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Entry tags:
Fic: Observe And Report (Rookie Blue, Dov/Gail)
Title: Observe And Report
Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing(s): Dov/Gail
Word Count: 1249
Rating: R
Summary: Maybe they make out a little while they're on surveillance.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:13 - Takedown.
Maybe they make out a little while they're on surveillance. But here's the thing no-one ever tells you (okay, that's not true; here's the thing everyone constantly tells you, but you never actually believe until you find out for yourself): surveillance work is really, really boring.
It's no big deal.
It's no big deal, except for how Chris can never, ever find out (which isn't even Gail's condition; it probably would have been, but Dov got there first). Not that there's anybody she would (ever) tell about this, even if she hadn't dated Dov's best friend. Because - because she has an image to maintain, or whatever. Because her mother wouldn't want her to get a reputation.
And because, well. He's Dov.
He's Dov, except now he's Dov sliding his hand down her pants in the front seat of the squad car, which should be weird. Except this isn't the first time they've done this, not the first time she's had to climb over the gear shift to straddle his lap, settling in between Dov and the wheel in a position that isn't actually all that terrible once you get used to it. Usually they don't do anything more than make out, Dov's hands cupping her face or - occasionally - wandering down over her shirt, but Gail's not exactly shocked at the escalation; maybe just that Dov's the one to initiate it. (Not that she's the one who wants to take this further; he just never really struck her as a particularly take-charge kind of guy.)
She figures she can roll with the change. That's part of the job, right?
(Okay, maybe not.)
His hands slide under her belt, working it free (and that's going to be a bitch to put back on, but it's better than having her gun accidentally shoot Dov in the foot, probably), and then his fingers are pressing against a spot that's almost perfect. And this is really - no, really - not something she thought she'd ever be doing, guiding Dov's hand down her pants to get her off, but desperate times, right?
(Besides, they only have ten minutes until check in, so if they're going to do this, they might as well do it fast. Which means she really doesn't have time for him to get there on his own.)
She lets out a breath when he finally hits the spot, sharp against his neck. And then she moves against him, grinding down on his thigh, and it turns out he actually can take direction, moving his hand faster, pressing harder. And she's almost there, god, when there's a crash outside, and they both freeze.
And wait. Gail tries to listen, to still her breath so she can hear something, and Dov rests his other hand on her shoulder; comforting or warning, she's not sure. A few seconds later, long enough that she's almost convinced herself it was nothing, she hears it again - a crash, and then a hiss, and something small and furry darting across the road.
Fuck. It's just a cat. Fuck.
Dov seems to be thinking the same thing, only not quite, because he flicks his fingers; softly, slowly, but enough that it pulls her back. He looks at her, and she nods, giving him permission if that's what he's waiting for, and apparently it is; he starts moving again, and so does she, letting him press sloppy kisses to her jaw because she's close, he can do anything he wants as long as he gets her there, he can -
"Peck. Epstein. Report."
Gail starts as the radio crackles on, stilling against Dov's hand, willing Barber to just shut the hell up for five more minutes. Five minutes, maybe six, and she'll have time to finish this and forget about it before she has to talk to a freaking detective -
"Peck. Epstein."
"We're here."
She's not sure how Dov does it, reaching for the radio without bucking her off, never moving his other hand, but he must be a hell of a lot more coordinated than she gave him credit for. Which, to be fair, is probably not all that hard.
"Finally," Barber says. He sounds tired, and Gail thinks that if he's calling them, he's probably as bored as they are. Or were. "Got better things to do than answer your radio?"
Dov shoots her a look, and she has to lean forward suddenly, stifling a giggle against his shoulder. It's hardly professional, but - screw it, she's on the radio with a detective while Dov's hand is still inside her freaking pants, professionalism has pretty much gone out the window at this point.
"No, sir," Dov says; a little more loudly than he has to, probably to cover her muffled laughter. "Everything's fine here."
"Any action?"
This time, she swears it's Dov who nearly starts laughing, and she snatches the radio away from him.
"No, sir," she says, avoiding Dov's eyes as she tries to pull herself back together. It doesn't really help, not when she knows exactly what look he's giving her right now. "Nothing to report."
"Roger," Barber says. "Check in again in an hour. Over."
"Roger," she says at the radio, releasing the button, and not a minute too soon. Dov doesn't wait this time, twisting his thumb against exactly the right spot, and Gail fumbles to put the radio back, grips his arms as he brings her right back to the edge. And then over it, grinding down hard against his hand, biting back a moan.
When she looks up, he's smiling, a stupid grin on his face like maybe she didn't hide it all that well.
"What?" she asks. It's supposed to come out sharp, snappish, but that doesn't quite work, either.
"Nothing," he says. He still hasn't moved his hand. "This is just -"
She raises an eyebrow, daring him to ruin it.
"Better than boring surveillance work," he says, and she relaxes again.
"It's not bad," she says. Now that they're done, her leg's starting to cramp up; maybe this position is as bad as it seems, after all. "It'd be better if we had an actual job to do."
"Granted," Dov says, though she's not sure he means it. (And that's really not something she's going to get into right now.) "Still. We chased away a cat."
"Wow," she says. She thinks it'd probably come out more sarcastic if it wasn't quite so breathy. "Better put that in the report. Might get a commendation out of it."
"Just did," he says, and that's the break she needs to disentangle herself, pull his hand out of her pants and climb back over to her own seat. She doesn't look back at Dov to see his face; if he's disappointed, she doesn't want to know.
"Hilarious," she says, fastening her pants back up as Dov hands her the belt. She's getting used to putting it on, but it's still not exactly easy, and being stuck in the car doesn't help; she almost elbows him twice as she gets it done, and she figures that's payback for the wisecrack.
"I'm starving," she says. Dov looks at her, closer to a leer than he's really capable of pulling off, but wisely says nothing. "Want to get some food?"
"Burgers?"
"Anything," she says, and he nods; starts the car, peeling carefully away from the curb, leaving the stupid road and the stupid cat and stupid decisions behind.
Until tomorrow, probably.
Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing(s): Dov/Gail
Word Count: 1249
Rating: R
Summary: Maybe they make out a little while they're on surveillance.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:13 - Takedown.
Maybe they make out a little while they're on surveillance. But here's the thing no-one ever tells you (okay, that's not true; here's the thing everyone constantly tells you, but you never actually believe until you find out for yourself): surveillance work is really, really boring.
It's no big deal.
It's no big deal, except for how Chris can never, ever find out (which isn't even Gail's condition; it probably would have been, but Dov got there first). Not that there's anybody she would (ever) tell about this, even if she hadn't dated Dov's best friend. Because - because she has an image to maintain, or whatever. Because her mother wouldn't want her to get a reputation.
And because, well. He's Dov.
He's Dov, except now he's Dov sliding his hand down her pants in the front seat of the squad car, which should be weird. Except this isn't the first time they've done this, not the first time she's had to climb over the gear shift to straddle his lap, settling in between Dov and the wheel in a position that isn't actually all that terrible once you get used to it. Usually they don't do anything more than make out, Dov's hands cupping her face or - occasionally - wandering down over her shirt, but Gail's not exactly shocked at the escalation; maybe just that Dov's the one to initiate it. (Not that she's the one who wants to take this further; he just never really struck her as a particularly take-charge kind of guy.)
She figures she can roll with the change. That's part of the job, right?
(Okay, maybe not.)
His hands slide under her belt, working it free (and that's going to be a bitch to put back on, but it's better than having her gun accidentally shoot Dov in the foot, probably), and then his fingers are pressing against a spot that's almost perfect. And this is really - no, really - not something she thought she'd ever be doing, guiding Dov's hand down her pants to get her off, but desperate times, right?
(Besides, they only have ten minutes until check in, so if they're going to do this, they might as well do it fast. Which means she really doesn't have time for him to get there on his own.)
She lets out a breath when he finally hits the spot, sharp against his neck. And then she moves against him, grinding down on his thigh, and it turns out he actually can take direction, moving his hand faster, pressing harder. And she's almost there, god, when there's a crash outside, and they both freeze.
And wait. Gail tries to listen, to still her breath so she can hear something, and Dov rests his other hand on her shoulder; comforting or warning, she's not sure. A few seconds later, long enough that she's almost convinced herself it was nothing, she hears it again - a crash, and then a hiss, and something small and furry darting across the road.
Fuck. It's just a cat. Fuck.
Dov seems to be thinking the same thing, only not quite, because he flicks his fingers; softly, slowly, but enough that it pulls her back. He looks at her, and she nods, giving him permission if that's what he's waiting for, and apparently it is; he starts moving again, and so does she, letting him press sloppy kisses to her jaw because she's close, he can do anything he wants as long as he gets her there, he can -
"Peck. Epstein. Report."
Gail starts as the radio crackles on, stilling against Dov's hand, willing Barber to just shut the hell up for five more minutes. Five minutes, maybe six, and she'll have time to finish this and forget about it before she has to talk to a freaking detective -
"Peck. Epstein."
"We're here."
She's not sure how Dov does it, reaching for the radio without bucking her off, never moving his other hand, but he must be a hell of a lot more coordinated than she gave him credit for. Which, to be fair, is probably not all that hard.
"Finally," Barber says. He sounds tired, and Gail thinks that if he's calling them, he's probably as bored as they are. Or were. "Got better things to do than answer your radio?"
Dov shoots her a look, and she has to lean forward suddenly, stifling a giggle against his shoulder. It's hardly professional, but - screw it, she's on the radio with a detective while Dov's hand is still inside her freaking pants, professionalism has pretty much gone out the window at this point.
"No, sir," Dov says; a little more loudly than he has to, probably to cover her muffled laughter. "Everything's fine here."
"Any action?"
This time, she swears it's Dov who nearly starts laughing, and she snatches the radio away from him.
"No, sir," she says, avoiding Dov's eyes as she tries to pull herself back together. It doesn't really help, not when she knows exactly what look he's giving her right now. "Nothing to report."
"Roger," Barber says. "Check in again in an hour. Over."
"Roger," she says at the radio, releasing the button, and not a minute too soon. Dov doesn't wait this time, twisting his thumb against exactly the right spot, and Gail fumbles to put the radio back, grips his arms as he brings her right back to the edge. And then over it, grinding down hard against his hand, biting back a moan.
When she looks up, he's smiling, a stupid grin on his face like maybe she didn't hide it all that well.
"What?" she asks. It's supposed to come out sharp, snappish, but that doesn't quite work, either.
"Nothing," he says. He still hasn't moved his hand. "This is just -"
She raises an eyebrow, daring him to ruin it.
"Better than boring surveillance work," he says, and she relaxes again.
"It's not bad," she says. Now that they're done, her leg's starting to cramp up; maybe this position is as bad as it seems, after all. "It'd be better if we had an actual job to do."
"Granted," Dov says, though she's not sure he means it. (And that's really not something she's going to get into right now.) "Still. We chased away a cat."
"Wow," she says. She thinks it'd probably come out more sarcastic if it wasn't quite so breathy. "Better put that in the report. Might get a commendation out of it."
"Just did," he says, and that's the break she needs to disentangle herself, pull his hand out of her pants and climb back over to her own seat. She doesn't look back at Dov to see his face; if he's disappointed, she doesn't want to know.
"Hilarious," she says, fastening her pants back up as Dov hands her the belt. She's getting used to putting it on, but it's still not exactly easy, and being stuck in the car doesn't help; she almost elbows him twice as she gets it done, and she figures that's payback for the wisecrack.
"I'm starving," she says. Dov looks at her, closer to a leer than he's really capable of pulling off, but wisely says nothing. "Want to get some food?"
"Burgers?"
"Anything," she says, and he nods; starts the car, peeling carefully away from the curb, leaving the stupid road and the stupid cat and stupid decisions behind.
Until tomorrow, probably.