Author: Serena Bancroft
Summary: Jess never thought this city could get any stranger, and Don's got a little bit of explaining to do.
Disclaimer: Flangell fans everywhere shall declare a strongly-worded-letter war with CBS so that they will forfeit their rights to the show. Then, fanfiction writers will become the official writers. Take THAT cbs! Until this happens, I own absolutely nothing.
A/N: I have no original excuses for why I haven't updated... my dog stole my keyboard? Also, sorry for being bipolar, but I'm headed back to third person, and will likely stay there. First person just wasn't working out as far as telling Don and Jess's story. I know I was going to follow canon, but my muse refuses to cooperate in certain times. Yes, I know I'm frustrating, but I don't want to go in canon if it means giving you a story that is sub-par.
"You know, I never thought this city could get any stranger," Jess said, plopping down at her desk. Don had been typing up some paperwork when he looked up at his fellow detective, who, much to Don's delight, sat in the desk directly across from him.
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
She sighed, somewhat melodramatically. "Well, I've got a mostly naked dead guy wearing a jester's hat, in a shopping cart, in the middle of Central Park, killed because of a stolen shopping cart with the leg of a mannequin."
Don chuckled, "Ah, the Idiot Run."
She stared blankly at him a moment before smirking, "Flack, please, for the love of all that is good and holy, tell me you have never participated in this massively stupid display of idiocy."
"Hence the name," he said, returning her smirk.
She gave him a look that was somewhat desperate, and also partially snarky. He had a feeling she was gathering ammunition to poke fun at him later. "Avoiding the question, Flack?"
"Nah, 'course not."
"No as in, 'no you've never participated,' or 'no I'm not avoiding the question?'"
"Maybe if you'd just listen, I'd be able to tell you."
She looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for an explanation, and also obviously wanting to make fun of him some more.
"Before I say anything, I just want to say that perhaps a high school teenager, who shall remain nameless, may or may not have been responsible for being roped into said race by some friends who may or may not have been completely sober-"
"Dieu, aide-nous," she whispered under her breath. "Oh my god, Flack. You have been in the Idiot Run!" Her tone indicated that Flack had just made a major error in revealing that certain piece of information to her. "Wha-... How-... You-..." She tried several more times to unsuccessfully begin a sentence. She ended up settling with "What the hell were you thinking?" It wasn't accusatory, more amused than anything else, and ended with a chuckle.
"For the record, I never actually said I was in this run," Don answered, wondering briefly if he'd heard her say something in a different language. He quickly dismissed the notion.
She snickered, "That's bull shit, and you know it."
He was quiet for a beat before replying, "I plead the fifth."
Angell chuckled, "That's smart, Detective. Doesn't mean I don't know your secret, but..." Angell let her sentence trail off ominously.
The pair was silent for several minutes, the only sounds that of the bullpen and their fingers typing away on their decades-old Macintosh computers.
Don suddenly spoke up without provocation, "I'm really starting to feel this sense of dread about this... sensitive information getting into the wrong hands."
Angell cackled, and Don was convinced he heard a wicked tinge to it. "Pray tell, Flack, why would my hands be the wrong ones?" She glanced up, and he saw the unmistakable glint of mischief in her eyes.
He knew it was a rhetorical question, and left it as such.
"How was your case?" Angell asked, no trace of the earlier conversation having taken place.
He sighed, leaning back with his hands clasped together behind his head. "This was a weird one."
Angell chuckled, "Good day for abnormality in the Big Apple, huh?"
"You don't need to tell me," he agreed. "Rich-looking guy, found dead in a vacant home, duct tape and all signs of a kidnapping."
"If he was rich, I'd imagine there would be some sort of ransom involved," she speculated.
"That's what we thought, but there were no signs of bondage on the guy." Her inquisitive expression urged him to continue. "Turns out, he and his girl have a thing for living out their sexual fantasies, no matter how twisted. Apparently, this chick's 'hot button' was being kidnapped." His tone was pleasant, but the look on his face was mostly disgusted.
Angell chortled, and Flack gave her a strange look, "'Hot button?' I'm not going to lie, your use of that phrase really amused me." She waved her hand at him, encouraging him to continue; she was now mimicking his pose by leaning back in her chair, "How does Mr. Erotica wind up dead?"
"So, Liz Grayson, Ms. Erotica, has an ex-husband who wanted her back, ended up killing Grayson's..."
"Boy toy?" Angell supplied. She mulled over his words for a moment, "Doesn't sound so strange to me. Jealous ex? I think we all have at least one of those."
"Except Grayson got turned on by the fact that her ex killed for her, and they did the nasty later. So, presto, we have a weird case."
The look on Angell's face was priceless.
"Do I have you beat, Detective?" Flack asked wryly.
She seriously considered it a moment before answering, "I concede. Sane woman who turns out to be crazy in terms of her sexual ventures versus nude, inebriated man in a costume? It's close, but I'd say you win... Although, in knife versus mannequin leg, I win in terms of originality."
Their playful banter was sporadic until most everyone had gone home. Angell stood up, grabbing her coat, having completed her work for the day. "Flack, want to grab a drink? Celebrate the weirdness that is New York City?"
He smiled at her, "Yeah. I would like that."
They left the precinct together. The few people that remained, looked after them, ideas forming in their heads about the relationship status of the two detectives.
When they were headed for their cars, Angell noticed an unbroken patch of snow, lying next to the sidewalk on a small area of grass outside the precinct. Without thinking, she faced away from the snow, before falling backwards into the powder. She giggled before starting to move her arms and legs.
"What," Don asked as he walked into her sight, "are you doing? Besides getting frostbite."
"Making a snow angel, Flack," she answered, sitting up. She knew he was about to say something, and instead of allowing him to speak, grasped his wrist, and pulled him down beside her.
He observed his position on the ground, before looking back at her, a trademark smirk on his face. "That's good work, Detective."
"Thank you," she said, sounding pleased with herself. Flack completed his angel without complaint, and Angell stood, consequently helping her fellow detective off the ground. They stared down at their respective artwork in silence. Don stepped carefully around their respective angels, one distinctly taller than the other, before drawing lines in the snow, directly above the heads.
"What are those?"
"Halos, of course. An angel isn't an angel without a halo." Flack stole a glance in Angell's direction, trying his best to be discreet. Her dark hair was accumulating snowflakes which had begun to fall, and her cheeks had taken a rosy tint, adding to her overall beauty. Don felt the overwhelming urge to brush his fingers across her cheek. He restrained himself, looking back away. It wasn't the time nor place to think of her that way.
"Touché." Angell wanted, so badly, to look over at the man who'd made a snow angel with her with absolutely no complaint. She'd always had a policy of no dating coworkers as long as she could remember, and also knew Don had the same morals ingrained into his mind. They stared at their angels for a few more seconds before she gathered her thoughts, putting on a brave face and saying, "Now how about those drinks?"
I hope it was mildly worth the read :)