Five Times Sandra Kissed a Member of her Team (New Tricks)
I am utterly engrossed in New Tricks at the moment (somebody, please, join me!) and so I have produced fic. This is my first fic on here and my first after an extremely long hiatus, so it's as much a writing exercise as it is a story.
It may seem ridiculous laying it out so formally, when there are, at most, about two or three people other than me who might be interested, but I have dreams of one day New Tricks being an active fandom swamped with thousands of people writing fanfiction for it. Have I mentioned that Sandra Pullman is really, really awesome?
Title: Five Times Sandra Kissed a Member of her Team
Author: julesoh
Rating: 12 in British film ratings, as they're the only ones I understand. There's a lot of kissing (duh) and some naughty language.
Fandom: New Tricks
Word Count: 5976
Summary: See title. Essentially, this is just the result of my slightly bizarre, though completely understandable, adoration for Sandra Pullman. She's awesome.
Pairings: Sandra/team. Three of them are a given, but the other two are a surprise!
Brian.
Predictably, Gerry is furious that Brian has been chosen to go undercover rather than him. Doubly so, because Sandra is going undercover too, as Brian’s glamorous fiancée.
They’re attending a very exclusive party, posing as members of the nouveau riche and trying to get as much information as they can about a certain Henry Harrington, and just where he got his millions.
They’re waiting until half past eight to go in, watching the entrance from a rented limo with darkened windows to see who on their suspect list is going to be attending. Jack’s keeping up a commentary when anyone interesting arrives, Sandra is checking her hair and make-up, and Gerry is glaring at Brian as he fixes his wire.
“It’s not too late to draft me in instead, you know,” he says gruffly.
“Shut up, Gerry,” Sandra says mildly. “When you can lose the Cockney accent and prove to me that whenever you go to parties you don’t just start fights, then you can handle the undercover ops, all right?”
“I started a fight once,” Gerry protests loudly. “Once! And he assaulted you a couple of days later, if you remember, so I only start fights with bad apples!”
“And there are going to be a lot of bad apples attending tonight,” Jack pitches in from his vantage point. “Alan Devine and his wife just arrived. He’s escaped conviction six times - watch out for him, you two.”
“We’ll be fine,” Sandra reassures him, slipping on her earrings.
Gerry leans sideways and peeks over Jack’s shoulder. “Is that his wife in the red dress? Cor, she’s a looker! That must be half a million quid’s worth of diamonds she’s got round her neck.”
“Our Sandra’ll outshine her, no bother,” Jack says, looking around briefly to shoot Sandra a grin.
Brian finishes with his wire and turns to see Sandra smile back at Jack, and has to agree with him. She certainly looks the part of a spoiled fiancée, with her hair falling soft and shiny against her shoulders, and the royal blue, strapless dress hugging her figure and bringing out her eyes. He very briefly lets his gaze drift down to her legs, long and tanned, and then fixes his eyes upon her shoes.
“Are you going to be able to walk in those?” he asks, not just a little horrified. “They must be four bloody inches high!”
Sandra grins at him, all white teeth and glossy lips. “I could run in these shoes - I’ve had years of practice,” she informs him. “Are we ready?”
“We are,” Jack confirms. “Have you two got your stories straight?”
“Absolutely,” Brian says confidently. Sandra, to his delight, had been completely note-perfect every time he’d approached her to go over their covers, which pleased a man as meticulous as he was.
“Let’s go,” Sandra agrees. “We’ll turn on the mics once we’re in.”
Gerry glowers at them one last time before tapping on the partition between where they were sitting and the driver’s seat, and instructs him to take them to the front door.
Once there, Sandra gets out first, extending her legs gracefully. Brian moves to follow and finds his wrist caught in a vice-like grip.
He twists in annoyance, and finds himself almost nose-to-nose with Gerry. “Er, what-”
“You take bloody good care of her,” Gerry hisses. “Don’t go all nutty on us, because there’s over a dozen men in there who would not be best pleased if they were to find out you were undercover, all right? And I won’t be best pleased if there’s one single hair damaged on her head.”
Just as quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets go, and Brian barely has time to recover before he’s out of the car and Sandra has taken his hand, squeezing it as they smile for a few cameras and then head up the steps into the building.
Once inside, Brian looks around at the crowd of seemingly perfect people, all coiffed and dressed to perfection. He’s not a man given to vanity, but he suddenly feels very aware of his untameable hair and the tightness of his bow tie. The elaborately decorated hall is very warm and he can feel himself starting to sweat. Sandra’s hand is cool and dry in his and he grimaces, knowing that his own palm must be sticky and damp.
Sandra notices his discomfort quickly as they wander through the various groups of people, and turns to face him, keeping a smile on her face as she does so. “Warm in here, isn’t it?” she says casually, but her eyes are concerned.
“Very,” he croaks out, throat dry.
“I think we should get some drinks,” Sandra suggests.
Brian balks at that even more, and his terror must show on his face because Sandra leans in closer and says quietly, “No-one will notice that you aren’t drinking alcohol. And even if they do, they’ll just assume, correctly, that you’re an alcoholic. It’s very unlikely you’re the only one. Relax.”
“Maybe you should have let Gerry to do this,” he stutters in panic, and Sandra steps even closer.
“Brian, you’re doing fine. Kiss me.”
Brian’s eyes widen and he is just about to yelp, “What?” when Sandra moves in and presses her lips to his, slipping her arms around his neck smoothly.
Brian moves automatically to accommodate her, placing his hands on her hips and stopping her swaying forward. With those frightening heels, she’s very nearly the same height as him, and they fit together surprisingly well.
He’s used to kissing Esther chastely, a quick peck on the lips or the cheek, but this is very different. Sandra smells of sweet, smoky perfume, and her kiss is gentler than he’d have expected.
He kisses back after just a moment’s hesitation, and feels her mouth spread into a smile. She pulls back just a little and then tucks in against his shoulder. He’s very aware that they must be putting on a very good show of a couple in love, or lust, whichever, and he can’t help but feel more authentic; caught up in the moment as Sandra’s breath tickles his ear.
“I would never, ever have let Gerry do that,” Sandra murmurs. “Now, you are bloody good at your job, and you are more prepared for this than I thought it was possible to be. So relax, and sell our story to these people.”
“Okay,” Brian replies as she pulls away, a little dumbfounded but, seeing her confidence in him, steeling himself.
“I need a white wine,” Sandra says, normal volume this time, and runs her hand surreptitiously over her neckline. Brian follows her cue and re-adjusts his bow-tie, flicking his microphone on as he does.
“In a moment, darling,” he says, and slips his arm around her waist easily, turning her towards a group of people that they can recognise easily from the portfolio of photographs back in the car with Gerry and Jack. “First, I think we need to introduce ourselves to a few people. Excuse me, Henry Harrington, isn’t it? Nice to meet you …”
Clark.
It’s cold in the mortuary, and although she’s wearing a couple of layers, she shivers slightly in the chill.
A hand moves to rest on the small of her back gently. She’s not sure whose it is; all three of them are standing just behind her. It’s probably Jack’s, she thinks. Possibly Gerry’s.
She’s got one arm wrapped around herself, and she’s chewing the thumbnail of her other hand. They stay like that, standing in silence, for a long moment before Jack speaks.
“We can let his parents have him back now. Give him a proper funeral.”
“A hero’s funeral,” Brian adds.
“Nobody but us will see it like that, though, will they?” Sandra says through gritted teeth. She feels the hand on her back twitch slightly, and knows that all three of them are exchanging concerned glances behind her back without even having to look. “He’s just another copper, killed in the line of duty. They’re more interested in the big story, the rising levels of corruption in the Met.”
“We’ll know,” Gerry says quietly. “We’ll make sure his friends and family do, too.”
Of all of them, Gerry’s perhaps been the most worried during the past two weeks. Jack’s seen her when she gets personally involved before, seen her at her worst when she doesn’t sleep and snaps at everyone in sight in order to solve the case, when she’s willing to break the rules she’s usually telling them not to break. Brian understands what obsession can do to a person. She’s not been fair on any of them, she knows, and they’ve just taken it and done whatever she needed.
“Yeah,” she says after a minute. “Better than nothing.”
“Conroy’s dead,” Jack reminds her. “Gordon’s going down for a very long time, and Bevan’s taking early retirement. That’s a lot more than nothing.”
Yeah,” she says again, then hunches her shoulders. She’s not good at expressing her feelings, not with words. She’s not had enough practice. “It just,” she tries. “It just doesn’t feel like much of a victory, looking at him.”
“We know,” Brian says, and when she glances to the side she can see that he does; that they do. Sometimes, she really does love her team. She’s not that sure she would have accepted the promotion before any of this happened, let alone now. She’s as scared by that as she is angered by the sight of Clark’s body in front of her.
“We should say goodbye,” Jack says.
“What?” Gerry asks, sounding confused.
“Say goodbye. We never got to say it properly before he died, did we?” Jack replies easily.
“I don’t know, Jack. You might talk to the dead but it isn’t really my style,” Gerry says, and Sandra almost smirks at his typical scepticism.
“No, I think it’s a good idea,” she says firmly.
She steps forward, losing the hand on her back, and the three of them follow her and arrange themselves around the table.
Jack goes first, standing next to Sandra and patting Clark’s hand through the sheet. “You won’t be forgotten,” he tells him earnestly. “Never.”
Brian’s next, choking out a simple, “Goodbye Clarkie,” before removing his glasses an rubbing at his eyes.
Gerry might have been sceptical but he looks directly at Clark when he speaks, sounding as sombre as Sandra has ever heard him. “Good job, son. Bloody good copper.”
She knows it’s her turn now, and she steps up so that she’s standing by his head. Lying face up, the only sign that he isn’t just sleeping is the small, black hole between his eyes. If she didn’t know already that the back of his head is missing, it wouldn’t even be noticeable.
The hole is a little blurry, and she can feel her throat tightening and her nose tingling, but she knows that she won’t actually cry. She lifts her hand up to his face, not flinching when she touches his icy skin, and leans in close.
“I’m sorry it happened to you,” she whispers, and then closes her eyes and presses a kiss to his temple, her lips coming away chilled.
She can feel Brian and Gerry watching her from the other side, and Jack’s arm is purposely brushing hers. They won’t ask if she’s all right, they know better than that, but she knows that they’re there and that’s enough. More than she’s ever been used to.
They stand like that for another long moment before Gerry clears his throat. “Come on, guv. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“So will I,” Jack promises.
Brian smiles at her. “Me too.”
She really does love her team. All three remaining members.
Gerry.
He’s been driving as slowly and as carefully as he knows how for the past ten minutes, checking his mirrors diligently despite the fact it’s pitch black and the roads are empty, and choosing his route so that he avoids any speed bumps.
“Christ, Gerry, have you been taking driving lessons from Jack?” Sandra snaps eventually. “At this rate I’ll have to get bloody dressed for work by the time you get me home!”
“I was trying not to jog you!” Gerry retorts. “I was being a gentleman. I’d have thought you’d approve.”
Sandra huffs a little, but doesn’t take the opportunity to make a wisecrack. Gerry speeds up a little but worries more, and glances over at the passenger seat.
She’s hunched over, his jacket pulled tightly around her, and she’s shivering almost imperceptibly. He reaches over silently and turns on the heating full blast. It takes her a moment to notice, but then she takes her hands out of the folds of the coat and warms them in the airflow.
“Thanks.”
“How’s the head?” Gerry asks.
“All right,” she shrugs. “I’ve had worse falling off horses.”
“What about the ribs?”
“Don’t bloody fuss.”
“You know, you don’t have to come in tomorrow - well, today,” Gerry starts cautiously. “I mean, the doctor said you should take it easy for a couple of days.”
“The doctor also discharged me from hospital because he said that I was fine,” Sandra informed him. “Back off, Gerry. I’ll be doing bloody paperwork all day, not chasing down criminals.”
“All right,” Gerry says, holding a hand up to mollify her.
They travel in silence for a couple of miles, until Gerry starts to sweat and his nose starts to tickle from the hot air.
“You warmed up yet?” he asks.
“No,” Sandra says. “It’s bloody freezing.” She looks defeated and pissed-off for a moment, sinking deeper into her chair, but then she suddenly grins and sits up straighter, her eyes flashing at Gerry with some of her usual spirit. “I know what would help, though,” she says.
Gerry frowns at her, not liking the sound of this. “What?” he asks warily.
“Where’s your bottle of scotch?”
“Scotch? What scotch?” Gerry asks, pretending to concentrate on the road.
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Gerry. I know you keep a secret stash in the office and there’s no way you don’t have at least a travel mini in here!”
She starts searching, opening the glove compartment and fishing under the seat determinedly. Gerry sighs and gives in.
“Pocket behind your seat,” he admits reluctantly, and she grins triumphantly and roots around for it, holding it up victoriously when she finds it.
“Cheers!” she says with a cackle, and takes a hefty swallow.
“Bloody hell, Sandra, I doubt you should be downing it like that when you’ve just had painkillers!”
“That’s good stuff, Gerry,” she comments, and she’s still grinning so he lets her away with it.
“Yeah, it is. Now put it back, we’re nearly there.”
He pulls over outside her house and switches off the engine, getting out of the car. Sandra looks at him over the top of the roof, one eyebrow lifted.
“Don’t bloody start,” he says pre-emptively. “Jack’d kill me if he thought I’d just left you on the doorstep.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Come on.”
He follows her up the drive and into the corridor, sticking close. She’s not all that steady on her feet, banging against the walls as she kicks off her shoes and then heads for the kitchen. When they get there she lists dangerously to the side and he has to grab her elbow to prevent her falling, slipping his jacket smoothly off her shoulders and steering her onto a chair.
She smiles up at him a little drunkenly, resting her head on her hands. She’s startlingly beautiful in the bright lighting, even with the dried blood on her forehead from the cut that’s only just peeping out from her hairline, and the slightly pale cast to her cheeks.
“You need to eat,” he tells her. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
Sandra laughs woozily. “Good luck!”
He frowns, confused, but then realises what she means when he looks in her fridge and cupboards and finds them practically bare. “Jesus. Do you ever eat in?”
“There might be some rice in the cupboard above the oven. Oh, and some cereal under the sink.”
He goes for the cereal, dumping a couple of weetabix into a bowl and heaping them with sugar, then adding some surprisingly in-date milk.
“Get that down you,” he orders, shoving it in front of her. “Soak up the pills and booze.”
He leaves her to eat while he hangs up his jacket and fetches her a hooded sweatshirt from the back of her sofa, and quickly rings Brian and Jack to let them know he’s got her home safely.
She’s finished and waiting when he gets back into the kitchen, looking much more with it, but also more serious.
“Here,” he says, tossing her the jumper.
She pulls it on gratefully. The house is fairly warm, though not quite as sweltering as his car was, but she’s probably still in delayed shock.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, looking up at him.
“You’re welcome.”
“Not just for bringing me home,” she continues firmly. “For giving that bastard a good smack in the balls. I was with it enough to see that.”
“Pervert twat deserved it, and more,” Gerry says darkly, remembering the way Iain Jones had been looming over Sandra when they’d finally found them in the car park.
He’d smacked her into the wall first, giving her that cut and the mild concussion, then spun her around and punched her in the ribs, just to make sure she couldn’t fight back. When they’d got there, he was in the process of copping a bloody good feel.
Gerry and Brian had pulled him off her, letting Jack check she was all right, and when he’d caught a glimpse of the blood pouring down over her face, he’d lost control, nearly cracking his knuckles on his face and then booting him between his legs. Jones had gone down, and he’d given him a swift kick up the arse when he did, although he wasn’t so sure Sandra had seen that one.
“I don’t-” Sandra begins shakily, “I don’t know how far he would have gone if you hadn’t turned up when you did.” Her voice cracks slightly as she finishes speaking, although she doesn’t look away and she’s not crying. Sandra never gets upset, not in front of them; instead she gets furious, and Gerry isn’t shocked when she suddenly shoots to her feet and swings her arm violently, sending the bowl flying off the table to crash against the wall. “That fucking bastard, I wish I’d been the one to smack him - he’d better go down for years-”
She flails her arms wildly, and Gerry swoops in, catching them and holding them gently but securely to her sides. He looks at her, making sure she’s listening. “He will. He will, Sandra, okay? Relax. We found you.”
She stares back at him, breathing heavily, but he can feel her loosening up slightly in his grip, and so he backs off a little.
He wasn’t surprised when she smashed the bowl, but he is surprised by her next move, as she follows him and presses up against him, then stretches up on her toes and meets his lips with her own. She keeps her eyes open, and it’s almost as if she’s challenging him, although he’s not sure whether she wants him to respond or to pull away.
Totally confused, he lets his body take over, closing his eyes and dipping his head down to reach her better and letting her push his mouth open with her tongue.
He would never admit to it, but he’s imagined this not just a few times; kissing the boss. He’s not bloody blind, she’s what he wouldn’t hesitate to call a knockout, made-up or not. At the moment she’s dishevelled and bruised, and she’s just as gorgeous as when she’s in her work clothes, perfectly presented and screaming at him for breaking the rules. He has to confess to himself that he does have a special fondness for how she looks when she’s yelling at him, but like this, vulnerable and defiant, he finds her almost impossible to resist.
She lives up to his fantasies and more, her body warm and soft against his, her hands moving to squeeze the back of his neck, her tongue flicking against his. She tastes of sugar and wheat, and she smells bittersweet - perfume mixed with whatever disinfectant they used on her forehead.
She’s smaller than he is and a couple of inches shorter without her usual heels, but he’s wrapped up in her and she’s determined, so he lets her push him so that the kitchen table is digging into his back. Her hair is tucked into her hood, and he reaches up to free it, then cups the back of her head, caressing lightly.
She withdraws slowly, staying so close that their noses are brushing together, and then touches her forehead to his. He stills instantly, willing to accommodate whatever she wants. They stay like that for a long moment, only the vague whirr of the fridge in the background and the sounds of their own breathing filling the room.
When he cracks open his eyes, hers are shut, and he waits patiently until she’s ready to look at him. She smiles sheepishly.
“I suspect that was a mistake,” she says.
Gerry forces his mind to take over again, and twitches one corner of his mouth. “Probably.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, it wasn’t exactly hell to go through,” he teases cautiously, and is rewarded with a chuckle.
“I take back 50% of the times I’ve called you a tosser,” she tells him. They’re still in one another’s arms, her hands resting on his shoulder blades now while his are still tangled in her hair.
“Only 50%?”
“Yes. The rest of the time I’m completely justified,” she says, still smiling, and then sobers up. “I am sorry, though. If I was leading you on.”
“You’re tired, and still half in shock,” Gerry begins, but she quickly cuts him off.
“Don’t make bloody excuses for me. I just wanted to say thank you, and I cocked it up.”
“Not as badly as you think,” Gerry says quickly, fixing her with as stern a look as he can muster. “Don’t worry. It’s forgotten.”
“Thank you,” she says again, and leans in very slowly to press another kiss, this one less assertive, to his cheek. “You can remember that one,” she murmurs, and then pulls away entirely.
He can’t deny that he misses the feel of her, that he didn’t enjoy it and that, if she’d been in a less vulnerable state of mind, he wouldn’t have involved himself much more. But she looks so much better than she has done all night, brighter than she did in the car and less brittle than she seemed in the hospital, that he can’t dwell on it for too long. She does, however, look knackered.
“Come on, you should get some sleep,” he says, then adds with a mischievous wink, “I’ll tuck you in if you want.”
He laughs out loud at her reply. “Tosser.”
Strickland.
“You were in the same class as that pompous git?” Sandra asks through her laughter. “How did you cope?”
“By remaining calm and following the rules at all times,” Strickland informs her, adopting a serious expression.
“Bollocks,” Sandra scoffs. Strickland doesn’t react to her language as he might have done two years ago when they first met. “Come on, you must have got up to something - anything to dislodge the stick up his arse! It would’ve been irresistible.”
“Are suggesting that my willpower isn’t strong enough for me to resist playing a few pranks on a classmate?” Strickland asks, placing a hand on his chest in mock outrage.
He’s aware that he’s flirting a little bit with her, that he’s been straying dangerously close to doing so since halfway through D. A. C. Martin Hutchinson’s extremely boring, long-winded speech, when Sandra had leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Sorry if he’s one of your mates from Hendon, but if he goes on much longer I’m going to die of boredom.”
“Actually,” Strickland had whispered back, “I do know him from Hendon. I couldn’t stand him; he was just as boring back then, too.”
Sandra had grinned at him. “Well then, let’s go and take advantage of the free bar.”
He wouldn’t usually have let himself be persuaded to give the speeches a miss. He had given a fair few of them himself at these kind of events, and had indeed defended them staunchly to his colleagues, believing firmly that they helped raise morale in the various departments and that they weren’t all just about bureaucracy and mingling with the folks at the top.
However, egged on by his boredom, his lingering dislike of Hutchinson, and Sandra’s infectious smile, he allowed her to keep topping up their glasses all night as they avoided Hutchinson like the plague.
She’s wearing one of those smiles now, a real open-mouthed one, not one of the placatory ones she gives him when he’s just told her to do something she doesn’t particularly want to do. Her eyes are shining with amusement as she says, “No, I’m not suggesting it, I know. In case you’d forgotten, I work with three extremely overgrown teenage boys.”
“Fair enough,” Strickland gives in. “You’re right, we did play some awful tricks on him, but none that it would be appropriate to tell one of the officers under my charge about.”
“I don’t know,” Sandra muses. “Gerry would probably respect you more if he knew you could play a good prank, he loves that sort of thing.” She smiles at him for a moment, and then suddenly looks stricken. “Not that he doesn’t respect you as it is, sir-”
“Relax, Sandra. We’re not on duty now.”
She doesn’t look quite so stricken, but she’s gone very still, looking up at him with questioning eyes. He stares back, not quite sure what to do next. He knows he’s not in the most sober state of mind, and neither is she after a fair few glasses of wine, but it’s proving very hard to look away.
The taxi driver breaks the moment for them, taking a mini-roundabout far too fast and jolting the pair of them so that Sandra falls against his shoulder and Strickland has to brace himself against the door.
“Jesus - where did you learn to drive?” Sandra snaps, trying to push herself back into her seat but finding it difficult. She’s loose-limbed and a little uncoordinated, and after a moment she slumps back against him, looking up hopelessly.
Strickland is strictly professional at all times, but he admits to a certain affection for Sandra above the rest of the staff he has working for him. On a work level, she’s very good at her job, and although he’s fairly sure there’s more going on at UCOS than he will ever be privy to, he doesn’t know of anyone else who could handle Halford, Lane and Standing the way that she does. On a personal level, she’s one of the most intriguing women he’s ever met, strong but not ruthless, outspoken but eloquent, and undeniably alluring.
When she’s like this, at ease with him and relaxed, he thinks he’s at least half in love with her, and so when she moves her leg closer to his and reaches up to play with his loosened tie, he doesn’t make much of an attempt to resist.
“Sandra,” he says, and if he meant it to sound like a warning then he’s failed miserably.
“Sir,” she replies innocently, lips curving up once more and trying to push herself up once more with her other arm. She’s successful this time, but ends up closer to him than before.
Her face is tantalisingly close to his, and before he realises it he’s moved automatically to accommodate her, slipping his arms down to hold her hips. She grins at him, which is becoming an awfully familiar and pleasing sight, and then she moves in.
It’s not a tidy kiss. They’re in too awkward a position for any finesse, and they bump teeth noisily before Sandra shifts again so that her hands are on his chest and she‘s nearly on top of him, holding herself up and giving herself full control.
He relinquishes easily, a little overwhelmed by just the touch of her lips against his. She’s very firm, almost forceful, but her kiss is soft, not bruising, as she tilts her head to the side to avoid bashing their noses together painfully. Her tongue is surprisingly delicate in contrast, lightly exploring, and she tastes of wine and something sugary.
He nearly whimpers when she pulls back, but then she’s kissing his jaw and tracing a path down to his neck, her hair tickling his cheek. He closes his eyes and lets her continue, and runs his hands up her sides and across her back.
The taxi driver is the one to interrupt them yet again, coughing loudly and falsely from the front seat.
Sandra ignores him completely, but Strickland jerks and sits up, feeling his cheeks flush even more than they already were. “Sandra,” he hisses.
“What?” she asks into his neck.
“The car’s stopped - we’re here,” he tells her.
“What?” she asks, having clearly been as oblivious to the car stopping moving as he was. “Shit, that’s my house.”
“This is the right address, innit?” the driver asks lazily from the front seat, cocking an eyebrow at Strickland in the rear view mirror.
“Yes, yes, it is. Thank you,” Strickland says shortly.
Sandra rolls off him, tidying her hair and patting at her lips. “Shit,” she repeats after a moment.
“Sandra, don’t-”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she cuts him off determinedly. “That was completely inappropriate and I apologise. I just - I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink and-”
“It’s all right,” Strickland says as soon as he can get a word in. “I’m hardly going to press charges for assault. I was fairly complicit myself.”
Sandra’s eyes are wide as she looks at him. “Even so, sir, I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t make a habit of going around kissing higher-ranking officers. Not any more.”
Strickland blinks slightly at that last part, but then considers the first and decides that it’s almost a compliment. “Don’t worry,” he says eventually. Time for some damage control - he thinks he’s starting to sober up, because he can see that she’s keen to forget the whole thing and he’s beginning to realise what an idiot he was not to stop it all immediately. “It was just a spur of the moment thing, largely influenced by too much wine and boredom.”
She hesitates, then looks relieved. “Absolutely.”
“I haven’t got all night, you know,” the tax driver interrupts from the front again, and Sandra shoots him a quick but fierce glare.
“I should go,” she says. “How much do I owe you for the taxi?”
“Nothing,” Strickland says with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry. Enjoy the rest of your night, Sandra.”
Sandra gets out of the car, looking quite flushed herself, Strickland notices, and all the more beautiful for it. She turns back before shutting the door.
“I just - it’s not that it wasn’t-” she stammers, and then gives up and simply smiles. “Sorry, sir.”
The door shuts and the driver starts to pull away. Strickland watches as Sandra walks up to her front door, and then turns and gives a little wave goodbye.
Waving back, he murmurs to himself, “You don’t have to be.”
Jack.
The last person Jack expects to find knocking on his door at half eleven at night on a Saturday is Sandra, especially given recent events.
Since telling him he was wrong about her father seven weeks ago, she’s been nothing but civil - even friendly - to him, but there’s been something in those blue eyes that’s not quite right.
He’s looked up sometimes to catch her watching him, and she’s always held his gaze for a moment before turning away. She’s never been one to back down from a fight, and he knows that she’s been staying behind at work late and going off on her own off-duty missions, trying to find some way to prove that he’s wrong.
He wishes he was.
“Sandra, what is it?” he asks. It’s raining heavily, her jacket is wet through and her hair, usually so perfect, is limp and clinging to her neck. “You’re soaking, come inside.”
“No,” Sandra says, holding her hands up when Jack starts to move aside. “I’m fine. I just - needed to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
Sandra looks pained, mouth twisting briefly before she speaks. “You were right.”
She doesn’t look away, and Jack doesn’t either - it wouldn’t be fair, even though it’s hard to see her like this. To see what he’s done. The rain, falling on her face, makes it impossible to tell whether she’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and winces at how useless the words sound.
Sandra shrugs jerkily. “You have no reason to be. I - I searched for anything that would prove you wrong. I interviewed everyone involved, and all of their relatives. I upset a lot of people - but then, I’ve never cared about that, have I? Probably got that from my dad.”
“You got a lot of things from your dad, but he wasn’t heartless and neither are you.”
“I don’t believe that, but thank you for trying to make me feel better. I don’t deserve it.”
“You deserve a lot more than you think you do,” Jack tells her softly, and this time she does break eye contact, looking away. He reaches out, gently, to hook her chin with a finger and tug it back around. “Sandra.”
“Please don’t give up on me, Jack,” she asks suddenly, stepping forward so that his hand ends up on her shoulder. “You’re the closest thing to family I’ve got left.”
He stills, surprised by the statement itself and the odd, unfamiliar desperation in her voice. “But-”
“I’m closer to you than I ever was to my mum, and I lost my dad years ago. I just didn’t realise that until today.”
It’s as close as Sandra will ever come to admitting that she needs someone, and Jack can’t help the huge rush of affection he feels for her. He’s loved her for years, remembers seeing her as a devastated fourteen-year-old when her father died, and then as an impossibly gorgeous young woman applying for a position on the murder squad. And now she’s his boss, angry and fiery and far too independent for her own good, but she can be so vulnerable it makes him ache. It makes him think of Mary.
“I’ll always be here, Sandra. And I’ll always comes back.”
“Thank you,” Sandra says, almost whispering, and then she leans forward and he knows what’s going to happen, and shuts his eyes.
Her lips are cold and wet against his, but soft - softer than Mary’s, he thinks, but stronger and more insistent. She only kisses him briefly, but he knows her touch will stay with him for much longer.
When she pulls away, he keeps his eyes closed for a long moment, and when he opens them again she’s already getting into her car.
Two weeks later, Ricky Hanson goes to court and gets off scot-free, again, and Jack decides it’s time for him to head off for a while. He leaves them a note, and he hopes that Sandra will remember his promise. He’s going to stick to it.
It may seem ridiculous laying it out so formally, when there are, at most, about two or three people other than me who might be interested, but I have dreams of one day New Tricks being an active fandom swamped with thousands of people writing fanfiction for it. Have I mentioned that Sandra Pullman is really, really awesome?
Title: Five Times Sandra Kissed a Member of her Team
Author: julesoh
Rating: 12 in British film ratings, as they're the only ones I understand. There's a lot of kissing (duh) and some naughty language.
Fandom: New Tricks
Word Count: 5976
Summary: See title. Essentially, this is just the result of my slightly bizarre, though completely understandable, adoration for Sandra Pullman. She's awesome.
Pairings: Sandra/team. Three of them are a given, but the other two are a surprise!
Brian.
Predictably, Gerry is furious that Brian has been chosen to go undercover rather than him. Doubly so, because Sandra is going undercover too, as Brian’s glamorous fiancée.
They’re attending a very exclusive party, posing as members of the nouveau riche and trying to get as much information as they can about a certain Henry Harrington, and just where he got his millions.
They’re waiting until half past eight to go in, watching the entrance from a rented limo with darkened windows to see who on their suspect list is going to be attending. Jack’s keeping up a commentary when anyone interesting arrives, Sandra is checking her hair and make-up, and Gerry is glaring at Brian as he fixes his wire.
“It’s not too late to draft me in instead, you know,” he says gruffly.
“Shut up, Gerry,” Sandra says mildly. “When you can lose the Cockney accent and prove to me that whenever you go to parties you don’t just start fights, then you can handle the undercover ops, all right?”
“I started a fight once,” Gerry protests loudly. “Once! And he assaulted you a couple of days later, if you remember, so I only start fights with bad apples!”
“And there are going to be a lot of bad apples attending tonight,” Jack pitches in from his vantage point. “Alan Devine and his wife just arrived. He’s escaped conviction six times - watch out for him, you two.”
“We’ll be fine,” Sandra reassures him, slipping on her earrings.
Gerry leans sideways and peeks over Jack’s shoulder. “Is that his wife in the red dress? Cor, she’s a looker! That must be half a million quid’s worth of diamonds she’s got round her neck.”
“Our Sandra’ll outshine her, no bother,” Jack says, looking around briefly to shoot Sandra a grin.
Brian finishes with his wire and turns to see Sandra smile back at Jack, and has to agree with him. She certainly looks the part of a spoiled fiancée, with her hair falling soft and shiny against her shoulders, and the royal blue, strapless dress hugging her figure and bringing out her eyes. He very briefly lets his gaze drift down to her legs, long and tanned, and then fixes his eyes upon her shoes.
“Are you going to be able to walk in those?” he asks, not just a little horrified. “They must be four bloody inches high!”
Sandra grins at him, all white teeth and glossy lips. “I could run in these shoes - I’ve had years of practice,” she informs him. “Are we ready?”
“We are,” Jack confirms. “Have you two got your stories straight?”
“Absolutely,” Brian says confidently. Sandra, to his delight, had been completely note-perfect every time he’d approached her to go over their covers, which pleased a man as meticulous as he was.
“Let’s go,” Sandra agrees. “We’ll turn on the mics once we’re in.”
Gerry glowers at them one last time before tapping on the partition between where they were sitting and the driver’s seat, and instructs him to take them to the front door.
Once there, Sandra gets out first, extending her legs gracefully. Brian moves to follow and finds his wrist caught in a vice-like grip.
He twists in annoyance, and finds himself almost nose-to-nose with Gerry. “Er, what-”
“You take bloody good care of her,” Gerry hisses. “Don’t go all nutty on us, because there’s over a dozen men in there who would not be best pleased if they were to find out you were undercover, all right? And I won’t be best pleased if there’s one single hair damaged on her head.”
Just as quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets go, and Brian barely has time to recover before he’s out of the car and Sandra has taken his hand, squeezing it as they smile for a few cameras and then head up the steps into the building.
Once inside, Brian looks around at the crowd of seemingly perfect people, all coiffed and dressed to perfection. He’s not a man given to vanity, but he suddenly feels very aware of his untameable hair and the tightness of his bow tie. The elaborately decorated hall is very warm and he can feel himself starting to sweat. Sandra’s hand is cool and dry in his and he grimaces, knowing that his own palm must be sticky and damp.
Sandra notices his discomfort quickly as they wander through the various groups of people, and turns to face him, keeping a smile on her face as she does so. “Warm in here, isn’t it?” she says casually, but her eyes are concerned.
“Very,” he croaks out, throat dry.
“I think we should get some drinks,” Sandra suggests.
Brian balks at that even more, and his terror must show on his face because Sandra leans in closer and says quietly, “No-one will notice that you aren’t drinking alcohol. And even if they do, they’ll just assume, correctly, that you’re an alcoholic. It’s very unlikely you’re the only one. Relax.”
“Maybe you should have let Gerry to do this,” he stutters in panic, and Sandra steps even closer.
“Brian, you’re doing fine. Kiss me.”
Brian’s eyes widen and he is just about to yelp, “What?” when Sandra moves in and presses her lips to his, slipping her arms around his neck smoothly.
Brian moves automatically to accommodate her, placing his hands on her hips and stopping her swaying forward. With those frightening heels, she’s very nearly the same height as him, and they fit together surprisingly well.
He’s used to kissing Esther chastely, a quick peck on the lips or the cheek, but this is very different. Sandra smells of sweet, smoky perfume, and her kiss is gentler than he’d have expected.
He kisses back after just a moment’s hesitation, and feels her mouth spread into a smile. She pulls back just a little and then tucks in against his shoulder. He’s very aware that they must be putting on a very good show of a couple in love, or lust, whichever, and he can’t help but feel more authentic; caught up in the moment as Sandra’s breath tickles his ear.
“I would never, ever have let Gerry do that,” Sandra murmurs. “Now, you are bloody good at your job, and you are more prepared for this than I thought it was possible to be. So relax, and sell our story to these people.”
“Okay,” Brian replies as she pulls away, a little dumbfounded but, seeing her confidence in him, steeling himself.
“I need a white wine,” Sandra says, normal volume this time, and runs her hand surreptitiously over her neckline. Brian follows her cue and re-adjusts his bow-tie, flicking his microphone on as he does.
“In a moment, darling,” he says, and slips his arm around her waist easily, turning her towards a group of people that they can recognise easily from the portfolio of photographs back in the car with Gerry and Jack. “First, I think we need to introduce ourselves to a few people. Excuse me, Henry Harrington, isn’t it? Nice to meet you …”
Clark.
It’s cold in the mortuary, and although she’s wearing a couple of layers, she shivers slightly in the chill.
A hand moves to rest on the small of her back gently. She’s not sure whose it is; all three of them are standing just behind her. It’s probably Jack’s, she thinks. Possibly Gerry’s.
She’s got one arm wrapped around herself, and she’s chewing the thumbnail of her other hand. They stay like that, standing in silence, for a long moment before Jack speaks.
“We can let his parents have him back now. Give him a proper funeral.”
“A hero’s funeral,” Brian adds.
“Nobody but us will see it like that, though, will they?” Sandra says through gritted teeth. She feels the hand on her back twitch slightly, and knows that all three of them are exchanging concerned glances behind her back without even having to look. “He’s just another copper, killed in the line of duty. They’re more interested in the big story, the rising levels of corruption in the Met.”
“We’ll know,” Gerry says quietly. “We’ll make sure his friends and family do, too.”
Of all of them, Gerry’s perhaps been the most worried during the past two weeks. Jack’s seen her when she gets personally involved before, seen her at her worst when she doesn’t sleep and snaps at everyone in sight in order to solve the case, when she’s willing to break the rules she’s usually telling them not to break. Brian understands what obsession can do to a person. She’s not been fair on any of them, she knows, and they’ve just taken it and done whatever she needed.
“Yeah,” she says after a minute. “Better than nothing.”
“Conroy’s dead,” Jack reminds her. “Gordon’s going down for a very long time, and Bevan’s taking early retirement. That’s a lot more than nothing.”
Yeah,” she says again, then hunches her shoulders. She’s not good at expressing her feelings, not with words. She’s not had enough practice. “It just,” she tries. “It just doesn’t feel like much of a victory, looking at him.”
“We know,” Brian says, and when she glances to the side she can see that he does; that they do. Sometimes, she really does love her team. She’s not that sure she would have accepted the promotion before any of this happened, let alone now. She’s as scared by that as she is angered by the sight of Clark’s body in front of her.
“We should say goodbye,” Jack says.
“What?” Gerry asks, sounding confused.
“Say goodbye. We never got to say it properly before he died, did we?” Jack replies easily.
“I don’t know, Jack. You might talk to the dead but it isn’t really my style,” Gerry says, and Sandra almost smirks at his typical scepticism.
“No, I think it’s a good idea,” she says firmly.
She steps forward, losing the hand on her back, and the three of them follow her and arrange themselves around the table.
Jack goes first, standing next to Sandra and patting Clark’s hand through the sheet. “You won’t be forgotten,” he tells him earnestly. “Never.”
Brian’s next, choking out a simple, “Goodbye Clarkie,” before removing his glasses an rubbing at his eyes.
Gerry might have been sceptical but he looks directly at Clark when he speaks, sounding as sombre as Sandra has ever heard him. “Good job, son. Bloody good copper.”
She knows it’s her turn now, and she steps up so that she’s standing by his head. Lying face up, the only sign that he isn’t just sleeping is the small, black hole between his eyes. If she didn’t know already that the back of his head is missing, it wouldn’t even be noticeable.
The hole is a little blurry, and she can feel her throat tightening and her nose tingling, but she knows that she won’t actually cry. She lifts her hand up to his face, not flinching when she touches his icy skin, and leans in close.
“I’m sorry it happened to you,” she whispers, and then closes her eyes and presses a kiss to his temple, her lips coming away chilled.
She can feel Brian and Gerry watching her from the other side, and Jack’s arm is purposely brushing hers. They won’t ask if she’s all right, they know better than that, but she knows that they’re there and that’s enough. More than she’s ever been used to.
They stand like that for another long moment before Gerry clears his throat. “Come on, guv. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“So will I,” Jack promises.
Brian smiles at her. “Me too.”
She really does love her team. All three remaining members.
Gerry.
He’s been driving as slowly and as carefully as he knows how for the past ten minutes, checking his mirrors diligently despite the fact it’s pitch black and the roads are empty, and choosing his route so that he avoids any speed bumps.
“Christ, Gerry, have you been taking driving lessons from Jack?” Sandra snaps eventually. “At this rate I’ll have to get bloody dressed for work by the time you get me home!”
“I was trying not to jog you!” Gerry retorts. “I was being a gentleman. I’d have thought you’d approve.”
Sandra huffs a little, but doesn’t take the opportunity to make a wisecrack. Gerry speeds up a little but worries more, and glances over at the passenger seat.
She’s hunched over, his jacket pulled tightly around her, and she’s shivering almost imperceptibly. He reaches over silently and turns on the heating full blast. It takes her a moment to notice, but then she takes her hands out of the folds of the coat and warms them in the airflow.
“Thanks.”
“How’s the head?” Gerry asks.
“All right,” she shrugs. “I’ve had worse falling off horses.”
“What about the ribs?”
“Don’t bloody fuss.”
“You know, you don’t have to come in tomorrow - well, today,” Gerry starts cautiously. “I mean, the doctor said you should take it easy for a couple of days.”
“The doctor also discharged me from hospital because he said that I was fine,” Sandra informed him. “Back off, Gerry. I’ll be doing bloody paperwork all day, not chasing down criminals.”
“All right,” Gerry says, holding a hand up to mollify her.
They travel in silence for a couple of miles, until Gerry starts to sweat and his nose starts to tickle from the hot air.
“You warmed up yet?” he asks.
“No,” Sandra says. “It’s bloody freezing.” She looks defeated and pissed-off for a moment, sinking deeper into her chair, but then she suddenly grins and sits up straighter, her eyes flashing at Gerry with some of her usual spirit. “I know what would help, though,” she says.
Gerry frowns at her, not liking the sound of this. “What?” he asks warily.
“Where’s your bottle of scotch?”
“Scotch? What scotch?” Gerry asks, pretending to concentrate on the road.
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Gerry. I know you keep a secret stash in the office and there’s no way you don’t have at least a travel mini in here!”
She starts searching, opening the glove compartment and fishing under the seat determinedly. Gerry sighs and gives in.
“Pocket behind your seat,” he admits reluctantly, and she grins triumphantly and roots around for it, holding it up victoriously when she finds it.
“Cheers!” she says with a cackle, and takes a hefty swallow.
“Bloody hell, Sandra, I doubt you should be downing it like that when you’ve just had painkillers!”
“That’s good stuff, Gerry,” she comments, and she’s still grinning so he lets her away with it.
“Yeah, it is. Now put it back, we’re nearly there.”
He pulls over outside her house and switches off the engine, getting out of the car. Sandra looks at him over the top of the roof, one eyebrow lifted.
“Don’t bloody start,” he says pre-emptively. “Jack’d kill me if he thought I’d just left you on the doorstep.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Come on.”
He follows her up the drive and into the corridor, sticking close. She’s not all that steady on her feet, banging against the walls as she kicks off her shoes and then heads for the kitchen. When they get there she lists dangerously to the side and he has to grab her elbow to prevent her falling, slipping his jacket smoothly off her shoulders and steering her onto a chair.
She smiles up at him a little drunkenly, resting her head on her hands. She’s startlingly beautiful in the bright lighting, even with the dried blood on her forehead from the cut that’s only just peeping out from her hairline, and the slightly pale cast to her cheeks.
“You need to eat,” he tells her. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
Sandra laughs woozily. “Good luck!”
He frowns, confused, but then realises what she means when he looks in her fridge and cupboards and finds them practically bare. “Jesus. Do you ever eat in?”
“There might be some rice in the cupboard above the oven. Oh, and some cereal under the sink.”
He goes for the cereal, dumping a couple of weetabix into a bowl and heaping them with sugar, then adding some surprisingly in-date milk.
“Get that down you,” he orders, shoving it in front of her. “Soak up the pills and booze.”
He leaves her to eat while he hangs up his jacket and fetches her a hooded sweatshirt from the back of her sofa, and quickly rings Brian and Jack to let them know he’s got her home safely.
She’s finished and waiting when he gets back into the kitchen, looking much more with it, but also more serious.
“Here,” he says, tossing her the jumper.
She pulls it on gratefully. The house is fairly warm, though not quite as sweltering as his car was, but she’s probably still in delayed shock.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, looking up at him.
“You’re welcome.”
“Not just for bringing me home,” she continues firmly. “For giving that bastard a good smack in the balls. I was with it enough to see that.”
“Pervert twat deserved it, and more,” Gerry says darkly, remembering the way Iain Jones had been looming over Sandra when they’d finally found them in the car park.
He’d smacked her into the wall first, giving her that cut and the mild concussion, then spun her around and punched her in the ribs, just to make sure she couldn’t fight back. When they’d got there, he was in the process of copping a bloody good feel.
Gerry and Brian had pulled him off her, letting Jack check she was all right, and when he’d caught a glimpse of the blood pouring down over her face, he’d lost control, nearly cracking his knuckles on his face and then booting him between his legs. Jones had gone down, and he’d given him a swift kick up the arse when he did, although he wasn’t so sure Sandra had seen that one.
“I don’t-” Sandra begins shakily, “I don’t know how far he would have gone if you hadn’t turned up when you did.” Her voice cracks slightly as she finishes speaking, although she doesn’t look away and she’s not crying. Sandra never gets upset, not in front of them; instead she gets furious, and Gerry isn’t shocked when she suddenly shoots to her feet and swings her arm violently, sending the bowl flying off the table to crash against the wall. “That fucking bastard, I wish I’d been the one to smack him - he’d better go down for years-”
She flails her arms wildly, and Gerry swoops in, catching them and holding them gently but securely to her sides. He looks at her, making sure she’s listening. “He will. He will, Sandra, okay? Relax. We found you.”
She stares back at him, breathing heavily, but he can feel her loosening up slightly in his grip, and so he backs off a little.
He wasn’t surprised when she smashed the bowl, but he is surprised by her next move, as she follows him and presses up against him, then stretches up on her toes and meets his lips with her own. She keeps her eyes open, and it’s almost as if she’s challenging him, although he’s not sure whether she wants him to respond or to pull away.
Totally confused, he lets his body take over, closing his eyes and dipping his head down to reach her better and letting her push his mouth open with her tongue.
He would never admit to it, but he’s imagined this not just a few times; kissing the boss. He’s not bloody blind, she’s what he wouldn’t hesitate to call a knockout, made-up or not. At the moment she’s dishevelled and bruised, and she’s just as gorgeous as when she’s in her work clothes, perfectly presented and screaming at him for breaking the rules. He has to confess to himself that he does have a special fondness for how she looks when she’s yelling at him, but like this, vulnerable and defiant, he finds her almost impossible to resist.
She lives up to his fantasies and more, her body warm and soft against his, her hands moving to squeeze the back of his neck, her tongue flicking against his. She tastes of sugar and wheat, and she smells bittersweet - perfume mixed with whatever disinfectant they used on her forehead.
She’s smaller than he is and a couple of inches shorter without her usual heels, but he’s wrapped up in her and she’s determined, so he lets her push him so that the kitchen table is digging into his back. Her hair is tucked into her hood, and he reaches up to free it, then cups the back of her head, caressing lightly.
She withdraws slowly, staying so close that their noses are brushing together, and then touches her forehead to his. He stills instantly, willing to accommodate whatever she wants. They stay like that for a long moment, only the vague whirr of the fridge in the background and the sounds of their own breathing filling the room.
When he cracks open his eyes, hers are shut, and he waits patiently until she’s ready to look at him. She smiles sheepishly.
“I suspect that was a mistake,” she says.
Gerry forces his mind to take over again, and twitches one corner of his mouth. “Probably.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, it wasn’t exactly hell to go through,” he teases cautiously, and is rewarded with a chuckle.
“I take back 50% of the times I’ve called you a tosser,” she tells him. They’re still in one another’s arms, her hands resting on his shoulder blades now while his are still tangled in her hair.
“Only 50%?”
“Yes. The rest of the time I’m completely justified,” she says, still smiling, and then sobers up. “I am sorry, though. If I was leading you on.”
“You’re tired, and still half in shock,” Gerry begins, but she quickly cuts him off.
“Don’t make bloody excuses for me. I just wanted to say thank you, and I cocked it up.”
“Not as badly as you think,” Gerry says quickly, fixing her with as stern a look as he can muster. “Don’t worry. It’s forgotten.”
“Thank you,” she says again, and leans in very slowly to press another kiss, this one less assertive, to his cheek. “You can remember that one,” she murmurs, and then pulls away entirely.
He can’t deny that he misses the feel of her, that he didn’t enjoy it and that, if she’d been in a less vulnerable state of mind, he wouldn’t have involved himself much more. But she looks so much better than she has done all night, brighter than she did in the car and less brittle than she seemed in the hospital, that he can’t dwell on it for too long. She does, however, look knackered.
“Come on, you should get some sleep,” he says, then adds with a mischievous wink, “I’ll tuck you in if you want.”
He laughs out loud at her reply. “Tosser.”
Strickland.
“You were in the same class as that pompous git?” Sandra asks through her laughter. “How did you cope?”
“By remaining calm and following the rules at all times,” Strickland informs her, adopting a serious expression.
“Bollocks,” Sandra scoffs. Strickland doesn’t react to her language as he might have done two years ago when they first met. “Come on, you must have got up to something - anything to dislodge the stick up his arse! It would’ve been irresistible.”
“Are suggesting that my willpower isn’t strong enough for me to resist playing a few pranks on a classmate?” Strickland asks, placing a hand on his chest in mock outrage.
He’s aware that he’s flirting a little bit with her, that he’s been straying dangerously close to doing so since halfway through D. A. C. Martin Hutchinson’s extremely boring, long-winded speech, when Sandra had leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Sorry if he’s one of your mates from Hendon, but if he goes on much longer I’m going to die of boredom.”
“Actually,” Strickland had whispered back, “I do know him from Hendon. I couldn’t stand him; he was just as boring back then, too.”
Sandra had grinned at him. “Well then, let’s go and take advantage of the free bar.”
He wouldn’t usually have let himself be persuaded to give the speeches a miss. He had given a fair few of them himself at these kind of events, and had indeed defended them staunchly to his colleagues, believing firmly that they helped raise morale in the various departments and that they weren’t all just about bureaucracy and mingling with the folks at the top.
However, egged on by his boredom, his lingering dislike of Hutchinson, and Sandra’s infectious smile, he allowed her to keep topping up their glasses all night as they avoided Hutchinson like the plague.
She’s wearing one of those smiles now, a real open-mouthed one, not one of the placatory ones she gives him when he’s just told her to do something she doesn’t particularly want to do. Her eyes are shining with amusement as she says, “No, I’m not suggesting it, I know. In case you’d forgotten, I work with three extremely overgrown teenage boys.”
“Fair enough,” Strickland gives in. “You’re right, we did play some awful tricks on him, but none that it would be appropriate to tell one of the officers under my charge about.”
“I don’t know,” Sandra muses. “Gerry would probably respect you more if he knew you could play a good prank, he loves that sort of thing.” She smiles at him for a moment, and then suddenly looks stricken. “Not that he doesn’t respect you as it is, sir-”
“Relax, Sandra. We’re not on duty now.”
She doesn’t look quite so stricken, but she’s gone very still, looking up at him with questioning eyes. He stares back, not quite sure what to do next. He knows he’s not in the most sober state of mind, and neither is she after a fair few glasses of wine, but it’s proving very hard to look away.
The taxi driver breaks the moment for them, taking a mini-roundabout far too fast and jolting the pair of them so that Sandra falls against his shoulder and Strickland has to brace himself against the door.
“Jesus - where did you learn to drive?” Sandra snaps, trying to push herself back into her seat but finding it difficult. She’s loose-limbed and a little uncoordinated, and after a moment she slumps back against him, looking up hopelessly.
Strickland is strictly professional at all times, but he admits to a certain affection for Sandra above the rest of the staff he has working for him. On a work level, she’s very good at her job, and although he’s fairly sure there’s more going on at UCOS than he will ever be privy to, he doesn’t know of anyone else who could handle Halford, Lane and Standing the way that she does. On a personal level, she’s one of the most intriguing women he’s ever met, strong but not ruthless, outspoken but eloquent, and undeniably alluring.
When she’s like this, at ease with him and relaxed, he thinks he’s at least half in love with her, and so when she moves her leg closer to his and reaches up to play with his loosened tie, he doesn’t make much of an attempt to resist.
“Sandra,” he says, and if he meant it to sound like a warning then he’s failed miserably.
“Sir,” she replies innocently, lips curving up once more and trying to push herself up once more with her other arm. She’s successful this time, but ends up closer to him than before.
Her face is tantalisingly close to his, and before he realises it he’s moved automatically to accommodate her, slipping his arms down to hold her hips. She grins at him, which is becoming an awfully familiar and pleasing sight, and then she moves in.
It’s not a tidy kiss. They’re in too awkward a position for any finesse, and they bump teeth noisily before Sandra shifts again so that her hands are on his chest and she‘s nearly on top of him, holding herself up and giving herself full control.
He relinquishes easily, a little overwhelmed by just the touch of her lips against his. She’s very firm, almost forceful, but her kiss is soft, not bruising, as she tilts her head to the side to avoid bashing their noses together painfully. Her tongue is surprisingly delicate in contrast, lightly exploring, and she tastes of wine and something sugary.
He nearly whimpers when she pulls back, but then she’s kissing his jaw and tracing a path down to his neck, her hair tickling his cheek. He closes his eyes and lets her continue, and runs his hands up her sides and across her back.
The taxi driver is the one to interrupt them yet again, coughing loudly and falsely from the front seat.
Sandra ignores him completely, but Strickland jerks and sits up, feeling his cheeks flush even more than they already were. “Sandra,” he hisses.
“What?” she asks into his neck.
“The car’s stopped - we’re here,” he tells her.
“What?” she asks, having clearly been as oblivious to the car stopping moving as he was. “Shit, that’s my house.”
“This is the right address, innit?” the driver asks lazily from the front seat, cocking an eyebrow at Strickland in the rear view mirror.
“Yes, yes, it is. Thank you,” Strickland says shortly.
Sandra rolls off him, tidying her hair and patting at her lips. “Shit,” she repeats after a moment.
“Sandra, don’t-”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she cuts him off determinedly. “That was completely inappropriate and I apologise. I just - I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink and-”
“It’s all right,” Strickland says as soon as he can get a word in. “I’m hardly going to press charges for assault. I was fairly complicit myself.”
Sandra’s eyes are wide as she looks at him. “Even so, sir, I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t make a habit of going around kissing higher-ranking officers. Not any more.”
Strickland blinks slightly at that last part, but then considers the first and decides that it’s almost a compliment. “Don’t worry,” he says eventually. Time for some damage control - he thinks he’s starting to sober up, because he can see that she’s keen to forget the whole thing and he’s beginning to realise what an idiot he was not to stop it all immediately. “It was just a spur of the moment thing, largely influenced by too much wine and boredom.”
She hesitates, then looks relieved. “Absolutely.”
“I haven’t got all night, you know,” the tax driver interrupts from the front again, and Sandra shoots him a quick but fierce glare.
“I should go,” she says. “How much do I owe you for the taxi?”
“Nothing,” Strickland says with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry. Enjoy the rest of your night, Sandra.”
Sandra gets out of the car, looking quite flushed herself, Strickland notices, and all the more beautiful for it. She turns back before shutting the door.
“I just - it’s not that it wasn’t-” she stammers, and then gives up and simply smiles. “Sorry, sir.”
The door shuts and the driver starts to pull away. Strickland watches as Sandra walks up to her front door, and then turns and gives a little wave goodbye.
Waving back, he murmurs to himself, “You don’t have to be.”
Jack.
The last person Jack expects to find knocking on his door at half eleven at night on a Saturday is Sandra, especially given recent events.
Since telling him he was wrong about her father seven weeks ago, she’s been nothing but civil - even friendly - to him, but there’s been something in those blue eyes that’s not quite right.
He’s looked up sometimes to catch her watching him, and she’s always held his gaze for a moment before turning away. She’s never been one to back down from a fight, and he knows that she’s been staying behind at work late and going off on her own off-duty missions, trying to find some way to prove that he’s wrong.
He wishes he was.
“Sandra, what is it?” he asks. It’s raining heavily, her jacket is wet through and her hair, usually so perfect, is limp and clinging to her neck. “You’re soaking, come inside.”
“No,” Sandra says, holding her hands up when Jack starts to move aside. “I’m fine. I just - needed to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
Sandra looks pained, mouth twisting briefly before she speaks. “You were right.”
She doesn’t look away, and Jack doesn’t either - it wouldn’t be fair, even though it’s hard to see her like this. To see what he’s done. The rain, falling on her face, makes it impossible to tell whether she’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and winces at how useless the words sound.
Sandra shrugs jerkily. “You have no reason to be. I - I searched for anything that would prove you wrong. I interviewed everyone involved, and all of their relatives. I upset a lot of people - but then, I’ve never cared about that, have I? Probably got that from my dad.”
“You got a lot of things from your dad, but he wasn’t heartless and neither are you.”
“I don’t believe that, but thank you for trying to make me feel better. I don’t deserve it.”
“You deserve a lot more than you think you do,” Jack tells her softly, and this time she does break eye contact, looking away. He reaches out, gently, to hook her chin with a finger and tug it back around. “Sandra.”
“Please don’t give up on me, Jack,” she asks suddenly, stepping forward so that his hand ends up on her shoulder. “You’re the closest thing to family I’ve got left.”
He stills, surprised by the statement itself and the odd, unfamiliar desperation in her voice. “But-”
“I’m closer to you than I ever was to my mum, and I lost my dad years ago. I just didn’t realise that until today.”
It’s as close as Sandra will ever come to admitting that she needs someone, and Jack can’t help the huge rush of affection he feels for her. He’s loved her for years, remembers seeing her as a devastated fourteen-year-old when her father died, and then as an impossibly gorgeous young woman applying for a position on the murder squad. And now she’s his boss, angry and fiery and far too independent for her own good, but she can be so vulnerable it makes him ache. It makes him think of Mary.
“I’ll always be here, Sandra. And I’ll always comes back.”
“Thank you,” Sandra says, almost whispering, and then she leans forward and he knows what’s going to happen, and shuts his eyes.
Her lips are cold and wet against his, but soft - softer than Mary’s, he thinks, but stronger and more insistent. She only kisses him briefly, but he knows her touch will stay with him for much longer.
When she pulls away, he keeps his eyes closed for a long moment, and when he opens them again she’s already getting into her car.
Two weeks later, Ricky Hanson goes to court and gets off scot-free, again, and Jack decides it’s time for him to head off for a while. He leaves them a note, and he hopes that Sandra will remember his promise. He’s going to stick to it.