aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 11 - Part 4
The radio crackled before either of them could say more, the dispatcher's voice cutting through clearly. "All units in the East End grid, we have a 10-52 at Rossi's Deli on 7th and Kane. Robbery in progress. Two suspects, both armed with knives. Clerk is on the line—male subject has a knife to his side, second suspect is clearing the register. Any units nearby, respond."
Sawyer's hand tightened on the wheel. "That's us. Two blocks up." She hit the lights and siren, the familiar wail cutting through the afternoon quiet as she accelerated. Vieri checked his vest and sidearm one more time, the adrenaline kicking in steady and familiar. They rolled up fast, parking half a block away behind a delivery van to keep the element of surprise. The deli's front windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, the sign above the door flickering with one burned-out letter. They moved together without needing to talk much—standard procedure, years of experience making the steps automatic.
The place smelled like old coffee, fresh bread from the oven in back, and the sharp tang of fear once they pushed through the door. Two guys were at the counter. One held a knife to the clerk's side, the blade pressing just enough to draw a small bead of blood through the man's shirt. The other was stuffing cash from the open register into a dirty backpack, moving fast and sloppy. The clerk's eyes were wide, breathing hard, hands raised but trembling.
"GCPD!" Vieri called out, voice firm and commanding as he drew his weapon but kept it low. "Drop the knife. Hands where I can see them. Now."
The guy with the knife spun toward them, eyes wild. Sawyer was already moving on the second suspect, using her height and strength to her advantage. She closed the distance fast, shoulder-checking him hard into the counter. The backpack spilled cash onto the floor as she twisted his arm behind his back with practiced efficiency, the cuffs clicking on before he could recover. "Stay down," she growled, voice low and authoritative. "Don't make this worse."
Vieri handled the knife guy. He caught the wrist clean as the man lunged, driving a sharp elbow into the ribs that knocked the breath out of him. The knife clattered to the floor. Vieri followed through with a controlled takedown, knee in the guy's back as he pinned him face-down. "You're done. Stop fighting." The suspect grunted and went limp, the fight draining out of him once the blade was gone.
It was over in under a minute. No shots fired. The clerk slumped against the counter, breathing hard, one hand pressed to the small cut on his side. "Thank you," he managed, voice shaky. "They just came in… didn't even say anything."
Sawyer helped the clerk sit while Vieri secured both suspects. They called it in over the radio, voices steady as they reported the situation under control and requested backup for transport. The two perps were cuffed and sitting against the wall by the time the wagon arrived, muttering curses under their breath. The clerk gave a quick statement, still rattled but grateful. Standard procedure wrapped up clean.
When they finally walked back to the patrol car, Sawyer looked at Vieri with fresh heat in her blue eyes. The adrenaline from the takedown still buzzed between them. "You move good when it counts," she said. Her voice had dropped lower, rougher around the edges. "I like that. A man who handles business."
They got in. Vieri took the passenger seat again. Sawyer started the engine but didn't pull away right away. She turned toward him, eyes locked on his. The air in the car felt thicker already, charged from the call and everything that had been building since the office. "Fuck it," she muttered, and leaned across the console.
{R-18 Scene Vieri x Maggie Sawyer 2548 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
He felt his own release building again. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back gently but firmly so he could see her face — eyes rolled back, lips parted, completely lost in it. "Gonna fill you again," he growled.
"Do it," she gasped. "Pump it deep. I want to feel it leaking out of me the rest of the shift."
He buried himself deep and came hard, groaning as he pumped another thick load into her. Sawyer shuddered through another smaller orgasm, milking every drop. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, the car filled with the heavy smell of sex and the sound of their slowing heartbeats.
Eventually they untangled, cleaning up as best they could with napkins from the glove box and straightening their clothes. Sawyer pulled her pants back up, wincing a little at the mess between her thighs but smiling the whole time. "Fuck," she said, voice still hoarse. "That was exactly what I needed after that deli stop."
Vieri tucked himself away and climbed back into the front seat. "We still have patrol left."
Sawyer laughed softly as she started the car. "Yeah. Try not to get me worked up again before shift's over." She glanced over at him, eyes still dark with heat. "Though I wouldn't complain if you did."
They pulled back onto the street, the windows still fogged at the edges, the scent of what they'd just done lingering in the air. Vieri leaned back in the seat, mind already turning toward Friday night and the meeting with the Queens. One problem at a time.
They drove the rest of the patrol in a comfortable, charged silence broken by the occasional radio call. Nothing major — a noise complaint they handled quick, a guy trying to boost a car who ran the second he saw the lights. Sawyer was professional on the calls, but every time they were back in the car her hand would drift over to his thigh, squeezing lightly. Not pushing for more, just staying close. The scent of what they'd done lingered no matter how much air they let in.
By the end of the shift Sawyer dropped him back at the precinct lot. She killed the engine and turned to him, one arm resting on the steering wheel. "We should do this again sometime. Patrol together more often." Her blue eyes flicked down to his lap for a second, then back up. "And maybe not just in the car."
Vieri nodded. "Yeah. We'll see." He climbed out, the cool evening air hitting him. His body still felt loose and satisfied, but his mind was already shifting back to Friday. The meeting with the Queens. The note he'd given Selina. He needed to make it work — keep the task force looking effective while giving the women what they craved. Balance the chaos.
Inside the precinct Montoya was still at her desk, finishing paperwork. She looked up as he walked in. Her gaze sharpened, nostrils flaring slightly. She could probably smell it on him — the sex, Sawyer's perfume mixed with his. Her jaw tightened again, that subtle jealousy flashing across her face. "Good patrol?" she asked, voice even but with an edge.
"Quiet after the deli call," Vieri said. He kept it short. "Handled a couple things. Sawyer's solid backup."
Montoya's eyes lingered on him a beat longer. "I bet she is." She looked back down at her files, but her pen tapped a little harder than necessary. "IA wants the final write-up by tomorrow. Make sure it's clean."
Vieri nodded and headed to his own desk to wrap up the reports. The bullpen was winding down for the evening. He kept the details minimal, sticking to the facts. By the time he finished the sky outside was fully dark. He grabbed his jacket and headed out.
The drive home was quiet. Rain had started again, light but steady, the wipers thumping rhythmically. He parked in the driveway, killed the lights, and sat for a moment listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The house looked the same as always — small, stubborn, his. He went inside, locked the door, and dropped his things by the table.
The note he'd given Selina played in his head again as Vieri locked the front door behind him. Friday. Simple time and place, nothing fancy. Just the three of them. He'd keep it straightforward when they met—talk terms, lay out what the task force needed to look competent on paper, and make sure they understood he could keep giving them what they actually wanted in return. If it turned physical after the talking… well, that was part of the deal too. He wasn't naive about how these things usually went with them. The balance he was trying to keep felt precarious, but it was the only play he had.
He stripped off his clothes in the bedroom, the fabric still carrying the faint mix of precinct smells and the day's sweat. The quick shower was hot and efficient, water pounding against his shoulders and back as he soaped up and rinsed off the day. Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror until he wiped a clear streak with his palm. He toweled dry, pulled on a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and headed to the kitchen. No need for anything complicated. He boiled some pasta, heated up a jar of sauce, and threw together a simple dinner—nothing fancy, just fuel. The TV stayed off. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the steady tap of rain against the windows. He sat at the small table with his plate and a glass of water, eating in silence. The pasta was warm and filling, the sauce tangy on his tongue. His mind kept turning over the balance he was trying to keep.
Later, as he sat in his worn armchair with a cold beer, the condensation cool against his palm, a soft sound came from the back window. He didn't even look up. The deadbolt on the front door was locked, but that had never stopped her. Selina slipped inside like she belonged there, the black catsuit gleaming faintly in the low light from the lamp. The material clung to every line of her body—lean muscle, generous curves, the way it hugged her firm tits and the tight dip of her waist before flaring over her hips. She moved with that familiar predatory grace, closing the window behind her without a sound, then crossed the room and dropped onto his lap without a word, straddling him smoothly. Her hands rested on his shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into the muscle there.
"Got your note," she said, voice low and amused, a hint of that teasing edge he'd come to expect. "Friday. Bold move, flatfoot. You really think the three of us are just going to sit down and play nice because you asked?"
Vieri set the beer down on the side table, the glass clinking softly against the wood. He rested his hands on her hips, feeling the smooth, slick material of the suit under his palms and the warmth of her body beneath it. "Figured it was time we all talked," he replied, voice steady. "Make things work for everybody. The task force needs wins on paper. You three need to pull back a bit so things don't get too hot. And I can keep things… satisfying on this end. Everybody gets something."
Selina leaned in closer, her dark hair falling forward as her lips brushed his ear. The scent of leather and her usual light perfume filled his nose. "We'll see," she murmured, breath warm against his skin. "The others are already arguing about it. Harley wants to turn it into some kind of game, winner gets first ride. Ivy's going on about the Green and sacred rituals or whatever. They're both worked up. But I'll make sure they show up. And after?" She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, a small smirk playing on her lips. "We can skip the talking if you want. I know how these meetings usually end with us."
He squeezed her ass, feeling the firm muscle under the tight suit, his fingers digging in just enough to pull her closer on his lap. "We'll see how it goes," he said simply. "I'm not looking to start a war between you three. Just keep it from spilling over and burning everything down."
Selina let out a soft, husky laugh, the sound vibrating through her chest as she shifted her weight on him. "You say that like you don't enjoy the chaos a little." She leaned in again, this time kissing him slow and deep. Her lips were soft but insistent, tongue sliding against his in an unhurried exploration. One of her hands moved up to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. They stayed like that for a while, trading lazy kisses that grew a little deeper each time, her body relaxing against his. The rain kept tapping steadily against the windows outside, a constant backdrop to the quiet moment in the house.
Gotham kept turning outside those walls—the task force kept pushing for results, the city kept grinding on with its usual madness, and the women in his life kept pulling him deeper into the mess. Friday would be interesting, one way or another. For now, he just held her, hands resting on her hips, and let the night settle around them.
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