Working Late

CreepingMuse's She and He is canon as far as I'm concerned, so I've taken the liberty of filling in a little blank in her seventh chapter. When Abbie and Ichabod get back to her apartment, Jenny is gone, leaving behind an inedible Thanksgiving meal and a terrible mess. But where did she go?

It's dark at the precinct. Late. A few men are out on patrol but the captain sits at his desk, alone in the building. There is a mountain of paperwork he's legitimately behind on, but instead he's staring down the quickly growing file of cases he can't close. He wants to, would if someone would believe him, but can't. What would he write? Killer with no head, riding a damn horse… yeah. Oh, and the victims don't bleed. Because his axe cauterizes the wound immediately. Because it is 500 degrees. Except sometimes he shoots up labs with an automatic. Sure.

None of which he can tell Cynthia, his rightfully irate ex-wife, to explain why he and only he can be responsible for this crap. Nor Macey, his daughter, who deserves so much better. Maybe Cynthia's right, maybe he should give up joint custody -

"Hey."

The voice sets his pulse running. It's not exactly dread he feels, but something similar. Anticipation maybe. And damn if he didn't lock that front door. "Jenny Mills. Here to steal more firearms?"

"Of course not," she says with a sly grin. "I'm here to borrow them."

The captain laughs, heavy and slow. He's tired, deep in his bones, but he likes Jenny. She's got spice. And spine. "I've got to hand it to you, you sure know how to use 'em."

She shrugs against the door jamb. "Practice."

"Don't tell me."

"Wasn't going to."

He puts the file of impossible cases away in his desk drawer. The one that locks. "No guns here to borrow."

She doesn't budge.

"Goodnight, Miss Mills."

She still doesn't budge.

He lays his hands flat on the wide desk. "What do you want?" he asks.

"I met your daughter."

Here we go, he thinks. I know someone in a wheelchair, or has she always been a cripple?, or maybe, what happened? Was she in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did you put her in danger? Was it your fault? Did you shoot her yourself? It never gets easier.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says, a little louder than he needs to. No eye contact. He knows not to allow it. Not when it comes to Macey.

"She doesn't much like you."

"I said -"

"But she should."

He rears back, looking up despite himself. She's got half a smile trained on him, and those deep brown eyes, wise in a way you don't see every day. She'd make a great cop, if she cared to follow rules. "You think?"

"Yeah," she says. "You're a good guy."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm still not giving you a gun."

"I don't need one."

He waits for her to go, but she doesn't. "Aren't you supposed to be at Abbie's place, mashing potatoes?" he finally prompts.

Jenny smirks, pushing her hoodie back off her head. She's freezes in the doorway, long enough for them both to register the moment as a precipice. Then she steps into the captain's office; a few footfalls echo in the silent room. She folds her arms as she leans against the side of his desk. Closer than he lets people get. Most people, anyway. But Jenny intrigues him. "I'm not much of a cook," she confides. "Not really my thing."

He knows he could send her home before anything happens. He could leave this office with nothing to feel queasy about. But it's so late, past midnight. It's that hour between night and morning when consequences seem remote. No one else is here. And it's been a long, long time since he's felt a spark like this. It feels damn good. He leans back a little in his chair, letting his gaze sink into those doe eyes of hers. "Oh yeah?" he asks, the electricity growing between them.

"Yeah," she says, drawing even closer. Their knees touch.

He blinks slowly, his eyelids heavy. "What is your thing, Miss Jenny Mills?"

She doesn't pause and he doesn't hold back. Their lips crash together. She leans into him, dipping his chair back even further so that he's nearly horizontal. His hands glide up the back of her thighs, up over her hips, over her waist. It's good, sweet even, to kiss up into her this way, but he wants more. He pushes back upright and then guides her back against the desk. She scratches at his shoulders as he pushes his laptop out of the way and then lifts her, not at all carefully, onto his desk.

Her legs wrap around his hips and lock him against her; she's already unbuttoned the middle three buttons of his shirt before he realizes it. And she makes this noise, a little bit of a whine, like there's something she wants and isn't getting.

With an answering breath, he lifts her t-shirt and hoodie over her head at one time just as she tugs his shirt out of his waistband, and then he lets her push it off his shoulders. It's weird to be out of his clothes here, doesn't feel right, but he forces the thought from his mind as she kicks her boots off. He pops open the top button of her jeans. "Last chance," he says, his voice a little thick.

"Shut up," she insists, her open lips less than an inch from his.

Maybe it's because they fought side by side, because he watched her calmly hold off half a dozen armed men, but in a way he never felt with his ex-wife, or anyone else, he feels well matched. Like he's in this with an equal. They aren't smooth about getting rid of their clothes, but they're fast. She nearly climbs him, eager to reach him, and he lets her, falling into her. The shock of sudden satisfaction makes her gasp.

Neither is patient. He tries to lay her back onto the desk, but she holds on to his shoulders, keeping herself upright while she presses against him. His first instinct is to resist, to slow her down, to wrest control. But what would it be like to be drawn into her whirlwind? He groans at the delicious thought.

She isn't gentle and she's not much concerned with pleasing him, but he doesn't need it. The way she moves, her combination of need and strength, quickly undoes him. She clings to his hips, thrusting suddenly faster and harder, and his orgasm takes him by surprise.

"What are you, fifteen?" she complains against his ear.

"Not my fault," he returns, more tender than he intended.

She pulls back to look at him. She's regained her guard, or maybe it never left her, but the captain hasn't. His face is open wide, he can feel it. He hasn't been this exposed in years.

Jenny searches his eyes. Under her veneer of calm, he can see her making a decision. Her edges soften slightly. "Rain check then. Next time." The corner of her mouth slides into a grin.