a/n: this is a lil' vignette I wrote for my friend on tumblr. It could be a tie-in to my other slashfics or stand alone, it's all up to you.

It had been a rough day for the probationer. Of course, the majority of it had been his fault—a month and a half in, he knew he should've learned not to, but something had pushed him to ask before the watch.

"Malloy, can I drive today?" He'd hoped a sincere voice and an eager smile would finally convince the training officer, but of course he had no such luck.

"Look, Reed," Malloy had said, sneering almost in disgust. "This better be the last time I ever hear you say that. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," he'd replied, perhaps with a bit too much aggressive vigor, because Malloy had met his eyes and taken a deliberate step closer, followed by another, until they were practically touching noses.

"You listen to me, Reed," Malloy growled, his perfectly straight face hardly softening the sting of his voice. "Do you want this watch to go easy, or not?"

Jim had found himself so overcome by the closeness of the other man that he was unable to speak. In such proximity, he could smell Malloy's aftershave, and the coffee and cigarettes on his breath. He could count every freckle on his brow, furrowed as it was. In that impossibly short moment it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to touch that sloping jaw or to bend and force a kiss upon those thin lips. And he most certainly could not stop himself from gasping and trembling on the spot.

Malloy had simply shaken his head and turned away, saying nothing else for most of the morning. In a month and a half, Jim had become quite familiar with his training officer's mood swings, although he'd trusted until then that they at least weren't because of him. This morning was different, though, and as the silence between them grew more unbearable, he'd finally lost it and blurted out, "Malloy, I'm sorry!"

"For what?" Malloy said, casually, as if they were old friends who'd been chatting for hours.

Gazing across the car at him, Jim couldn't help but linger again on Malloy's face. Now that it was void of its surly scowl, he found himself marveling for what was possibly the millionth time at the beauty there was in it. The deep wrinkles around those blue-green eyes, etched by years and years of handling 261s and 273-Ds, were possibly the most gorgeous thing about that face… second only to the freckles. Oh, those freckles…

He'd never had a chance to answer Malloy. Their conversation, if it could be called that, was cut short by a 211. It was that particular call that explained the rest of Jim's bad day—it didn't take long for their code 3 to turn into a foot pursuit.

He'd taken off after the guy through the crowded alleys behind the held-up store, quickly finding himself alone as Malloy brought the unit around to intercept them along the way. Needless to say, Jim caught up with the crook long before Malloy get even get it around the block, but he couldn't take him down without a struggle. Throwing his whole body on the guy, he managed to knock his gun from his hand, but not before having his shoulder driven right into the asphalt and his face smashed against a metal trash can. By the time he had the cuffs on he could feel the stabbing pain in his shoulder blade just beginning to make itself known, and the coppery taste of his own blood filling his mouth.

It was the sight of the cruiser that gave him the strength to stand, and to pull the crook to his feet along with him. It was a black-and-white beacon, and the patrolman who stepped out was a strawberry-blonde angel, smiling down upon him with more pride than he'd ever known.

The rest of his day was a blur, totally dominated by that glowing smile Malloy had given him in that wretched alley. As glorious as it was, it couldn't mask the throbbing ache in his shoulder, and the sharp sting on his lip every time he opened his mouth. By the end of the watch, he was practically delirious with pain, and it was all he could do to get changed back into soft clothes. But somehow he managed, and just as he staggered out of the locker room Malloy was beside him, a genuine look of concern written all over his gorgeous face.

"How'd you get in today?" the older man asked, not quite hovering, but certainly lingering awfully close.

"Jean dropped me off," Jim grunted.

"I'll give ya a ride home, then," Malloy said.

Jim shook his head, embarrassed to accept it. "Nah, it's fine."

"I wasn't asking," Malloy replied, his voice beginning to lower, almost like it had that morning.

Jim felt himself shiver at that tone. It was simultaneously scary and thrilling.

All during the drive, he tried not to let himself imagine how Malloy's voice would sound in every situation. While he loved to hear him chipper and happy more than anything else, he couldn't help but wonder how he would sound with a rough, drowsy voice, rolling over in bed, glancing at him in the morning sunlight.

He was so wrapped up in his groggy fantasies, he hardly noticed where they were going. When Malloy parked in front of his house, he had to shake him to get his attention.

"Hey, I gotta get home, too," Malloy laughed.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Jim stammered, gingerly undoing his seat belt.

Before he could even get his door open, Malloy was there, holding his hand out to help him out of the car. Jim couldn't quite bring himself to touch that hand, and he struggled out of his seat on his own.

"Thanks for the ride, Malloy," he muttered, dreaming of laying on his nice, soft bed.

"You know, when we're off duty, you can call me Pete," Malloy said. He punctuated it by leaning an elbow on the open door and bringing his foot up to rest on the edge of the car. As he moved Jim could see his pant leg tightening on his thigh, and he couldn't keep from letting his eyes wander to the tightest part of Malloy's pants. They fit him so well, Jim observed, that the very shape of him made a clear impression in the front. As he shifted, Jim could just determine the exact size and shape of his balls, and could picture them most vividly in his mind. Hanging low and heavy, nestled in a shock of that reddish-blonde hair…

Even through his pain he was so drawn in by the thought that he could feel himself start to shiver and sweat.

"Uh, well, see ya tomorrow, Pete," he stammered, knowing he couldn't fight the hot tightness weaving itself in his gut. As long as he could get inside before Malloy caught on, he'd be fine.

And he couldn't.

"Look, Jim, I've been meaning to tell ya," Malloy said, dropping his foot back down and stepping closer. "That was good work you did out there today."

"Thanks," Jim uttered quickly, his face burning.

"You keep that sort of thing up, you're gonna be a damn fine officer one day." With that, Malloy reached toward him and gave him a tight squeeze on his uninjured shoulder, digging his enormous, gnarled fingers in just hard enough for Jim to imagine how they'd feel making their way down his chest and playing with the zipper on his jeans.

"Ohh," Jim let out a low groan at the thought, giving up the fight to stop himself.

"Ah, what am I doin', keeping you out here," Malloy nodded and closed the door. "Look, you better be in good shape for tomorrow, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jim said.

By the time he finally made it inside, everything going on with his body became too much, and he leaned against the wall, gently on the bad shoulder, trying to catch his breath.

"Jim? Honey?" Jean called to him from the kitchen. "Gosh, I was trying to get ahold of you at the station to see if you needed me to pick you up."

"I got a ride…" he mumbled, wearily.

"What's wrong?" she asked, wiping her hands off on her apron and coming out to greet him.

"uhh," he tried to turn so she couldn't see how worked up he was. "I had a pretty nasty fall today."

"Oh, I can see. Your poor face," she shook her head and touched his cheek. "Do you want me to run a hot bath for you?"

"No, I'll, uh, I'll do it myself." Not wanting her to get close enough to feel him, he swept past her and made his way to the bathroom before she could stop him.

"Jim? Honey?" she sighed. "Okay, I guess I'll just finish dinner, then."

Alone in the bathroom, he locked the door and tore off his clothes, groaning out loud as he struggled to get his shirt over his shoulders. In the mirror he could make out a long, rough road rash covering a yellowing bruise. The cut on his lip had pulled open again, too, letting a drop of blood slide over his chin.

And then came his pants. He almost hated the sight of himself. Over the past month and a half, it had been like this. He'd be seized by desire like he'd never known, be harder than he'd ever experienced. Jean still seemed to think it was her. Laying in bed next to him, she'd realize the state he was in, and softly coo, "you're not gonna hurt me or the baby, Jim. I promise. If you want to make love-…" and he'd roll out of bed, angrily, before she could say anything else.

"I'm fine," he'd grumble, and storm around the bedroom until he could think himself soft again.

But now was different. In a month and a half, Pete had yet to touch him. To pat him on the shoulder and let him know how proud he was. He'd yet to truly allow himself to imagine what lay behind the zipper of Pete's tight, tight jeans.

The pain clouded his mind. He couldn't think straight anyway, and now…

Kicking his clothes away he stood in the shower and cranked on the water so hot he could see it turning his skin red. The sound of it drowning out whatever noise Jean was making in the kitchen, he pulled the curtain closed and leaned into the water, whimpering as it ran over his tender back.

"Dammit, Pete," he swore, more at himself than anyone else, and at the sting of the water washing his sweat over his lip. Shaking, wracked with pain, he took hold of himself, tight and angry. Each stroke sent a wave of needles through his shoulder, but he had no other option. Thrusting hard into his hand, he braced himself against the wall and closed his eyes. Desperately, he imagined himself anywhere but where he was. Maybe Pete's bed, whatever it looked like. He was so far gone, he could almost feel Pete's big, rough hands in place of his own. He could feel those jagged nails grazing the tip, his other hand cupping him, digging in fingers underneath as he sank his own teeth into his swollen lip, coming so hard he twisted his body up, forcing him to cry out at the shock sent through his shoulder.

And then, thankfully, it was over. Letting the scalding water wash everything away, he leaned against the cool tile and gasped for breath. Lightheaded and weak in the knees, he gathered up what was left of his strength and turned off the shower, throwing aside the curtain and grasping at the towel rack. Hardly even caring enough to dry himself off, he staggered out of the bathroom and down the hall, into the bedroom and onto the bed.

Jean seemed to materialize in the doorway. "God, I thought maybe you'd fallen in there," she said.

"I wish I had," he replied, still coming down.

"Was it really that bad?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, modestly pulling the sheets over him. "Your day?"

"No," he said. "Yes."

She laughed softly. "Do you want me to bring you your dinner in here?"

"I don't care," he said, pulling the sheets over his face.

"Well, fine," she threw up her hands and stood. "I don't care either."

When she was gone, he rolled over and lay on his back, the ache in his shoulder already beginning to ease. Folding his hands behind his neck, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander. It must've been the endorphins, finally kicking in. As his head sank into the pillow he could feel those big gnarly hands run over his chest, and maybe even those thin, freckled lips kissing his tender mouth.

"Pete…" he sighed as he fell asleep.