun?”
She glances up from her paperwork, eyebrow arched curiously.
“Why?”
“You intrigue me, Jess,” he shrugs, grinning, “simple as that.”
“I intrigue you?” she pauses, thoughtful, “I highly doubt that.”
“You really find that hard to believe?” (There’s that smirk again.) “I’m pretty sure if we took a survey right now, a lot of men would say the same thing.”
She rolls her eyes, blushing lightly, but he really can’t tell. (She’ll swear against it, anyway.)
“Lot’s of things,” she shrugs, “I like to read.”
“Fair, but boring.” She makes a face. “Give me something interesting.”
“There’s a cinema near my house that shows French films every Wednesday night. And my brother gave me his old X-Box, so-”
“Wait, you speak French?”
“Yeah.” As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Want to say something in French for me?”
“No.”
“Alright, alright.” He grins, surrendering, “what else?”
“Karaoke.” She mutters.
“What was that?”
“Karaoke.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Don’t make me wish I was.”
His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas day. Hers roll slowly as his excitement.
“So…”
“No, Flack.”
Not easily disheartened, he chuckles lightly.
“Come on, it could be fun.”
“Might be the case, but no amount of alcohol could convince me to do karaoke with you.”
(Huh. Sounded like a challenge, didn’t it?)
Turns out, there was an amount of alcohol to get her on that stage. Three shots, some fruity concoction and two glasses of wine later; his wallet is empty, but the price is well worth it as she walks gracefully (albeit swaying a little) towards the DJ, song selection in hand, smiling serenely.
“What are you gonna sing,” he says/slurs (because, well, this drunk thing, it works both ways). She grins, shaking her head softly, curls bouncing.
“It’s a surprise.”
(Truth be told, he has no idea. He expects some feminist power anthem, hell, maybe some obscure indie band she loves, but he can’t be sure.)
The DJ calls her name; she bounces out of her chair, cheeks pink from the alcohol and giggling slightly. Making her way to the microphone, she blows him a kiss; catcalls from the peanut gallery ensue, and she flicks her hair for good measure.
He decides he likes this version of her; unguarded and self-assured. She sways her hips in time with the beat, gripping the microphone tightly. He vaguely recognises the song; some 60s ballad; her voice is clear and sultry; she bats her eyelashes and smiles seductively.
(He imagines the after; always thinking two steps ahead, Detective Don Flack. She’s slightly more sober; he takes her back to his place; she pushes him against a wall; buttons pop; hands skim over skin, tracing tattoos. Because he knows that a girl like her; who speaks French and sings like that has to have a tattoo. Just like he knows that she’s a screamer; DonDonDon echoing in his mind like a Sunday school prayer.)
“Don?”
It doesn’t go like that (does it ever?).They catch a cab, he drops her home. There’s a kiss - on the cheek, of course - a thank you for a lovely evening. He’s disappointed, and somewhat embarrassed (his reputation is a fact, not a rumour.)
The cab driver glances at him in the rear view mirror; a mixture of sympathy and scorn in his eyes.
“Struck out, did ya buddy?”
(Don - well, he didn’t even take a swing.)
Monday morning means coffee and ties and never ending paperwork. Her hair is straight and Don knows that today, she means business.
(Meaning, from the menacing glint in her eyes that if you tell Messer what conspired the other night I will kill you and they will never ever ever find you.
He gets the message loud and clear.)
There’s a case, which doesn’t surprise him because he should know well enough that murder doesn’t wait for him to work out his romantic life. It’s a two detective job; there’s an uncomfortable silence, made more uncomfortable by the presence of Messer and Monroe and their on again relationship status. (Oh, awkward days…)
“Landlord saw nothing, heard nothing, the usual.” He tucks his notebook back in his pocket, “neighbours hear anything?”
“Not a thing,” she looks through him, “vic was quiet, well mannered, kept to himself. Had a girlfriend, apparently, but other than that no regular guests.”
“One day we’ll get an easy one,” he groans. She smirks, demeanour shifting noticeably, and takes a step towards him. She looks him up and down; his breath hitches softly. She runs her finger along his tie; pausing, hand upon his chest.
(Like headlights through fog, his mind snaps open. He recognises the power play; the lowered lashes; the manipulative touches. Don doesn’t like being played. Doesn’t like it one bit.)
He grabs her wrist before he can pull it away; both their eyes narrowing into a glare.
“No games, Jess. Not with me.”
Hands dropped; his gaze lingers while she steps away. There’s a shift he doesn’t understand, which only adds to his frustration.
(Don’s content with simple. Simple cases, simple friendships, simple girlfriends. Complexities and complications frustrate/irritate/excite him and Jessica Angell is all of the above.
Don thinks he might be done with simple. Don thinks he might want something more .. challenging.)
She hums along to the radio on the way back to the station and Don smiles with certainty.
He asks her out on a Wednesday. They watch Paris, Je T’aime at the small theatre by her house. She wears her hair up and chews her straw and slips off her shoes and he’s so distracted by her that the only scene he can remember was the one that had the hobbit from Lord of the Rings in it.
He tells her this, and she laughs.
“You know, for a guy that has no game-”
He presses his lips to hers before she finishes the thought.
Somehow, Flack always knew that his dreams would come true. And it would be amazing.
Being pinned to a wall by Jessica Angell was definitely something he enjoyed. Immensely.
“Jess.”
“Hmm,” she mutters, between attacking his neck with her lips and undoing his belt with nimble, delicate, deadly fingers.
“Can I see your tattoo now?”
With a grin, she pushes him towards her bedroom and kicks the door shut behind them.
fin.
+ Title from Under the Gun by The Killers
+ Song Angell sings is Stay With Me originally sung by Lorraine Ellison, but I quite like the Duffy cover.
She wears her hair up and chews her straw and slips off her shoes and he’s so distracted by her that the only scene he can remember was the one that had the hobbit from Lord of the Rings in it.
CSI: NY Don Flack Jr./Jessica Angell.
1261. pg.
[So I wanted 'Don and Jess do karaoke' and this is what I ended up with. And I wanted to mention the fact she speaks French and is deadly. And, you know, this is probably the first time in a long time that I've written a fic in less than 12 hours, so I'm gonna file this away as a victory.]
There’s a chase. It’s a given, these days; every criminal with a set of legs takes to the street; running from the law becoming more and more literal. She runs as fast as she can, hair whipping behind her, badge tight against her hip.
He’s gaining ground; heart in his chest; sound of running footsteps on the sidewalk pushing him forward. He’s still behind her, somewhere, but all he can focus on is what’s in front of him.
She gains momentum and launches forward.
Knee pressed into his back, she cuffs him in no time, pushing her hair out of her face as he approaches. There’s applause, she smirks and he chuckles, helping her to her feet. Hauling up the suspect, he shoves him into the back of a waiting police car.
“Sure you’re not some kind of angel?” he smirks. Her laugh comes out breathless; she stands a bit too close and time seems to stop.
“You’ll find no halo here, Flack,” she smiles. He chuckles in return.
(Somehow, he’s not quite sure about that.)
“So, what do you do for fun?”
She glances up from her paperwork, eyebrow arched curiously.
“Why?”
“You intrigue me, Jess,” he shrugs, grinning, “simple as that.”
“I intrigue you?” she pauses, thoughtful, “I highly doubt that.”
“You really find that hard to believe?” (There’s that smirk again.) “I’m pretty sure if we took a survey right now, a lot of men would say the same thing.”
She rolls her eyes, blushing lightly, but he really can’t tell. (She’ll swear against it, anyway.)
“Lot’s of things,” she shrugs, “I like to read.”
“Fair, but boring.” She makes a face. “Give me something interesting.”
“There’s a cinema near my house that shows French films every Wednesday night. And my brother gave me his old X-Box, so-”
“Wait, you speak French?”
“Yeah.” As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Want to say something in French for me?”
“No.”
“Alright, alright.” He grins, surrendering, “what else?”
“Karaoke.” She mutters.
“What was that?”
“Karaoke.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Don’t make me wish I was.”
His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas day. Hers roll slowly as his excitement.
“So…”
“No, Flack.”
Not easily disheartened, he chuckles lightly.
“Come on, it could be fun.”
“Might be the case, but no amount of alcohol could convince me to do karaoke with you.”
(Huh. Sounded like a challenge, didn’t it?)
Turns out, there was an amount of alcohol to get her on that stage. Three shots, some fruity concoction and two glasses of wine later; his wallet is empty, but the price is well worth it as she walks gracefully (albeit swaying a little) towards the DJ, song selection in hand, smiling serenely.
“What are you gonna sing,” he says/slurs (because, well, this drunk thing, it works both ways). She grins, shaking her head softly, curls bouncing.
“It’s a surprise.”
(Truth be told, he has no idea. He expects some feminist power anthem, hell, maybe some obscure indie band she loves, but he can’t be sure.)
The DJ calls her name; she bounces out of her chair, cheeks pink from the alcohol and giggling slightly. Making her way to the microphone, she blows him a kiss; catcalls from the peanut gallery ensue, and she flicks her hair for good measure.
He decides he likes this version of her; unguarded and self-assured. She sways her hips in time with the beat, gripping the microphone tightly. He vaguely recognises the song; some 60s ballad; her voice is clear and sultry; she bats her eyelashes and smiles seductively.
(He imagines the after; always thinking two steps ahead, Detective Don Flack. She’s slightly more sober; he takes her back to his place; she pushes him against a wall; buttons pop; hands skim over skin, tracing tattoos. Because he knows that a girl like her; who speaks French and sings like that has to have a tattoo. Just like he knows that she’s a screamer; DonDonDon echoing in his mind like a Sunday school prayer.)
“Don?”
It doesn’t go like that (does it ever?).They catch a cab, he drops her home. There’s a kiss - on the cheek, of course - a thank you for a lovely evening. He’s disappointed, and somewhat embarrassed (his reputation is a fact, not a rumour.)
The cab driver glances at him in the rear view mirror; a mixture of sympathy and scorn in his eyes.
“Struck out, did ya buddy?”
(Don - well, he didn’t even take a swing.)
Monday morning means coffee and ties and never ending paperwork. Her hair is straight and Don knows that today, she means business.
(Meaning, from the menacing glint in her eyes that if you tell Messer what conspired the other night I will kill you and they will never ever ever find you.
He gets the message loud and clear.)
There’s a case, which doesn’t surprise him because he should know well enough that murder doesn’t wait for him to work out his romantic life. It’s a two detective job; there’s an uncomfortable silence, made more uncomfortable by the presence of Messer and Monroe and their on again relationship status. (Oh, awkward days…)
“Landlord saw nothing, heard nothing, the usual.” He tucks his notebook back in his pocket, “neighbours hear anything?”
“Not a thing,” she looks through him, “vic was quiet, well mannered, kept to himself. Had a girlfriend, apparently, but other than that no regular guests.”
“One day we’ll get an easy one,” he groans. She smirks, demeanour shifting noticeably, and takes a step towards him. She looks him up and down; his breath hitches softly. She runs her finger along his tie; pausing, hand upon his chest.
(Like headlights through fog, his mind snaps open. He recognises the power play; the lowered lashes; the manipulative touches. Don doesn’t like being played. Doesn’t like it one bit.)
He grabs her wrist before he can pull it away; both their eyes narrowing into a glare.
“No games, Jess. Not with me.”
Hands dropped; his gaze lingers while she steps away. There’s a shift he doesn’t understand, which only adds to his frustration.
(Don’s content with simple. Simple cases, simple friendships, simple girlfriends. Complexities and complications frustrate/irritate/excite him and Jessica Angell is all of the above.
Don thinks he might be done with simple. Don thinks he might want something more .. challenging.)
She hums along to the radio on the way back to the station and Don smiles with certainty.
He asks her out on a Wednesday. They watch Paris, Je T’aime at the small theatre by her house. She wears her hair up and chews her straw and slips off her shoes and he’s so distracted by her that the only scene he can remember was the one that had the hobbit from Lord of the Rings in it.
He tells her this, and she laughs.
“You know, for a guy that has no game-”
He presses his lips to hers before she finishes the thought.
Somehow, Flack always knew that his dreams would come true. And it would be amazing.
Being pinned to a wall by Jessica Angell was definitely something he enjoyed. Immensely.
“Jess.”
“Hmm,” she mutters, between attacking his neck with her lips and undoing his belt with nimble, delicate, deadly fingers.
“Can I see your tattoo now?”
With a grin, she pushes him towards her bedroom and kicks the door shut behind them.
fin.
+ Title from Under the Gun by The Killers
+ Song Angell sings is Stay With Me originally sung by Lorraine Ellison, but I quite like the Duffy cover.