November 17, 2016

There's unwise, and then there's taking Eddie to a fancy wedding and sleeping across the hall from each other a week after blurting out big feelings and kissing again.

He paces in her apartment while she gets ready, more than a little buzzed with the intimacy of bantering back and forth while she's dressing in the bathroom, just like an ordinary couple. With the small part of his mind that's unoccupied, he's also rationalizing like mad.

It's no different from any plainclothes op they've done together, he tells himself as they chat. He might as well be waiting for her outside the locker room. They have their personas and backstories prepped. They have their wardrobe.

Boy, do they.

One benefit of running with the Ivy Leaguers is that he knows how to dress really well when he wants to. His nicest blue everyday suit is professionally steamed, his chambray shirt pressed but not too starchy. He borrowed Pop's vintage shoe-polishing kit after dinner on Sunday. Boar brushes and hard paste and real elbow-grease give leather a sort of inner gleam that modern quick polishes can't approach. Fresh shave and haircut: check.

He hadn't missed the look on her face when she opened her apartment door. And he still has his best properly bespoke suit for tomorrow night. He wants to do her proud.

"This is just the appetizer," Eddie says, unknowingly echoing his thoughts, as she clicks her way out of the bathroom on a pair of neat three-inch heels.

It's his turn to drink her in. He has to take a slow inhale as he stares, and maybe that's why she has a moment of insecurity, oddly for her, and asks him what he thinks.

I'm fucked, is what he thinks. He's always known she has nice legs. He sees them at the gym or on weekend runs fairly regularly, but not often in heels and skirts. She's wearing a clingy little cap-sleeved silvery number that shows off every toned curve he spends so much time ignoring. The cutouts down the front hint at the creamy skin beneath. It's very feminine, but comfy enough that she could dance all night or kick off her shoes and do a foot-chase in it if she had to. It's totally, utterly Eddie.

For the first time, he really wonders if he can handle this. It's not like they set explicit limits on tonight. They're hanging onto the bare threads of just wanting to be honest and not screwing up on the job, but the rest is unclear. Nobody's said "No", or even "Not yet", when it comes down to it.

"I think if I was the bride, I'm calling in sick, 'cause you're gonna steal the show."

He knows he's staring, and that she loves that he's staring. She's trying for casual and affectionate, but her eyes gleam with appreciation and mischief. He badly wants to tell her she wasn't his second choice, not for a moment. He couldn't find a date because he didn't ask anyone else. She's no stand-in.

She gets right up in his space, and he gets a whiff of her perfume. Never one for anything too flowery, she's found something light and sweet and just a tiny bit earthy. Appetizer indeed.

The mutual admiration draws out into seconds. She's so close he could just tilt her chin up and kiss her. He needs to touch her so badly. He wants to taste that sliver of exposed skin, listen to her breath catch.

"You don't look too shabby yourself, Mr. Reagan."

They can be adults and be honest about the attraction, even if they've decided not to take it any further, surely?

Sure.

Except his hands have been mentally skimming down over her firm little backside and he's been imagining swallowing down her moans of hunger since they locked eyes.

She's coasting gently on a second Black Russian, trying to ignore the tummy flutters at the way Jamie makes eye contact with her now and then, checking on her as they do the social rounds after the rehearsal dinner. Despite her being a technical stand-in, he's been treating her like a date-date all afternoon and evening, through the rehearsal and dinner afterwards, and introducing her around. Occasionally murmuring little asides in in each other's ears only they would understand. Once he forgot himself enough to rest his hand in the small of her back as they chatted with another couple, and she could not stop leaning into the gentle pressure of his thumb stroking there absently.

She's told herself for so long that good-guy Jamie is not her type, and that any interest on Jamie's part is just from her constant proximity, shared cop sympathy and the fact that she's not bad on the eyes for a shorty. She's just under his nose all the time. She'd be way too much for him in real life. He'd drive her mad with his conscientiousness.

All lies. The truth is out now, and they can't take it back. It's not familiarity and it's not the appeal of the differences between then.

If they were any other two people, would they give it a shot? Or would they be just as concerned about messing up their friendship as their partnership? Because no matter what, he's her best friend, and that's got to be the keystone in all of this.

It's a steadying thought. Except she can still feel the imprint of his hand on her back like he was stroking her bare skin.

Eventually it's their turn to congratulate and catch up with Ricky, Jamie's old friend from the One-Two. After three years in Manhattan, Ricky had opted for the quieter fare of Nassau County PD, so he could spare some energy for night courses. Eddie likes him. He's a happy man tonight, with the grounded calm of knowing he's exactly where he needs to be, but still a little dazed to find himself there, surrounded by friends and with the love of his life nearby.

"Is that the bride-to-be?" Eddie asks, casting around for a reason to take her eyes of her partner in that suit. It has to be tailored or at least bespoke, and he wears it with a quiet confidence that's not helping her. She loves him in it. She wants it off him.

Truly, though, Jen looks lovely, she thinks.

"The future Mrs. Rotkowski," Ricky agrees.

Jamie shakes his head in admiration. "She looks beautiful, man."

"As does your date," Ricky says gallantly, raising his glass to her.

"Oh, we're just partners," she hears herself say hurriedly.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, it's – it's fine," she assures him, as Jamie watches her with a small smile. "Happens all the time."

She's just finished congratulating herself on reinforcing the lines, when Ricky's police partner Derek rolls up on them. He's got a few drinks in him, but she's willing to bet alcohol doesn't make much difference. Derek is the sort who get oozy and handsy by reflex, not because it means anything.

"I, for one, am thrilled to hear this news," Derek sloshes towards her. Nothing she can't handle, especially with Ricky's restraining arm around his partner.

"What's that?" Jamie asks. Only Eddie notices the tiny note of warning in his voice.

"She's single?" he says significantly. "Great to meet you. Derek."

She eyes him dubiously, but accepts his handshake. "Eddie."

"Love it. Something so hot when a girl has a boy's name."

She sends Jamie an amused glance. This is the sort of thing they'd usually howl over later in a cab on the way home from a bar.

But not tonight.

She's not sure how it happens - Jamie's skin is usually Reagan-thick when it comes to throw-downs - but suddenly Derek and Jamie are having some sort of pheromonal antler-clash over her head. Over her? she wonders. There's no reason for any of that. Jamie's made that clear enough. They both did. And she hardly needs his help dealing with the Dereks of the world.

Ricky slips in between, which he shouldn't have to do at his own celebration, and walks Derek away. It should be over. It shouldn't even have started.

Jamie's got that telltale flush on his neck, though, as the small crowd disperses. She wants to slip her palm over his skin there, cooling and calming, but it would disprove the lie all over again. And she'd be too distracted by the heat of him. She's always had a thing for riled-up Jamie. She's done her share of riling over the years.

She reaches for him anyway, tugging at his arm and inviting to come and dance. At least she can distract him for a while. But he does that snail-shell thing, withdrawing and retreating. She's stung for a moment, but shakes it off.

Ordinarily, she'd tell him bluntly, "Well, I'm gonna go dance. You come join me if you want to, or you know, sit there by yourself if it makes you feel better." If she wants to go dancing with every guy in the bar, or every girl, it's hardly his business.

But tonight she hitches herself up on the stool next to him and orders another drink herself.

What partners do, right? Never let each other drink alone.

Halfway down her fourth Black Russian - they're really good here - she nudges Jamie's arm with her forefinger to make sure he's still alive, and says, "Hey. You don't think in a million years I'd ever even give a Derek a second look."

He seems amused by the idea, anyway, and shakes his head. "No, I know. I just wish you didn't have to deal with slimeballs like that."

"It's part of the deal."

"It shouldn't be."

"It's why when we meet guys like you, we hold onto them," she says. There's a lot of truth in that, and she has to take a moment to think about it some more. She means to say something inconsequential, like, "Ricky's nice, anyway," but she ends up laying her hand on his arm, and tells him: "I don't want to let you go. I'm not gonna."

"Who says you have to?"

"I'd like to see anyone try to make me."

Apparently the vodka is bringing out her fightiness. Jamie laughs, though, his eyes alight again.

"C'mon. It's almost midnight. Didn't you say you wanted to be up in time for a proper breakfast tomorrow?"

"I love a good hotel breakfast," she agrees. "You wanna find Ricky and Jen and say goodnight?"

They do. Ricky apologizes again for Derek, as they're getting their coats on. Both she and Jamie brush it off. You don't get to pick your partners.

It's a crystal-cold night outside, and Eddie is glad the hotel is only two blocks away. Jamie is so careful not to touch her, not even in laughter. It feels all-wrong not to take his hand, but it's not a date and they're only partners. Partners who are going to be sleeping a few feet apart in a short time, with a narrow hall between them.

She desperately wants to ask him to join her for one last drink in her room, but it would be futile. They'd only get each other completely wound up, and he wouldn't make a move on her while she's remotely tipsy anyway. Besides, she's the one who laid everything on the line last week, and he shut her down. If there's something he wants, he's going to have to ask for it.

They walk in near silence, and smile at the concierge who waves them in and quickly closes the door behind them. The hotel lobby is blissfully warm, and she closes her eyes for a moment while they wait for the elevator.

When she opens them, Jamie is watching her face with one of his inscrutable expressions. She meets his gaze. Such a familiar, beloved face. His eyes fix on hers, serious and darkening. Her heart begins pattering away despite her best efforts, and her eyes fall to his perfectly formed lower lip for just a moment. Or two.

The elevator arrives, jarring them back. Inside, she steps close to him and impulsively wraps her arms around him, leaning her forehead against his throat, because she's cold and she cannot be without his touch for a second longer. The broken little groan he gives just about undoes her, as he gathers her up and holds her tight. It's a tension release, of a sort. As long as they don't look at each other. Friends can hug, right?

He's not hugging her. He's holding her like he's as determined as she is not to let go. His head drops and she feels his warm breath ruffle her hair as he sighs. All the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Eddie…"

Oh, God, that voice. She's dreamed of it. If she looked up, he'd be right there, and in a heartbeat he'd be kissing her just like she needs him to.

"I know," she says, nearly whispering. They can't.

They reluctantly separate as they arrive on the seventh floor. It's not a long walk down the corridor to their rooms, but it feels momentous. Anything could still happen. They both feel it.

They reach their rooms. Ever the gentleman, Jamie waits to make sure she's settled in first, and she smiles wanly and reaches into her purse for her door card. As she shoulders the door open, she feels him suddenly right behind her. His hand slides over her right forearm, turns it palm-up. She can't look at him, but her breath comes short as she turns around. The sleeve of her coat slides back as he cradles her hand, bends, and touches his lips to the inside of her wrist.

She feels the shock of it right in the depths of her belly, and a sharp gasp escapes her, loud in the silent corridor. Her eyes fly to his. The hard control he's exerting over himself is right there in the heat of his gaze on her mouth, the tightness of his jaw. She watches him swallow, and he lowers her arm.

He steps away. He doesn't say goodnight, or sleep well, or anything. There's nothing to say that they can say out loud.

She finally turns into her room. In five minutes, she's in a blessedly hot shower, imagining herself and Jamie tumbling through the door and onto the bed instead, dizzying mindless kisses turning to scorching hunger. The memory of that little groan plays over and over, and she comes in five minutes flat.

Sobering up fast after her shower, she lies in the warm bed, and imagines him doing the same thing across the hall. Is he listening hard for a knock on the door, wishing she'd make a move? Is he beating himself up for not coming to her, himself? Or is he lying there all satisfied that he's made the right decision?

Fuck it. She's so lit up she's ready to go again, so score one for female anatomy, or something.

She imagines waking up after a couple of hours of sleep, to hear a tap on the door. Flying to open it, she sees him there, wild-eyed, and his mouth lands on hers as she reaches for him. As the door clicks closed, he's got her pinned up against the wall, his body hard and urgent against her, his hands desperate in her hair. It's everything. It's the two of them taking everything they need from each other, breathless, and their clothes just melt away as he lifts her up in his strong arms and thrusts home, right where she needs him. She's writhing and arching for it in her bed, her busy fingers furrowing deep inside in a pale imitation, but she can summon up the weight of his body and the sound of his moans and the scent of him and the touch of his lips on the tender skin of her wrist sends her into a shuddering hard climax that leaves her utterly limp.

One thing she knows for sure, she thinks as she rolls over and sinks towards sleep, is that something has changed.

And they're making up their own rules now.