What I own: Some amazing hooker boots, a vast pen collection and more make-up than one woman should.

What I don't: Rookie Blue. I KNOW! They belong to Tassie Cameron, et al. If I did, I would be living somewhere OTHER than where I am. I'm not making a penny off this work of fiction, and I promise I will return the characters, relatively unscathed, when I am done. I also don't own Set The Fire To The Third Bar, that belongs to Snow Patrol and Martha Wainwright, but I do sing it… A LOT.

Rated M for fucking language and eventual adult situations. If you can't vote or buy smokes where you are from, then you can't read my words either.

Author's Note: Hi! It's me again! This isn't a new story, per se, I just pulled it over here from my other profile, so it may seem familiar to a few of you. I'm keeping the designation between my writing very specific and want my Rookie Blue stuff to stay strictly that. Same general concept though, cause it is how I roll, a peek into the future before diving head first into the actual story. Just a quick glimpse this time though. More questions than answers at first but it will make sense eventually, I promise. Reviews will be rewarded with praise, love and a sneak peek at a future chapter. Enjoy!

"Ice Queen."

The words were mock whispered, from some stool at the corner of the bar, slightly slurred from too many beers, and with a hint of bitter laughter but they still stung. Freezing for an instant, I closed my eyes in a moment of silent contemplation before heading out the door with nary a word to any of my coworkers.

The night air held a chill and a light rain had begun to fall since the end of the shift as I wandered along the streets. My feet seemed to move of their own volition, Chucks slapping against the wet asphalt. I didn't even realize where I was going until I arrived, didn't give even a second thought as I ran up the stairs of the bungalow and rapped on the door. It was nearly one AM and the windows were dark. What the hell was I doing?

Leaning against the railing, I wrapped my arms around my torso, my hair was plastered to my face and neck, the sloppy bun no match for the rain and wind. My jeans and over-sized white V-neck t-shirt clung to my frame, dripping into a puddle at my feet. I could feel the familiar weight of my gun in its holster on my hip, the weight of my badge casually shoved in my back pocket. I couldn't make heads or tails of what, exactly, had brought me here of all places, by all reports the LAST place that I should be. I was about to step off the porch again when I heard the door crack and a dim light spilled out of the door, casting a glittering reflection in the water that pooled on the granite steps.

Spinning, I caught sight of him; my eyes wide as I took in his sculpted form, nearly naked save a pair of navy pajama pants slung low on his hips. His hair, never entirely presentable to begin with, stuck up in all directions and his eyes were hazy with sleep as he finally realized who I was. His attire, or lack of it, was nothing new; I had seen him in far less on countless occasions in the locker room, but this seemed more… real, somehow. So much more intimate. There were no sterile metal lockers, no layers of Kevlar and navy cotton just inches away, no buzz of conversation and absolutely no coworkers.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, I launched myself across the small porch, my small, wet hands resting on his warm chest. Unprepared for my near assault, his sleepy murmur of my name was muffled against my lips as I pressed them against his, my arms sliding easily around his neck. His thumbs hooked in my belt loops as his hands tightened on my hips.

I could feel him, his warmth, his strength, through my chilled, wet clothing as we kissed. The moment was far from sweet, in fact it was quite the opposite: frenzied and needy and raw and hungry and he tasted like spearmint tooth paste. I swear I could even smell the clean scent of his soap under the crisp scent of the rain that covered me.

A thumb brushing against a tiny sliver of skin above my waist band where my sticky shirt had ridden up in my haste, tugged me out of my reverie and I pulled back, chest heaving as I struggled for breath. My cheeks were flushed, I could feel it and I'm sure my eyes were bright as I met his, twinkling with… something in the dim light.

Twisting out of his loose grasp, feeling the calloused fingers just barely graze across that same small, sensitive, exposed sliver of skin and gave him a small smile and a playful salute as I back towards the stairs, my gaze not dropping from his until I saw him smile, his dimples making a relatively rare appearance of late.

Satisfied, I turned and hopped down the steps, content to just head back home despite my whirling mind. One word stopped me in his tracks, his tone somehow teasing and sensual at the same time, both a statement and a question. "McNally?"