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artificialqueens · 1 year

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[WIP] Pass the Broccoli (Sashea) - Dandee

AN: Hello! Dusting the cobwebs off my old wips, hope you like it! I started writing this like 4 years ago and come back to it sometimes. TW for blood &violent descriptions

Shea stands in the garage, hands in the pockets of her grey pant-suit. She gazes at the mess laid out in the middle of the floor, coming to nudge a mauled john’s shoulder with the tip of her Burberry lace up. His shoulder sags along the concrete, and falls back. Still fresh, somewhat.

She gives a long, heavy sigh. Picking up her briefcase, she steps over his beaten-in skull and makes her way to the laundry room.

Tchaikovsky drifts through the halls over the clattering of the dryer, little paws jumping up to greet Shea as she steps through the door. She gives Vanya a pat on the head and opens the dryer to take a quick peek.

Just Sasha’s gardening clothes. No blood, not that she can see anyway.

Vanya’s tail wags as he follows Shea into the house, his little nails pitter-pattering against the tile. Shea tosses her briefcase onto the breakfast table and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.

On a Tuesday?

She braces herself against a chair and glances around the kitchen-- pristine as ever, aside from the pan in the sink filled with soap. The smell of Eggplant Parmesan fills the room, and Shea gives a short breath of a laugh.

Her favorite meal. Oh, it’s so fucking typical.

Running a hand over her sleek black ponytail, Shea heads toward the dining room— she stops, however, just shy of the doorway, and watches Sasha float about the table and angle the place settings to her personal brand of perfection. Shea folds her arms and leans against the arch.

Sasha’s perfect little ass wiggles with every move, her floral pencil skirt hugging her slender frame. From this angle it seems as if nothing’s wrong. To a blind eye Sasha would only seem like a perfect housewife, humming and setting the table with love and care, taking time to see that everything’s perfect before her darling wife comes home.

But Shea has no blind eye.

Aside from the macabre scene in the garage, Shea can always tell when her wife’s taken a job. She gets fidgety, obsessively precise and her hair-- normally a neat, platinum blonde finger wave-- always has a few curls out of place. Like a few screws come loose.

Which is pretty on brand.

Sasha shifts her gaze from the arrangement of red roses to a wine glass, lifting it to the light and inspecting it for smudges. Once it passes, she set it back down and moves to the placing of the plates. Then back to the linens, then to shining the golden cutlery with a cloth from her apron. She’s meticulous in her scrubbing, and when she seems satisfied enough, she drifts to the other end of the table. Shea can see the beginning of Sasha’s gaze coming up- and by now, after all these years, she’s learned good and well to move out of the way.

The knife flies across the room so quickly that Shea doesn’t even see it-- but the dull thud where it sticks out of the wall, inches from her face, leaves her unimpressed.

So does the little laugh that Sasha gives. She tries to cover her spook but Shea can see it all over her. Her frame buzzes with residual adrenaline, keyed up from the feet up.

“Darling-“ her fingers dance over her collarbone, “you startled me. You know better than to skulk like that.”

“Mmm.”

At that, Sasha does nothing but tilt her chin. Almost expectantly.

Shea’s tired. It’s been a long day and she’s not in the mood to play. She eyes the knife in the wall, runs a finger along the handle and pokes at it in vain. It’s jammed into the wood like a stovepipe.

Sasha’s heels clack slow off the tile. She comes to sidle up but not too close-- she’s doing that thing she does, when she thinks she might be in trouble. She gazes at the knife, too, and rests against the wall.

Shea catches another resentment, at the blue eyes coming into focus behind the knife. She’s trying it, she really is.

“Shea?”

Her eyes come into full focus.

“Mmhm?”

Sasha’s hair brushes the wall, a smile playing at her lips. Shea holds her gaze and there they are —in seemingly marital serenity, split by a golden knife. Shea’s not going win this one and she knows it. But she’s still Rightfully Upset and she’ll make it known.

Sasha doesn’t give a shit because she knows she’ll win.

“How was work?”

Shea shrugs and thumbs the handle one last time, pushing off the wall.

“Okay, I guess. No one died.”

Sasha smiles. It’s been an old joke between them, since they first partnered in the field. It’s an okay day, if no one died. It’s not right, but it’s okay.

In spite of herself, she reaches for Sasha, she comes to her with what seems like no conscious thought at all.

Shea pulls her in, hands smoothing down her sides. Sasha’s warm pressed against her, familiar and easy. Her shoulders rise with her slow drawn breath, and Shea claps a hand at her hip.

“Edwards retired.”

“Oh, no.” Sasha lays a palm over Shea’s chest, “Did you get a card?”

Shea nods, her tired gaze falling somewhere between them. “Yeah, I picked one up,” she says, “Signed it for you. Got her a giftcard to Applebees.”

Sasha hums. “I’m sure she loved that.” Her fingers play at the lapels of her blazer.

Shea gives a half chuckle, and nods. She looks down at her wife, who looks back at her, grinning. She looks tired, too.

This moment would have looked a lot different, years ago- a mess of tangled limbs and bruising kisses. Searching each other, feeling for gashes and wounds and breaks— clinging to one another with the desperation of a drowning man. In the beginning Shea saw most days as her last, and only prayed to God that she’d be the first one to go.

They’d been thrown on a case, two strangers living out of a Buick and dingy motels. They’d struck gold on a phone tap and busted The Bad Guys, putting four on lock and two in the ground. They came up quick, started catching the big-dog cases. Sasha began leaping from choppers while Shea secured the ground. Shea sat on scrapers and clipped grunts while Sasha went in below. They hopped from one place to another- traffickers in Laredo, narcos in Cuba. A cute little boat raid off the coast of Bahrain, Sasha throwing knives when they ran out of ammo. Sasha had dug a bullet out of Shea more than once.

Shea had carried Sasha out of Jersey when she’d nearly bled out. She’d been sure Sasha was dead, more than twice.

Five years in the field doesn’t seem like a lot— but dying hurts, folks. And almost dying hurts a lot more.

And love? Bad for business.

It didn’t take long for Caldwell to catch on. After two years partnered, the Bureau had discharged Sasha.

Sasha took the next year off. She painted and gardened while Shea gritted her teeth through partner after partner. They dropped like flies— Zamo went AWOL in Soviet Russia smack dab in the middle of a cult investigation, Chachki took a life sentence for picking up a part-time gig in North Korea. And that kid that went missing in Bermuda? She couldn’t remember his name, he’d only been on for a month- but he was from Azuza, she knew that. Got on a boat and never came back.

Hell, Hytes had lasted a little over a year— and up until a few months ago, Shea had really thought she’d make it. They paired well, and it was almost like running with Sasha again— but she just couldn’t keep her dick in her pants. She messed with one too many girls and boom- she found the wrong girl and got lit up like a Christmas tree in Miami, five in the chest and two in the neck, left in an alley like a goddamn modern renaissance piece. A crime of passion, they called it.

Shea had warned Hytes, she knew that family like the back of her hand. There’s a certain amount of tiptoeing when dealing with the mob, that’s how it’s always been. The Bureau had worked long and hard to stay in good graces with The Family, and Hytes almost fucked it all up— but in a true “eye for an eye” fashion, Hytes’ case closed early, the Matteo girl got off and the world kept turning.

It always did.

“If Alyssa’s out-“

Sasha brings her back. She cants a brow, running a finger over one of Shea’s buttons.

“-who’s running the prostitution ring?”

She can see Edwards now, lucky fuck- she’s probably doing high kicks down the aisles of the grocery store as they speak.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sasha shrugs, pinching the button loose.

Shea tugs sharply at her hips. Sasha sucks in through her teeth and takes tight fistfulls of Shea’s shirt. She loosens her grip after a moment, eyes dark— and coming nose to nose, she lingers. She breathes soft against Shea’s lips, and her hips roll forward.

“I always wanted that one,” she whispers.

Shea can’t help the dull ache that starts in her belly. Her lips feather over Sasha’s.

“Sasha.”

“Yeah?”

Shea wills herself to her lips, rocking back on her heels when Sasha moves to graze over her cheek, her jaw, down her throat, to her neck- the softest of nips, in no pattern. Shea grips a hip tighter when she bites down.

“Sasha.” Her eyes fall shut and she’s quiet in her musings. When she returns to the present, however, her gaze lands back to the knife in the wall. She sighs.

“The garage?”

Ceasefire.

Shea, unmoving, catches Sasha’s gaze as she pulls back, coming up to meet her.

Sasha blinks, even and cool.

“What about it?”

Shea tilts her head, tries unclenching her jaw. Sasha lets go of her shirt, hands drifting to her forearms.

“We talked about this.”

At that, Sasha shifts her eyes. She shakes her head, “I didn’t have time-“

“You didn’t have time?” Shea catches her cheek, coaxing her back up to search her face. “How did you not have time?”

“I had to— think on my feet,” she says, curling her shoulders forward. She grips Shea’s arms but she still won’t look at her.

“What do you, okay-“ Shea stammers, her chest tightening, “how is that a thing? How is this any different—“

“Don’t you think I would be clean if I could?” Sasha cuts her off. She steps back.

“I don’t know.” Shea folds her arms.

“You know I would,” she says, and finally glares at her. “You know I would do everything I could to-“

“Do I?” Shea asks.

A bitter chuckle escapes, and Sasha shakes her head. “Don’t start.”

“No, no- I’m curious,” Shea’s getting warmer, and she shrugs her folded arms. “It’s been a while, babe, so how am I supposed to know anything anymore?”

“Jesus, Shea-“

“You know how I feel about this, we’ve been over this-“

“I know, I remember, I do-“

“-and you agreed. You agreed—“

“-but if you could just-“

“-that when we come home, we leave work. You told me, you promised me—“

“- I don’t know what you want me to say!”

Shea feels her forehead wrinkle when her brows shoot up. Sasha stands there, hands on her hips and eyes on the ceiling.

She shakes her head, “I mean, do you even want me to say anything?”

Shea closes her eyes and pinches at the bridge over nose. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not these days, what is and isn’t gaslighting- but Sasha rarely raises her voice.

#rpdr fanfiction #wip wednesday #shea coulee #sasha velour #sashea #lesbian au #crime au #fbi au #dandee #tw for blood and descriptions of violence #tw for descriptions of murder

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