Fic: Instructions for Defrost
Title: Instructions for Defrost
Author: swing_set
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Summary: A wee gen piece of Lestrade Donovan interation that came into my head after A Study in Pink.
“...considering the state of your knees.”
Her blood is up and pounding through her before he’s even stopped speaking. She looks at the bastard like he’s crazy even though she can still feel the ache of the muscles round her groin and yes her knees are tender but her thighs are worse and - so what?
Fuck him. She looks away from Anderson’s white face, turns and strides in to the crime scene, every step lancing shocks of rage into the ground - she’s tough, she’s smart, she doesn’t mince words and she’s a good copper. She can fuck whoever she likes. And then she passes Lestrade standing inside the lee of the door, waiting on freak and co. He looks at her, and she knows he heard it.
Suddenly she feels hot and sick, like she’s eaten something rotten.
-
Anderson won’t take a hint.
“But why not?”
She closes the door of the microwave and punches the buttons viciously. He’s too close to her in the tiny kitchenette; she can smell the stuff he puts in his hair.
“Because it’s stupid.” She watches the rice bubbling up, foaming and dancing in the bowl, and doesn’t look at him. “I’m not interested.”
“You were interested before...” He sounds confused. Not a man with a lot of friends, Anderson. She almost feels sorry for him - right up till the moment his hand slides onto her hip, round to her stomach.
She pulls his hand off by the wrist and lets it drop without turning round. “Drop dead.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” He’s annoyed, trying to get around to her shoulder so she’ll look at him. “You were fine with everything the other day. Is this about what that bloody lunatic said yesterday?”
“It doesn’t matter, this is a new day, isn’t it? And I’m not interested.”
“Look, this isn’t fair. I think I have the right-” He cuts off as footsteps sound at the doorway, and then Lestrade is standing there with a bowl in his hands.
“Making tea, Anderson?” His voice isn’t welcoming.
“Oh.” Anderson slides a few inches away from her. He’s still holding his yoghurt. “No.”
“Then piss off out of the kitchen, I need to wash this up.”
Anderson hovers for a second, then stalks out the door with the air of a man about to sit down and write a complaint.
Lestrade comes over to put his dish in the sink; she has to move over so he has room. Please don’t bring it up, she’s thinking, please don’t bring it up, please don’t bring it up. The silence is so thick it feels like steam.
Lestrade breaks it, ducking his head and glancing into the microwave. “What’ve you got? Curry?”
“My mum’s.” Her mum still brings over a pot of something every Sunday, even though she’s been out on her own seven years now and she can actually, despite what her mum thinks, do a bit better than beans on toast every night.
“Ohh, Mummy Donovan’s curry?” He dries his bowl on a teatowel, hovering round the microwave as she takes the rice out and drains it. She folds the curry over with a fork and the skin on the surface splits with a wash of fragrant steam. Okay, so maybe her mum’s a better cook.
“Go on, give me a bit.”
“Piss off boss! You’ve already had yours!”
“Yeah, but yours looks nicer.” He waves his spoon at her. “And I out-rank you.”
“I want a promotion,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him as she forks some of her curry into his bowl.
Sticking the spoon in his mouth immediately, he makes a noise that makes her blink. “I’m promoting your mother.”
He wanders out of the kitchen, eating her curry, and she shouts after him “She doesn’t work here!”
He waves and disappears into the office where the door is wedged permanently open by several boxes of cardboard files, sits down and rearranges the papers on his desk.
She’s smiling. Her stomach feels light. They’re okay. It’s okay. They're okay.
Author: swing_set
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Summary: A wee gen piece of Lestrade Donovan interation that came into my head after A Study in Pink.
“...considering the state of your knees.”
Her blood is up and pounding through her before he’s even stopped speaking. She looks at the bastard like he’s crazy even though she can still feel the ache of the muscles round her groin and yes her knees are tender but her thighs are worse and - so what?
Fuck him. She looks away from Anderson’s white face, turns and strides in to the crime scene, every step lancing shocks of rage into the ground - she’s tough, she’s smart, she doesn’t mince words and she’s a good copper. She can fuck whoever she likes. And then she passes Lestrade standing inside the lee of the door, waiting on freak and co. He looks at her, and she knows he heard it.
Suddenly she feels hot and sick, like she’s eaten something rotten.
-
Anderson won’t take a hint.
“But why not?”
She closes the door of the microwave and punches the buttons viciously. He’s too close to her in the tiny kitchenette; she can smell the stuff he puts in his hair.
“Because it’s stupid.” She watches the rice bubbling up, foaming and dancing in the bowl, and doesn’t look at him. “I’m not interested.”
“You were interested before...” He sounds confused. Not a man with a lot of friends, Anderson. She almost feels sorry for him - right up till the moment his hand slides onto her hip, round to her stomach.
She pulls his hand off by the wrist and lets it drop without turning round. “Drop dead.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” He’s annoyed, trying to get around to her shoulder so she’ll look at him. “You were fine with everything the other day. Is this about what that bloody lunatic said yesterday?”
“It doesn’t matter, this is a new day, isn’t it? And I’m not interested.”
“Look, this isn’t fair. I think I have the right-” He cuts off as footsteps sound at the doorway, and then Lestrade is standing there with a bowl in his hands.
“Making tea, Anderson?” His voice isn’t welcoming.
“Oh.” Anderson slides a few inches away from her. He’s still holding his yoghurt. “No.”
“Then piss off out of the kitchen, I need to wash this up.”
Anderson hovers for a second, then stalks out the door with the air of a man about to sit down and write a complaint.
Lestrade comes over to put his dish in the sink; she has to move over so he has room. Please don’t bring it up, she’s thinking, please don’t bring it up, please don’t bring it up. The silence is so thick it feels like steam.
Lestrade breaks it, ducking his head and glancing into the microwave. “What’ve you got? Curry?”
“My mum’s.” Her mum still brings over a pot of something every Sunday, even though she’s been out on her own seven years now and she can actually, despite what her mum thinks, do a bit better than beans on toast every night.
“Ohh, Mummy Donovan’s curry?” He dries his bowl on a teatowel, hovering round the microwave as she takes the rice out and drains it. She folds the curry over with a fork and the skin on the surface splits with a wash of fragrant steam. Okay, so maybe her mum’s a better cook.
“Go on, give me a bit.”
“Piss off boss! You’ve already had yours!”
“Yeah, but yours looks nicer.” He waves his spoon at her. “And I out-rank you.”
“I want a promotion,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him as she forks some of her curry into his bowl.
Sticking the spoon in his mouth immediately, he makes a noise that makes her blink. “I’m promoting your mother.”
He wanders out of the kitchen, eating her curry, and she shouts after him “She doesn’t work here!”
He waves and disappears into the office where the door is wedged permanently open by several boxes of cardboard files, sits down and rearranges the papers on his desk.
She’s smiling. Her stomach feels light. They’re okay. It’s okay. They're okay.