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Fic: For All My Crimes Of Self Defense (Rookie Blue, Chris/Gail)
Title: For All My Crimes Of Self Defense
Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing(s): Chris/Gail
Word Count: 2631
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Chris and Gail go undercover for an operation.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:10 - Big Nickel.
For the record, she still hasn't forgiven him.
(Off the record, she isn't quite sure what she hasn't forgiven him for. All she knows is that he made her choose between him and her family, that he hurt the people she loves, and that's enough.)
So when she's assigned to go undercover with Chris, she isn't exactly thrilled. Obviously it's a great opportunity, it's not like rookies are given undercover assignments every day, she just - wishes it were with someone else, is all. But it's not like she can exactly complain - doing that would probably get her booted off the op faster than she could finish her sentence - so she sucks it up, avoids meeting his eyes, and stays back to go over the details.
"You'll be going in as support," Barber says, leaning against the table. "Just another couple at the club. So keep it simple - stay in the background, blend in. Don't get too close. And under no circumstances are you to approach our UC or the subject."
So. Simple enough; don't get noticed, and don't screw up. Chris' excitement is written plain on his face - not that she's looking - and he's barely managed to get it under control by the time they're outside the club, waiting in line like they have nothing better to do.
"Stop smiling," Gail says, elbowing him. She's already tucked close against him, shivering in a dress that really wasn't designed for temperatures lower than eighty degrees, and he hisses as she connects with something solid.
"Hey," he says. At least he's not grinning like an idiot any more. "What was that for?"
"You're going to get us made as soon as we step inside," she says. Keeps her voice low, her lips close to his jaw. It's already rough with stubble, and she ignores the unexpected pang that observation brings. It's just an observation, and she wouldn't even have noticed if she didn't have to stand so damn close to him.
"I'm not doing anything," he says.
"You look like a cop," she says. "Just try to be cool, okay?"
For a minute, he almost looks offended, and then he smooths his features. It's an improvement, at least. "Fine," he says. "I'll be cool."
Yeah, like that's even possible.
After fifteen minutes of solid waiting, Gail's just about had enough. She breaks away from the line (which, she swears, hasn't moved the entire time they've been there), dragging Chris behind her, and stops in front of the bouncer. Throws her shoulders back, flashes her best smile. It's killing her not to flash her badge instead. After a quick appraisal, the bouncer nods, drawing aside the rope. She still has to drag Chris in with her, like he hasn't quite caught up with what she's doing, but at least they're inside. And she's not freezing any more.
"What was that about?" he asks; louder, now, though it's still hard to hear over the music. They're not miked, for obvious reasons, but Chris still acts like they're being observed, like he has to play everything by the book.
She shrugs. "It got us in, didn't it?"
"We were supposed to wait in line."
"We're supposed to get the job done," she says, finding a spot at the edge of the bar. It'll take her half an hour to get served there, but it's not like she's drinking, and it gives her a decent view of the rest of the club. "So I did."
"Barber -"
"Isn't here," she says. He's in a van outside, probably bored out of his mind. Right now, she's only faring a little better. "We are. So it's up to us now."
Chris seems to take some of that to heart; maybe he just realises he isn't going to win this one. Either way, he nods, scanning the tables behind them, leaning closer to rest a hand on her hip.
It's just part of their cover, but still - maybe it affects her. A little.
"South-west corner," she says finally, spotting the UC. She only knows him from his picture, and he blends in, part of the scenery even though he's alone. She tells herself that's why it took her so long to see him, not because she's distracted. "Black shirt."
Chris nods, managing to only half look as if he's staring. It's not perfect, but it's something. "Should we stay here?"
The bartender chooses then to finally notice them, and Gail orders a couple of beers, watching Chris wince as he pulls out a twenty and gets a couple of notes back. It's a steep price for something they're not even going to drink, but everybody here's got a glass of something, and ordering water would probably peg them in about a second flat. A couple of minutes later the bartender slides their drinks across the bar, and Chris keeps his hand low on Gail's back as she leads them around the dance floor.
There aren't a lot of tables free, and none with a decent view, so they stand instead, resting their beers on the stairs, occasionally raising them to their lips and tasting nothing. It's not a particularly exciting way to spend a Saturday night, even if this is supposed to be one of the hottest clubs in town, and it doesn't take long for Gail to get bored. Like, really bored.
"Come on," she breathes. The bass thumps against the floor, almost swallowing her words. "When's he going to show?"
"We just have to wait," Chris says, like she's an idiot, like she doesn't know that already. "Patience is the most important virtue in undercover work."
"What are you, quoting from a manual?" she snaps.
"Detective Barber," he says. It still figures. "He'll show when he shows. And we get to be here to watch it happen."
Gail looks at him, raising an eyebrow. Seriously, he's infuriating. "You're telling me you're not bored?"
He shrugs. "We're undercover," he says, like that explains everything. Like it's just supposed to make the hours fly past.
From where Gail's standing - which, by the way, is next to her ex-boyfriend, so close she can smell his stupid cologne, the clean smell of soap underneath - this op couldn't possibly be going any more slowly. And it doesn't help when an obviously drunk couple stumbles in front of them, ostensibly dancing to some beat that's not at all like the one Gail can hear, completely blocking their view.
"Great," she says to Chris. "We're going to have to get closer."
"We're supposed to stay back," he says, and seriously, the day he says anything that's not just regurgitated from some rulebook is the day she starts bringing Dov coffee.
"We're also supposed to be providing backup," she says. "And we can't do that if we can't see what's happening."
He eventually relents, but he doesn't look happy about it. Which is fine with her - she doesn't need him to be happy, she just needs him to back her up. He follows her along the back wall to the far side of the club, not touching her this time, and it doesn't bother her. Really. The spot she has her eye on is about as far away from the exit as they can get, not ideal, but she'd be willing to bet there's a back way out in case of emergency. Not that she's expecting one.
Not that they even get that far.
This close, she can see a guy sitting at the table with the UC, who doesn't seem to be waving him off. The subject, then. At first, she thinks it's a good thing they moved - they'd have missed this otherwise - and then not so much, when the subject gets up and starts moving towards them.
Chris reacts first, pulling Gail back around the corner, towards the restrooms. His hands are on her waist, standing close like he's shielding her, and it might be kind of sweet if it weren't also really stupid.
"What are you doing?" she hisses, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. She's lost visual on the subject.
"He was coming straight for us," he says. "I told you we were too close."
"We weren't made," she says; she doesn't know that, exactly, but it seems unlikely. Unless the guy is so paranoid that a couple of people walking in his general direction spooks him, at least.
"Then what was he doing?"
A second later, they find out. The subject rounds the corner; expensive suit, nice haircut, a little old for a place like this but otherwise unremarkable. And Gail reacts on instinct, pulling Chris closer to her, pulling his mouth down to hers so it looks like they're making out.
"He's going to the restroom," she whispers, toying with the front of Chris' shirt. And them, because she can't help herself, "You idiot."
"How was I supposed to know?" he whispers back, and maybe the guy heard them, or maybe he's just a pervert, because he stops. Watching them.
And it's not like Gail wants this, at all, but it's pretty much the only course of action left to her. So she kisses Chris.
He kisses back almost immediately, and if he's trying to help her sell their cover, he's doing a good job of it. A really good job. He's always been good at this - surprisingly good, given that he's kissed all of two women before her, but what he lacks in experience he makes up for in determination, pressing her back against the wall, his knee between her thighs, licking into her mouth like it's a preview of what's to come later.
Except there is no later. Not now. This is all just for show.
Somehow, in the moment, it's kind of hard to remember that.
She doesn't know how many seconds, maybe minutes, have passed when she finally notices the subject has gone. Into the restroom, or maybe back out again; for all she knows, the op is over and done already and they missed the whole thing. Not that she cares very much right now.
"Gail," Chris says. Low, the words reverberating against her chest. Her heart beats in time with the music, sticking in her throat.
"Look, I didn't -" she starts, and she's not really sure how she meant to end that; look, I didn't mean it, it wasn't real, I didn't think it would go that far. It doesn't matter; she doesn't get a chance to.
Chris kisses her again, more softly this time, testing. And then, when Gail doesn't push him away - pulls him closer, maybe, but it's late and it's loud and she can't think straight right now, she can't be held responsible for her actions - harder, gripping her waist, lifting her up, grinding his hips against hers. She threads her hands through his hair, cups the back of his neck, trying to clear her head, trying to get closer to him. Maybe more of the latter than the former. In the end, it's a foregone conclusion, and she barely even notices when they start to move; doesn't object when Chris carries her through the door to the ladies' restroom.
"Seriously?" she asks, regretting the need to come up for air. Chris is a lot of things - is a lot more adventurous than she had him pegged at the beginning - but he still doesn't particularly strike her as a ladies' restroom kind of guy.
"Gail," is all her says; it's all he needs to. It's all there in that one word, in her name, and she can feel the same longing in his voice tug at her chest. So she kisses him again, hard, tugging his shirt over his head as he kicks a trashcan over to block the door, hoists her up onto the washstand. It's not exactly romantic, but they don't have time for romance, they're supposed to be out there, supposed to be working, not locking themselves in the restroom at some seedy club for - what? A nostalgia fuck?
Gail never thought she's say this, but she doesn't really care about what they're supposed to be doing; right now, all she cares about is Chris' hands under her dress, pulling her underwear down over her hips, his fingers curling up into her like they've done this dozens of times already, which is true. Like they'll do it dozens more times in the future, which probably isn't. But he's not wasting time, so neither does she, tugging his belt free, working her hand into his pants, feeling him hard and ready for her. And then inside her, god, without caution of finesse but with single-minded purpose.
His fingers rub against her clit as he fucks her, and in minutes she's nearly there, so close she forgets everything but Chris and her and what they're doing right that minute. When she comes, she swallows his name, closing her eyes; he hates that, she knows, but she just can't look at him right now. It's too much.
Chris comes a minute later, and then it's oddly quiet without the pounding rush of adrenaline in her head. Just Chris' breathing, and her own, the sound of the bass still thrumming outside the door.
(And her own thoughts again. It's really too bad.)
He rests his forehead against hers, just for a moment; his sweat sticks to her skin, and it feels almost like a goodbye. They clean up and get dressed without saying anything else, and Gail tries to clear her head. She just - she doesn't have time to think about what just happened; they have a job to do, and she plans to do it without screwing up any more than they just have.
The bust is already halfway over by the time they get back, the crowd backing away from the table where the UC has the subject pinned into a corner. Gail doesn't glance over, doesn't look at Chris, but they move in tandem anyway, not getting in the way, just blocking off whatever means of escape this guy might think he still has. He smirks when he sees Gail, his lip curling up into an ugly sneer, but at least he doesn't comment.
The UC nods at them as he cuffs the guy, and says, "Thanks for not getting in the way."
It was really no trouble at all.
Barber and the others are too busy dealing with the subject to talk to them straight away, which, unfortunately, gives Chris the opportunity to take Gail's arm once they're outside, lead her a few steps away from the van.
"So," he says. And then nothing else, like it's her job to fill in the blanks. She stares him down; eventually he shrugs, and says, "What does this mean?"
Yeah, she was hoping he wouldn't ask her that. But not very hard, because she knows him, and this was kind of inevitable.
"I don't know," she admits.
"Gail -"
"Chris," she says. "I don't know, okay? All I know is that I'm tired, and we got the guy, and that's all that really matters."
"Yeah," he said. "We were good in there."
She raises an eyebrow at him, because, seriously? They spent half the time not doing anything and the other half locked in the restroom, not exactly her most impressive performance to date.
"Okay," he relents. "But we're good together."
"Yeah," she says. She's not entirely sure what she's agreeing to; right now, she's going to try to pretend it doesn't matter.
But when Chris takes her hand, pulls her towards him as he leans back against the van, she doesn't object. It doesn't mean anything, and it's definitely not a promise, but maybe it's a start. Or at least, something a little like forgiveness.
Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing(s): Chris/Gail
Word Count: 2631
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Chris and Gail go undercover for an operation.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:10 - Big Nickel.
For the record, she still hasn't forgiven him.
(Off the record, she isn't quite sure what she hasn't forgiven him for. All she knows is that he made her choose between him and her family, that he hurt the people she loves, and that's enough.)
So when she's assigned to go undercover with Chris, she isn't exactly thrilled. Obviously it's a great opportunity, it's not like rookies are given undercover assignments every day, she just - wishes it were with someone else, is all. But it's not like she can exactly complain - doing that would probably get her booted off the op faster than she could finish her sentence - so she sucks it up, avoids meeting his eyes, and stays back to go over the details.
"You'll be going in as support," Barber says, leaning against the table. "Just another couple at the club. So keep it simple - stay in the background, blend in. Don't get too close. And under no circumstances are you to approach our UC or the subject."
So. Simple enough; don't get noticed, and don't screw up. Chris' excitement is written plain on his face - not that she's looking - and he's barely managed to get it under control by the time they're outside the club, waiting in line like they have nothing better to do.
"Stop smiling," Gail says, elbowing him. She's already tucked close against him, shivering in a dress that really wasn't designed for temperatures lower than eighty degrees, and he hisses as she connects with something solid.
"Hey," he says. At least he's not grinning like an idiot any more. "What was that for?"
"You're going to get us made as soon as we step inside," she says. Keeps her voice low, her lips close to his jaw. It's already rough with stubble, and she ignores the unexpected pang that observation brings. It's just an observation, and she wouldn't even have noticed if she didn't have to stand so damn close to him.
"I'm not doing anything," he says.
"You look like a cop," she says. "Just try to be cool, okay?"
For a minute, he almost looks offended, and then he smooths his features. It's an improvement, at least. "Fine," he says. "I'll be cool."
Yeah, like that's even possible.
After fifteen minutes of solid waiting, Gail's just about had enough. She breaks away from the line (which, she swears, hasn't moved the entire time they've been there), dragging Chris behind her, and stops in front of the bouncer. Throws her shoulders back, flashes her best smile. It's killing her not to flash her badge instead. After a quick appraisal, the bouncer nods, drawing aside the rope. She still has to drag Chris in with her, like he hasn't quite caught up with what she's doing, but at least they're inside. And she's not freezing any more.
"What was that about?" he asks; louder, now, though it's still hard to hear over the music. They're not miked, for obvious reasons, but Chris still acts like they're being observed, like he has to play everything by the book.
She shrugs. "It got us in, didn't it?"
"We were supposed to wait in line."
"We're supposed to get the job done," she says, finding a spot at the edge of the bar. It'll take her half an hour to get served there, but it's not like she's drinking, and it gives her a decent view of the rest of the club. "So I did."
"Barber -"
"Isn't here," she says. He's in a van outside, probably bored out of his mind. Right now, she's only faring a little better. "We are. So it's up to us now."
Chris seems to take some of that to heart; maybe he just realises he isn't going to win this one. Either way, he nods, scanning the tables behind them, leaning closer to rest a hand on her hip.
It's just part of their cover, but still - maybe it affects her. A little.
"South-west corner," she says finally, spotting the UC. She only knows him from his picture, and he blends in, part of the scenery even though he's alone. She tells herself that's why it took her so long to see him, not because she's distracted. "Black shirt."
Chris nods, managing to only half look as if he's staring. It's not perfect, but it's something. "Should we stay here?"
The bartender chooses then to finally notice them, and Gail orders a couple of beers, watching Chris wince as he pulls out a twenty and gets a couple of notes back. It's a steep price for something they're not even going to drink, but everybody here's got a glass of something, and ordering water would probably peg them in about a second flat. A couple of minutes later the bartender slides their drinks across the bar, and Chris keeps his hand low on Gail's back as she leads them around the dance floor.
There aren't a lot of tables free, and none with a decent view, so they stand instead, resting their beers on the stairs, occasionally raising them to their lips and tasting nothing. It's not a particularly exciting way to spend a Saturday night, even if this is supposed to be one of the hottest clubs in town, and it doesn't take long for Gail to get bored. Like, really bored.
"Come on," she breathes. The bass thumps against the floor, almost swallowing her words. "When's he going to show?"
"We just have to wait," Chris says, like she's an idiot, like she doesn't know that already. "Patience is the most important virtue in undercover work."
"What are you, quoting from a manual?" she snaps.
"Detective Barber," he says. It still figures. "He'll show when he shows. And we get to be here to watch it happen."
Gail looks at him, raising an eyebrow. Seriously, he's infuriating. "You're telling me you're not bored?"
He shrugs. "We're undercover," he says, like that explains everything. Like it's just supposed to make the hours fly past.
From where Gail's standing - which, by the way, is next to her ex-boyfriend, so close she can smell his stupid cologne, the clean smell of soap underneath - this op couldn't possibly be going any more slowly. And it doesn't help when an obviously drunk couple stumbles in front of them, ostensibly dancing to some beat that's not at all like the one Gail can hear, completely blocking their view.
"Great," she says to Chris. "We're going to have to get closer."
"We're supposed to stay back," he says, and seriously, the day he says anything that's not just regurgitated from some rulebook is the day she starts bringing Dov coffee.
"We're also supposed to be providing backup," she says. "And we can't do that if we can't see what's happening."
He eventually relents, but he doesn't look happy about it. Which is fine with her - she doesn't need him to be happy, she just needs him to back her up. He follows her along the back wall to the far side of the club, not touching her this time, and it doesn't bother her. Really. The spot she has her eye on is about as far away from the exit as they can get, not ideal, but she'd be willing to bet there's a back way out in case of emergency. Not that she's expecting one.
Not that they even get that far.
This close, she can see a guy sitting at the table with the UC, who doesn't seem to be waving him off. The subject, then. At first, she thinks it's a good thing they moved - they'd have missed this otherwise - and then not so much, when the subject gets up and starts moving towards them.
Chris reacts first, pulling Gail back around the corner, towards the restrooms. His hands are on her waist, standing close like he's shielding her, and it might be kind of sweet if it weren't also really stupid.
"What are you doing?" she hisses, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. She's lost visual on the subject.
"He was coming straight for us," he says. "I told you we were too close."
"We weren't made," she says; she doesn't know that, exactly, but it seems unlikely. Unless the guy is so paranoid that a couple of people walking in his general direction spooks him, at least.
"Then what was he doing?"
A second later, they find out. The subject rounds the corner; expensive suit, nice haircut, a little old for a place like this but otherwise unremarkable. And Gail reacts on instinct, pulling Chris closer to her, pulling his mouth down to hers so it looks like they're making out.
"He's going to the restroom," she whispers, toying with the front of Chris' shirt. And them, because she can't help herself, "You idiot."
"How was I supposed to know?" he whispers back, and maybe the guy heard them, or maybe he's just a pervert, because he stops. Watching them.
And it's not like Gail wants this, at all, but it's pretty much the only course of action left to her. So she kisses Chris.
He kisses back almost immediately, and if he's trying to help her sell their cover, he's doing a good job of it. A really good job. He's always been good at this - surprisingly good, given that he's kissed all of two women before her, but what he lacks in experience he makes up for in determination, pressing her back against the wall, his knee between her thighs, licking into her mouth like it's a preview of what's to come later.
Except there is no later. Not now. This is all just for show.
Somehow, in the moment, it's kind of hard to remember that.
She doesn't know how many seconds, maybe minutes, have passed when she finally notices the subject has gone. Into the restroom, or maybe back out again; for all she knows, the op is over and done already and they missed the whole thing. Not that she cares very much right now.
"Gail," Chris says. Low, the words reverberating against her chest. Her heart beats in time with the music, sticking in her throat.
"Look, I didn't -" she starts, and she's not really sure how she meant to end that; look, I didn't mean it, it wasn't real, I didn't think it would go that far. It doesn't matter; she doesn't get a chance to.
Chris kisses her again, more softly this time, testing. And then, when Gail doesn't push him away - pulls him closer, maybe, but it's late and it's loud and she can't think straight right now, she can't be held responsible for her actions - harder, gripping her waist, lifting her up, grinding his hips against hers. She threads her hands through his hair, cups the back of his neck, trying to clear her head, trying to get closer to him. Maybe more of the latter than the former. In the end, it's a foregone conclusion, and she barely even notices when they start to move; doesn't object when Chris carries her through the door to the ladies' restroom.
"Seriously?" she asks, regretting the need to come up for air. Chris is a lot of things - is a lot more adventurous than she had him pegged at the beginning - but he still doesn't particularly strike her as a ladies' restroom kind of guy.
"Gail," is all her says; it's all he needs to. It's all there in that one word, in her name, and she can feel the same longing in his voice tug at her chest. So she kisses him again, hard, tugging his shirt over his head as he kicks a trashcan over to block the door, hoists her up onto the washstand. It's not exactly romantic, but they don't have time for romance, they're supposed to be out there, supposed to be working, not locking themselves in the restroom at some seedy club for - what? A nostalgia fuck?
Gail never thought she's say this, but she doesn't really care about what they're supposed to be doing; right now, all she cares about is Chris' hands under her dress, pulling her underwear down over her hips, his fingers curling up into her like they've done this dozens of times already, which is true. Like they'll do it dozens more times in the future, which probably isn't. But he's not wasting time, so neither does she, tugging his belt free, working her hand into his pants, feeling him hard and ready for her. And then inside her, god, without caution of finesse but with single-minded purpose.
His fingers rub against her clit as he fucks her, and in minutes she's nearly there, so close she forgets everything but Chris and her and what they're doing right that minute. When she comes, she swallows his name, closing her eyes; he hates that, she knows, but she just can't look at him right now. It's too much.
Chris comes a minute later, and then it's oddly quiet without the pounding rush of adrenaline in her head. Just Chris' breathing, and her own, the sound of the bass still thrumming outside the door.
(And her own thoughts again. It's really too bad.)
He rests his forehead against hers, just for a moment; his sweat sticks to her skin, and it feels almost like a goodbye. They clean up and get dressed without saying anything else, and Gail tries to clear her head. She just - she doesn't have time to think about what just happened; they have a job to do, and she plans to do it without screwing up any more than they just have.
The bust is already halfway over by the time they get back, the crowd backing away from the table where the UC has the subject pinned into a corner. Gail doesn't glance over, doesn't look at Chris, but they move in tandem anyway, not getting in the way, just blocking off whatever means of escape this guy might think he still has. He smirks when he sees Gail, his lip curling up into an ugly sneer, but at least he doesn't comment.
The UC nods at them as he cuffs the guy, and says, "Thanks for not getting in the way."
It was really no trouble at all.
Barber and the others are too busy dealing with the subject to talk to them straight away, which, unfortunately, gives Chris the opportunity to take Gail's arm once they're outside, lead her a few steps away from the van.
"So," he says. And then nothing else, like it's her job to fill in the blanks. She stares him down; eventually he shrugs, and says, "What does this mean?"
Yeah, she was hoping he wouldn't ask her that. But not very hard, because she knows him, and this was kind of inevitable.
"I don't know," she admits.
"Gail -"
"Chris," she says. "I don't know, okay? All I know is that I'm tired, and we got the guy, and that's all that really matters."
"Yeah," he said. "We were good in there."
She raises an eyebrow at him, because, seriously? They spent half the time not doing anything and the other half locked in the restroom, not exactly her most impressive performance to date.
"Okay," he relents. "But we're good together."
"Yeah," she says. She's not entirely sure what she's agreeing to; right now, she's going to try to pretend it doesn't matter.
But when Chris takes her hand, pulls her towards him as he leans back against the van, she doesn't object. It doesn't mean anything, and it's definitely not a promise, but maybe it's a start. Or at least, something a little like forgiveness.