Story Notes: Written in November 2004 for the Ice challenge on ds_flashfiction, and for Aerye.

"Ah, shitshitshit...yeowch! Kowalski, godammit, this shirt is fucking silk!"

Perfect timing. By the time Vecchio untwists from the knot he's tied himself into trying--and failing--to get at the ice cubes I slipped down his back when he wasn't looking, I'm lounging at my desk, boots crossed on top of it, relaxed and ready to go. I think about trying for an innocent look to go with the pose, but decide (1) I can't pull it off and (b) it's not worth it anyway: a smirk'll be so much more irritating, and irritating Vecchio is the name of the game today. And hey, I'm thinking it worked, because I'm getting the patented Vecchio Is Pissed stare, which means I've gotten under his skin enough to disturb that undercover-blues persona of his, that too-hip-to-be-square thing he thinks he's got going on when we all know where he's been and what he grew up running away from.

Sure enough, he's falling for it, starting toward me, smoke coming out his ears. "Kowalski, you asshole, if you've ruined this shirt I swear I'm gonna strangle you with it. Are you bored or something? Not enough crime in Chicago to occupy your tiny brain, so you gotta create some by ruining my shirt? Tired of jerking off in the men's room? Left your knitting at home? Jesus-- "

"Vecchio!" Welsh is standing in the door of his office, arms crossed, standard-issue Ray-wrangling look on his face. I manage not to look at him--took me a while to get out of that habit, believe me, but I finally kicked it, and not a minute too soon. "I sympathize, reluctantly, with your desire to preserve your wardrobe from Detective Kowalski's tender ministrations. However, I do not sympathize with your desire to do so in the middle of my bullpen, where some of your fellow cops are actually trying to earn their daily pay. Take it outside, gentlemen, and don't bring it back in until you've gotten it out of your systems."

Fine with me--exactly what I was shooting for, though I'm not gonna say so--so I stand up and walk past Vecchio, right through his personal space, still smirking at him.

"Coming, Vecchio?"

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Vecchio's fists clench, and I'm betting he's got his mouth open, ready to argue--with me, with Welsh, with anyone dumb enough to open his mouth right now. But I've been watching Vecchio, and I've got his number: scratch his tough-guy surface and the obedient little Catholic boy's right there, ready and waiting. When push comes to shove, Vecchio does what he's told. This time's no exception: I can hear him behind me, breathing hard, practically stomping in those expensive shoes. I laugh at him, just loud enough that he can hear, and the stomps get louder--but they don't stop, which pretty much proves my point.

First thing he does once we're out back is pull his shirt out of his pants and shake the rest of the ice out onto the ground. I lean back against the wall, one foot up and my hands in the pockets of my jeans, and just watch the show. I sneaked a pretty good handful down past his collar--long skinny fingers have a lot of uses--so some of the cubes are still whole, but not many. Looks like one or two went even farther than I'd hoped, because now he's worked a hand down the back of those pants and the look on his face says there's ice in some brand new places.

"Of all the juvenile tricks to pull-- What is it with you, Kowalski? You got a problem with me? Because Jesus, you just can't keep your hands off of me for a fuckin' second, can you."

There it is--the perfect opening, and my mum didn't raise any idiots, so...

"Nope," I say.

I wait for it to sink in. Three...two...one...bingo, he's got it, he's there. I can see the jolt run through him, a quick shock to the system; his head comes up so fast I'm thinking he'll have a little whiplash later and he freezes, staring at me hard, not blinking. I raise an eyebrow and push my hips out towards him, just a little, just to make sure he's getting the full story--he's a little slow sometimes, I don't want to confuse him.

God, I love this part, this point where I've made all the moves I'm gonna make and the other guy's gotta decide: fight? or fuck? I'm pretty sure I know which way Vecchio'll jump--like I said, I've been watching him for a while now--but hey, if he takes a swing at me I can handle that, too. It'll go my way in the end.

Vecchio's moving again, moving my way, one hand closed around the last piece of ice he rescued, and his mouth's tight and his eyes are slitted and his cock--I take a quick look to check--is hard enough to prove he dresses left. Hah. Fuck and fight, then. Suits me fine. When he gets close enough he opens both hands, dropping the ice, and shoves me in the chest, hard. But - surprise, surprise - there's no follow-up punch. Instead, he leaves his hands on me, leaning his weight on them, breathing with a little whine in it now. He's still staring at me, and his hands are rubbing circles around my nipples, and the cold wetness is sinking into my shirt the way I bet it's done all down his back.

I was right. Vecchio wants this; he wants it as much as I do. He may not know it yet, but he's working it out.

And when he does?

Fuck ice: there's gonna be fireworks.