#roman is at his limit after being tossed aside and shut down and told how him and his ideas are stupid and no matter what he does or says

[kieumy]

i’m in pain

someone made a compilation of every roman angst moment oh we are eating SO good tonight

[holylulusworld]

The queen of Lebanon - Part 7 – The sex wasn’t that bad

Summary: Your father died years ago, all men in the business believed you are too weak to take over his Empire – they were wrong. Anyone trying to get into your hair will feel your wrath. What happens when a cocky mobster tries not only to steal your empire but your heart too?

Pairing: Mobster!Dean x Mobster!Reader, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Cole Trenton, Charlie Bradbury

Warnings: angst, ‘the family business’, love-hate relationship, hooking up, rivalry, jealousy, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, age gap (reader is 28; Dean 32),  mentions of characters death/torture/murder (nothing graphic) blood, language

The queen of Lebanon Masterlist

Five years ago, …

Dean's eyes darken as he must watch you talk to Sam, sliding your hand over his brother’s chest while you completely ignore his whole presence.

“If you ask me, Dean, let it go.” Benny tries to stop his friend from doing anything stupid.

The heads of all Empires are at the Winchesters mansion tonight and Benny is worried Dean might lose his cool close to you.

“She is almost jumping my brother's bones right under my nose, Benny. Look how she grinds against his crotch. Shameless…”

Cursing Dean clenches his jaw as you grind against Sam, not missing the way Dean watches you and his brother.

“Dean, you let her go or rather tossed her aside for a shady deal with Lisa’s father. That bastard didn’t even keep his word.” Meeting his boss’s eyes Benny shrugs. “You had your chance years ago. Sam deserves a bit…fun…”

While Benny walks away Dean is close to shooting his brother as Sam dares to dance with you. Sam’s hand is at your back, gently caressing your skin and you let him.

“Son, I told you to let it go. There will be no bond between a Winchester and a Singer. Not back then, not now.” John snarls through gritted teeth.

“Why?” Glaring at his father Dean smirks. “As you killed her mother and elder brother back then or as Bobby killed mom and your precious Adam?” Turning on his heels Dean stalks toward you and his brother, barking orders at his men.

“Dean, drop it!” Sam exhales while Dean paces around the room, glaring at you and his brother. “I know you fucked her by the way you touch my future wife!”

“Brother, I swear…” While Sam wants to calm his brother, you smirk at Dean. Your hand grasps Sam’s and you smile wildly.

“Don’t hide it, Sammy. We got caught…” Licking your crimson lips you give Dean a dark grin. “Sam was so good, Dean. It made me forget the laughable first time you gave me. It was worth the wait.” 

Before you go you peck Dean’s check, pressing your lips hard into his skin to leave a red lip print. “You’re such a …”

“Yeah, let it out Dean but nothing you will say will make me agree to an arranged marriage with you, jerk.”

Now…

“Dean! That wasn’t the plan!” Pressed onto his desk, legs kicked apart, one hand pressing your head down Dean grunts on top of you. He’s not letting up, thrusting hard enough to make the desk creak.

“I will use every moment you spend at my house wisely. Look at you, Y/N. All wet for me, already dripping onto me. Can you hear how your sweet pussy sucks me in?” Dean groans, fisting your hair harshly as his hips snap hard against your ass. 

“We wanted to talk about Dick! Can we not act as if we are horny teens?” Panting you push back onto Dean’s dick, cursing as you hear the wet sound of sex fill the room. “We can’t waste more time…”

“I sent my men to bring Jimmy and Cole here to have lunch. We will share our information about Dick Roman, his empire and everything else. Now shut up and let me fuck you…”

Dean grabs the edge of the desk, angling his cock one last time to make you gasp every time he slides back into you.

“Fuck…” While you are busy to lie exhausted onto the desk Dean still works his cock into you. 

“One more, Baby Girl. Give me another one and we can have a shower, breakfast and talk about you becoming my wife.”

Now your head snaps upward and you want to yell at Dean, but your orgasm makes you cry out first.

“I’ll not marry you, Winchester. What makes you believe I would ever consider marrying your old ass.” Grunting Dean slaps your ass, stilling as his cum coats your walls. “Not in a thousand years, Dean…”

“You said the same back then about having sex with me, Sweetheart.” When he pulls out a deep growl leaves his throat. “Now look at you. All filled with my spunk, fucked out and sated.”

“You’re such an asshole, Winchester.” Covering your still shaking body with his tall frame Dean hums into your neck, smirking as you squirm underneath him. 

“Yeah…I am and so much more. Still…” Nipping at your neck Dean ruts against you. “You let me make you cum thrice this morning and I think you enjoyed yourself.”

“That was just a way to relieve the stress and to forget about being trapped with you in a cramped room. This means nothing.” Voice hoarse you wiggle in Dean’s grip, but he won’t budge.

Still pressing his naked body against yours he marks your neck with little love bites. “You liked me inside of you, admit it…”

“Well…” Chuckling you shrug. “The sex wasn’t that bad, Winchester.”

“You know, I could believe you do not like me a bit but…” Biting your shoulder Dean smirks against your flesh. “I will not give up, Sweetheart. You and your cute ass belong with me…”

“Fuck you, idjit. I will not marry you or your pitiful cock. Now get off me. This was the last time for sure…”

“Anything new, Charlie?” All eyes land on your friend, the expert you call if you need to dig out the dirt. “I know Dick Roman is a hard nut to crack but please tell me you found anything.”

“According to my research, Dick Roman’s business seems to be legal.” Charlie hands you a folder full of useless information. “Nothing useful so far. That asshole even wrote a book and wants to become a politician…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Charlie.” Tossing the folder onto the table your rub your sore eyes. “So, we’ve got a whole lot of nothing.”

“Exactly, Y/N. I dug as deep as possible and found nothing.” The redhead sighs, resting her head onto the table. “He is too clean, boss. Whatever he’s hiding, I’ll find it, but it will take more time and better equipment.”

“Cole, can you make sure Charlie can use our system at Ares? I would feel better knowing she’s safe at my house.” Cole nods, smirking at you as he can see Dean clench his jaw every time you smile at your adopted brother.

“Our turn.” Dean grins, nodding at Benny who opens a file on his laptop. “Let us introduce you to Dick Roman, a billionaire businessman who is one of the fifty most powerful men in America.” Glancing at the monitor you gasp.

“He owns the corporation Richard Roman Enterprises. He is like an invader. That dick is following a ruthless corporate takeover agenda, focusing specifically taking over other kingpins empires.”

“You are telling me this billionaire is after our business? Why?” Rubbing your forehead, you can’t find a reason for a person like Dick Roman to take over a mobster’s empire.

“He has more money than he could ever make with our kind of business. Has a bestseller and even wants to become a politician…”

“I know, Y/N. We only know he killed your father and Jody for a reason. They are not his only victims.” Placing a folder onto the table Dean shoves it toward you. “Ten other families got wiped out.”

Opening the folder, you gasp as the files tell you Dick Roman is killing whole families, including children. “That monster even killed a baby…”

“We need to stop him, but we need to do it right. Everything we know is that no one was able to bring him down so far. Many people tried to kill him, but no one succeed so far.” Sam explains as Charlie checks Dean’s laptop.

“I might need more help. Dick’s website, his company server is encrypted. I know a guy, named Frank. He could help me.”

“Tell me what you need, and Cole will get it for you. You have no limit this time. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay for it. Cole will stay by your side and help you with anything.”

“Frank is a bit…uh…” Shrugging Charlie blinks a few times to find the right words. “Complicated to say the least. I should go alone and ask him for help.”

“No. This is not negotiable, Charlie. Cole will go with you, but he can stay in the car. From now on we play safe.” Laughing Charlie nods, giving you a wink before she hands Cole her friend’s addressee.

“Good thing Frank hates Dick Roman too. He bought his book only to burn it. If only I would’ve known that man is behind your parent’s death, I am sorry, Y/N.” Smirking Charlie walks toward the door, waving at you before she leaves the room.

Cole is not convinced but he follows Charlie outside, still hating the fact you spent the night at Dean Winchesters' house…

“Dean, I am tired so no stupid jokes and no talking about marrying you or shit. Let me have a break from your cockiness for once.” Rubbing your sore eyes, you whine as his rough hands start kneading your knots out.

“Just relax for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll drive you to your house. We should stick together, all of us. If we do not find a way to stop Roman, Lebanon will burn just like every other town Dick Roman took over.” Voice gruff but hands gentle Dean smiles as you nod.

“We should ask Crowley and Rowena for help too. I know you do not like them, but he was always a reliable source. If you want me to do so, let me do the talking…” Yawning you close your eyes for a moment.

“Did you ever imagine how our life would’ve been…” Dean stops talking when you start snoring.

For a moment he slides his fingers over your back, to just enjoy feeling your skin under his fingertips. “We can talk about this later.”

While Dean covers you with a warm blanket you snuggle into his pillow, faking you are already asleep. You know he wanted to ask you how your lives would’ve been without John forcing Dean to marry Lisa.

You press your eyes shut, ignoring the tingling in your body as he moves close enough to kiss your neck softly. 

“Love you, Sweetheart. I wish you would tell me you love me too.” Nuzzling you Dean presses his warm body against your back, wrapping his arms around you. 

“We are too late…” Pressing one hand over her mouth Charlie tries not to scream at the sight of all the blood in Frank’s trailer.

“Whatever happened here, they didn’t do it fast.” Looking around the trailer Cole sees restraints, fingernails on the floor and blood splatters all over the walls, floor, even the ceiling. “They tortured him.”

“Where is he?” Sniffling Charlie wants to walk out of the trailer, wants to escape the horror but Cole holds her back, pointing toward a picture of Frank with his family. “We need to find them…”

“I wasn’t completely honest…” Biting her lower lips Charlie gulps hard. “The reason Frank hated Dick Roman that much was…”

“Roman killed Frank’s family?” Nodding Charlie takes the picture to put it into her bag. “We will get him good, Charlie. For now, we can only check if Frank left anything Dick Roman’s men wouldn’t find…”

The queen of Lebanon

@alyssaforever2671, @xcastielbabyangelface, @bitchwhytho, @rosiehayes

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[salarta]

Chapter 4:  Rebel

Summary: Lorna Dane's mutant powers reawaken through a painful device at Mesmero's behest. When she comes out of it, she has a choice: remain a meek girl or save her heroes.

Author’s Note: This chapter is one I’m both most proud of and most worried about how it’ll be perceived given imagery and allusions used. It’s based primarily on X-Men #49, 50 and 51; her introductory issues. Here’s pics from my re-read to prep this chapter: https://imgur.com/a/xBTxGJO.

Crucifixion. Resurrection. A cross. The sight of this green teen girl splayed out on a techno-slab conjured images and themes long-admired by the majority of this country. The rulers. The humans. The bigots. It represented a tiny package of convenient morals to assuage hurt feelings in themselves while denying them in anyone they considered 'the other'.

It did not represent Lorna Dane.

She screamed. Hair floating. Arms twitching. Magnetism fastened her wrists to the circles of her cross-beam, harder than any pair of handcuffs. For three seconds - three loooooooong seconds - she endured. Writhing, shaking, gnashing her teeth, clenching her eyes shut, she endured. Her heart thumped wildly to keep up with her ever-growing limits.

100 volts. 200 volts. 350. 450. 500. 1000. As the voltage climbed, it cleansed all traces of her old self. Her meek self. Her naive self. Her sheltered self, twelve hundred miles from home. Alone. All this power devoured her innocence as swiftly as remnants of her brown hair dye fizzled in puffs of dark smoke. Through it all, she uselessly tossed in her bonds for any give she could take.

Crackle! Crzzzz! The machines spit electric fire up and down a metal stake holding their captive. Even those who built this travesty mistook the machines themselves for this visual spectacle, but no. It came from the flesh and blood bound within. Every cell of Lorna Dane's body hummed as the tech agitated their genetic cores. Microscale pokes and prods made the cells lash out. Their violence erupted in the shape of raw energy blasting all about her. Her whole world blossomed in emerald shades... and through that miasma, she saw her abductor.

Mesmero. With a giant M on his belt, a long cape and absurd helmet, it puzzled Lorna how this man in a joke of a costume could inflict such suffering on her for his so-called noble cause. How he could claim to be superior while watching her struggle with a joyous smirk.

"The genius that was bequeathed us by the magnificent Magneto shall bring forth from this feeble shell -- a being powerful beyond all others! And our invincible leader!"

This 'feeble shell' glowered through her pain at the monster. That's what he was. Not man. Not mutant. His lack of respect for a girl he claimed to prize second only to Magneto himself came through clear in his words. He did not see her for her. He saw her for what he wanted her to be. Another thing he could control. Another puppet to dance on his whims. An object he could use as he desired, under a righteous guise.

The genetic stimulator buzzed with its first signs of salvation. Its whining, crackling chorale built to a deafening crescendo, and finally... silence. Lorna breathed deep and heavy. Her sweat sizzled into clean vapor off her tired limbs. At last, freedom. Freedom to use these new powers for a bit of revenge.

Or so she thought. Then she saw them.

"Behold! She stands before us now -- the omnipotent empress of all evil mutants! For within her runs the blood of he whose name is sacred unto us!"

The X-Men had failed. Her heroes, the team of rebellious youths who righted wrongs with their tremendous mutant gifts, fell before Mesmero and his men. They stood as slumped, pale imitations of themselves. Angel's glorious feathery wings hung low. Cyclops cast his ruby red visor downward. The hulking Beast hardly seemed able to move much less fling cars.

But the worst of what Lorna saw? Jean Grey. The fiery redhead who so often showed how women could fight just fine among the boys, now stood quietly behind their leader.

Witnessing their defeat, Lorna had a choice. One playing in her mind as she listened to the villain of this moment spout off another trite line to massage his own ego.

"Yes -- now may I reveal that she is -- daughter of Magneto -- and Queen of Mutants! Hail, glorious queen!"

Play the part. Be the queen. Or step aside, be her old naive self and watch her heroes die right in front of her. Perhaps before her time through gadget hell, she might have left it to the X-Men to save her. Not anymore. Mustering some courage, she stepped forward with her arms high. She took on a dark, menacing mien - an easy task for her after suffering through eternal seconds of agony. It burned fresh in muscle memory, so hot that when she gazed on her allies and looked into their dreadful eyes, she did her best to assuage their fears by contorting her fingers into a pair of devil horns.

The devil horns. So simple. So misunderstood. Like them. Like mutants everywhere. What the old guard mistook as some perverse allegiance to the devil, up and coming teens knew its true meaning: a ward against the evil eye. Resistance to toxic authority, to a tin man with an M on his belt and a big head who sought to possess her and failed.

It was a minor gesture. One she hoped the X-Men would notice. Even if they didn't, she needed to keep up her act. Absorbing the ludicrous despot's manner of speech, she concocted a few lines and rattled them off as best she could.

"Now I understand the strange stirrings within me that tortured my soul almost from my first conscious moment! For, my father's blood, though unknown to me, could not be silenced! Yes -- I know my calling now! I am your -- queen!"

The X-Men trembled. Mesmero's followers kneeled. They bought it. Every one of them believed every word. That moment, right then, she knew she had it. Her opening.

Power coursed through her veins. Electric might sparked over her arms, slammed into her chest, danced through her light minty hair - its color drained to a paler shade than when her ordeal began. Mere feet away, Beast's Mini-Cerebro fumed. Overloaded wires. It couldn't take her energy. Hotter, brighter, it only took seconds - three seconds - before the brand new device exploded. Blue shards flew everywhere.

Ever since they took her, Mesmero's men described her in many different ways. An M-II weapon. A living goddess. Empress. Queen. From a simple girl living a simple life, to some kind of evil master unto herself, her captors clearly had high ambitions for how they could purge her innocence and use her for themselves.

Too bad she had other ideas, and it all came down to one thing: that damned cross. Her captors may have seen it as a symbol of rebirth, but Lorna felt something different. She felt her ancestors. She felt good Jewish men and women who lived, and loved, and suffered and died because they dared to defy Roman law. Because they sought to be more than what people told them to be. Because they were special, and they showed it.

For all their bluster, Mesmero and his men were no different. They simply thought they could keep the body and kill her soul.

They failed. She still lived, whole, and she would make them pay for what they did. As she unleashed waves of force on those who claimed to worship her, she took on a mantle all her own. One that belonged to her by birthright.

Rebel.

[varietyofwords]

Addendum, Part Twenty-Two (Chicago P.D.)

Title: Addendum

Chapter: Not All Cops (Part Twenty-Two)

Fandom: Chicago P.D.

Rating: T/PG-13

Author’s Note: This scene is set immediately after ADA Stone confronts Burgess with the video of her and Roman touching during “Justice” (3x21).

He reaches for the hand towel tossed over his shoulder at the sound of the knock on his front door; wipes the small slivers of red onion from his fingers onto the red and white checkered cloth at the the sound of the front door being pushed open and her voice softly calling out his name. His kitchen is small enough that she has nearly traversed its linoleum floor -- boots still on rather than lined up neatly by the front door -- in the amount of time it takes him to announce where he is.

Her hand slides across the small of his back when she reaches him -- the sound of the refrigerator door being yanked open cutting off the final syllable of her name as it rolls off his tongue -- and he slides his gaze from the chopped yellow onion and the unchopped green bell pepper and zucchini on the cutting board in front of him to watch her head disappear into the depths of his fridge out his peripheral vision.

“Wine is over by the microwave for you,” he announces watching the bounce of her hair as she turns her head to look out over her shoulder, eyeing the flash of skin over the waistband of her jeans before she straightens.

“I’m getting you wine glasses for your birthday,” she informs him after slamming the fridge shut, and he doesn’t bother to glance over at the microwave where nearly half a bottle of Merlot -- leftover from Olinsky’s visit after Jay’s foray into private security -- has been poured out into two round bottom, whisky glasses. Merely grumbles something about his glasses working just fine as he picks the knife up in his right hand once more while her boots tread less than lightly on the linoleum as she moves across the small kitchen to retrieve the glasses.

One of the glasses is deposited on the counter in front him; left amid the assortment of spices and oils assembled in order to make their dinner. The other glass is clutched in her left hand and ends up pushed against his shoulder blade through the fabric of his dark blue Henley as she presses her body into his in an attempt to peer over his shoulder and ascertain what exactly is for dinner.

“Tuscan sausage linguine,” he announces before she can ask, before she can stop him from making quick work of chopping up the zucchini with the suggestion that they go out and grab a burger or something else.

He’s a better cook than she is. Better at following a simple recipe than she is at following the instructions on the frozen, so-called healthy meals she keeps in her freezer; better at sneaking fresh vegetables and whole grains into her diet than she’d like. Occasionally, Erin will try to weasel out of having these healthy dinners in favor of a combo or takeout Chinese or wings and beers at Molly’s, saying she needs more sustenance and calories for later with her house husband than his limited repertoire of home cooked meals can provide.

But after these last few weeks -- after their fellow cop was shot point blank in his squad car, after Stone and the rest of the city they swore to protect and serve suggested that cop’s partner should be charged -- he needs to be home tonight. Needs to eat something that he won’t have to burn off with an early morning session at Antonio’s gym; needs to spend the night in a place where he won’t be confronted with signs proclaiming Ellis’ innocence and Burgess’ guilt.

And Erin seems to get that tonight -- or, at least, knows that this pasta dish is one of her favorites from what he’s cooked for her -- because her right hand gives his right bicep a squeeze and a kiss is pressed to the skin just below his earlobe after she whispers words about it smelling good directly into his ear. Her body extracts from his, and her back falls against the closed refrigerator door with a sigh, with the lift of the makeshift wine glass to her lips.

“Burgess doing okay?” Jay questions as he scrapes his knife along the cutting board and pushes the zucchini into a smaller pile in order to create space for him to chop up the green pepper.

He had hoped to avoid the topics of Burgess and Roman and Black Lives Matter for one night --  the kitchen already a tight squeeze with him and her without adding in the baggage of Burgess-Roman-Ruzek and the mixed emotions about a chant setting the city on fire -- but he’s started to pick up on the visual and audio clues of when she wants to talk and when she doesn’t. So he asks; listens to her noncommittal hum and then her committal, verbal response in the negative as he works at slicing the bell pepper into small slivers.

“Stone called her down to the DA’s office today.”

“She take her FOP rep with her?” Jay inquires because he knows how this goes, knows how quickly the District Attorney and the Ivory Tower will move to jam up a good cop who has been cast under a suspicious cloud in order to keep public opinion on their side.

And Burgess, so far, has gotten a good deal -- a fair deal, a deal that wasn’t offered to him when he was suspected of murdering Lonnie Rodiger -- from the union. Stripped of her badge and her gun, but set up to ride a desk in a semi-civilian, semi-police administrative position with full pay and full pension accrual until the DA gets his verdict on two counts of attempted murder on a police officer.

But that deal could change with her speaking to Stone or anyone on his team without her FOP rep at hand, with her putting herself in yet another position where it is her word against someone else’s. A fact that Jay has tried to stress to Burgess through Erin; advice he knows the now former patrolman isn’t taking by the way Erin skips over his question in her reply.

“Stone’s got video of her and Roman and the shooting,” Erin informs him and, for a split second, he thinks this may be good news. Thinks that maybe Ellis’ face is visible on the footage, which would place him at the scene with the gun and seal his conviction.

But the twinge of frustration in Erin’s gravelly voice, the way she slipped into his apartment and is slouched over against his fridge sipping down wine tells him this isn’t a moment of jubilation. A moment where he and the rest of the CPD don’t sound like naive fools for working under the banner chant of ‘Not All Cops’.

And so he doesn’t bother to ask if Ellis is shown clear as day on the footage; continues to finish up his slicing work with the knife as Erin explains that Burgess said the video showed her and Roman expressing affection for one another. He only stops, only sets the knife aside and turns to stare at her when her voice becomes low and full of disgust when she explains that Stone asked if Burgess was thinking like a cop or thinking with her crotch.

“Was she?” The question causes all the fire in her voice to move to her gaze, to move to the eyes that shift from a spot on the living room wall just beyond the kitchen in order to stare at him. To make it clear that this is not the time for him to get stupid on her or become one of those old timers who think women are too weak and too focused on finding a man to wear the badge.

Which isn’t at all what he means to suggest with his question and, frankly, isn’t anywhere near as bad as what any half-decent defense attorney will suggest when the case makes it to trial. But there is some truth to Stone’s statement.

Truth he tried to point out to her weeks ago at Molly’s when Erin said Burgess was interested in her partner yet insisted a Burgess-Roman-Ruzek triangle would be PG-13 at worse rather than the horror movie. Truth she had to accept when the rumor mill infiltrated the bullpen upstairs and they all learned that Ruzek went off on Roman about wanting to date Burgess when asked about a laptop. Truth Erin, clearly, doesn’t want to give credence to tonight.

“She and Roman were ambushed,” Erin snaps back in reply. “You said it yourself, in those conditions -- forty yards, low light -- she made a nice shot.”

“She did,” he agrees without hesitation because what he told Burgess at the scene of the crime was true. Because he was impressed by her ability to take down the suspect in those conditions with only her service weapon. Because he thought maybe in that moment she needed a reminder that she did good, that she protected her partner and herself.

But he knows that toeing the line of professionalism day in and day out is hard, that focusing on an empty stretch of road late at night is difficult when your partner -- the one you go home with at the end of the day -- is sitting right next to you. And he also knows -- thanks to Erin’s tidbits of information over drinks at Molly’s, thanks to his own eyes and ears and razor sharp mind -- that carrying on that level of professionalism is hard for Burgess and Ruzek and Roman. That no one in the district can honestly say that they forget who Burgess is dating the same way they forget about Lindsay and Halstead.  

“But it’s not gonna look good for her if she and Roman were making out in the--”

“They weren’t making out,” Erin interrupts pushing herself away from the fridge -- away from him -- and stopping over towards the small stand where the microwave sits near the entryway to his kitchen. For a brief second, he thinks that maybe she’s planning on leaving, planning on forging his cooking and his company for a combo and some silence.

Yet, Erin stops just short of the exit to the kitchen and swipes the bottle of wine from the rack on the second shelf below the microwave. Pops the cork off and refills her half-full glass while grumbling about how Burgess only reached out to touch Roman’s cheek, how that’s far more chaste than what she does to Jay in the 300 when they think no one is looking.

That comment, though, causes his right eyebrow to pitch upward, and he rolls his hip against the counter until his back is pressed up against it. Until the cut up vegetables and the diced tomatoes simmering in a pot on the stove are forgotten as he crosses his arms, as he challenges her on the falseness of her statement.

“I keep it professional,” he rebukes. “I may make a comment or two in the car or in the break room, but I don’t kiss you or touch you or--”

“Don’t I know it,” she sasses, and it takes him a moment to realize that she’s trying to defuse the situation. That she is trying to make a joke, to make him forget about the accusation that she lobbed at the two of them with a smirk half-hidden behind her makeshift wine glass.

There’s a moment where he considers giving into the shift in the conversation, considers letting the teasing comment replace the accusation that neither of them can afford to have anyone charge at them. Because, right now, they’ve got Voight turning a blind eye and, according to Burgess, the rest of the district forgetting they’re together, which keeps the Ivory Tower out of their personal business, but if this video, if this horror movie sinks the case against a suspected cop killer? He’ll be lucky if the union can snag him an administrative position following his ejection from Intelligence.

There is a heavy sigh as Erin takes in the look on his face and the tightening biceps of his folded arms, as he watches the realization that she’s struck a nerve that cannot be soothed by suggestive comments register on her face. And another heavy sigh comes as the nearly empty wine  bottle is placed on top of the microwave, as Erin darts her gaze from him to the floor to the glass in her hand with a small shrug of her shoulders.

“Burgess is a good cop,” Erin states, and Jay offers verbal agreement in reply because he’s seen the beat cop in action, seen her comeback from taking a shotgun blast to the head and neck, and he has no reason to doubt the validity of Erin’s statement. Doesn’t feel any need to go looking for one; doesn’t want to be just another guy looking for a way to jam her up like Jefferies and Stone.  “She apprehended her suspect just as she was trained to do. She probably saved Roman’s life. Again.”

There’s a long pause where the ‘but’ to her statement lingers in the air, where Jay finds himself reaching out blindly beside him to turn off the stove because this isn’t going to be some quick and easy conversation that’ll end before he needs to stir the tomatoes. And eventually it comes with a flash of anger in Erin’s eyes and a rough edge to her voice.

“But she’s also a female cop, and there are people out there -- her fellow cops, DAs, the public -- who will say she shouldn’t be out there. That she’s too busy being a Badge Bunny to protect and serve this city. That she killed an innocent, unarmed black kid because her emotions got the best of her.”

There a parts of her statements that he could correct because they have video showing that unarmed black kid tossing a gun and they have years of experience as detectives telling them that innocent black kid tried to murder two cops sitting in their cop car. But there are other parts of statements that he cannot correct because they are true.

Because he’s served along side guys in the Gang Unit who saw female police officers as nothing more than tail to chase; because he’s already heard whisperings about Burgess and Roman and Ruzek in the locker room. Whisperings that grew louder after Ruzek’s blow up in front of Platt’s desk when asked about a misplaced laptop.

“Yeah,” he agrees after a short pause, “people are going to say that about her and that sucks. But, Erin, you aren’t Burgess.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Erin corrects with a shake of head. “One lady cop represents all lady cops.”

Deep down, he knows there is some validity to her assertion. That as much as he and every other cop tries to assert that not all cops are racist or hold little value for black lives, a perception of all rather than a few still permeates the force when it comes female police officers. That Erin may be the toughest cop he knows and Burgess may have all sorts of commendations, but some of the guys from his old unit still offered condolences when they heard the gender of his partner when he first moved over to Intelligence.

But he also doesn’t know how to change that perception beyond making sure that he keeps it professional, that he doesn’t act around Erin the way Ruzek or Roman act around Burgess, that he tries not to give anyone any reason to see Erin as less than equal to him. And all his statements to that effect manage only to bring a small, sad smile to her lips and a soft acknowledgment of how she knows that because him and his approach to their relationship is why she couldn’t tell Burgess not to date her partner.

There is a lull in the conversation -- silence rapidly filling small kitchen -- as he struggles to find the right words to respond to that statement. As his brain refuses to settle on whether or not he should be trying to absolve her from any guilt she may be feeling by saying he would have given Burgess the same answer for the same reason. But his opportunity to decide is taken by rather sudden inquiry on her part into how long until dinner is ready.

“Uh,” Jay replies glancing over his shoulder at the pot of tomatoes cooling to room temperature on the unlit stove and the assemblage of half-prepped ingredients on the counter behind him. “Thirty, thirty-five minutes.”

“Ok,” Erin murmurs as she takes a sip of her wine. The glass joins the bottle on top of the microwave after a second swig, and her free hand slips into her pocket to retrieve her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. And she holds it up, offers him a nod of her head towards the clock on the stove as she announces that she’s going to give Platt a call. “I think it would be good if she and I drove Burgess to the courthouse when she’s called to testify. Show her some solidarity.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with the nod of his own head, and Erin offers him yet another small smile in reply when he informs her that he and the rest of the unit will be there, too. That he and Mouse, Voight and Dawson, Atwater and Ruzek all plan to be seated in the first two rows behind the prosecutor when that day comes.

He waits a moment after she’s walked out of the kitchen and into the living room before turning around, before reigniting the stove and reaching for the spoon in the top drawer beside the stove in order to stir the tomatoes. But the sound of Erin’s boots hitting the linoleum again causes him to turn around, to watch hesitation spread across Erin’s features as she says his name in a cautious tone.

“Maybe don’t tell Ruzek about the video? Burgess doesn’t need another unprofessional blow up right now.”

Her request is a crazy, stupid idea because they both know the video will be entered into evidence. That Ellis’ attorney will try to use it against Burgess and the State’s case the same way Stone tried to use it against Burgess today. But he agrees because this -- him and her standing in his kitchen while he makes them dinner -- is their unprofessional life, and here he can offer support to his partner in the illogical way she needs it.