the shandy bodyguard au i'd write if I didn't have crippling adhd
The LAPD comes under immense scrutiny in the wake of Turrell Baylor's lawsuit. The Johnson Rule is just the start of accountability. Ricardo Ramos has sniffed out enough underhanded politicking within the LAPD's top brass that it simply isn't enough. Public trust in the LAPD is eroding. It's not just Major Crimes that needs the face lift, but the entire force.
It takes all of five minutes for the police commissioner to throw down Sharon Raydor's jacket on Pope's desk. "Her," he sneers. "I want her on every news channel, every community event, every goddamn morning show for the next six months until she's given a fucking key to the city and our officers are getting plates of cookies from little old ladies."
It makes sense, Pope thinks. Raydor's dedication to the job, to enforcing professional standards and holding every officer to the highest degree--not to mention writing half of the latest edition of the Code of Conduct--makes her beloved by administrators and the D.A.'s office. No one could accuse her credibly of being dirty. And, he has to admit, she has a certain appealing look to the public that can't be denied.
Sharon doesn't mean to inadvertently become the face of the LAPD. But a couple of stars and a hefty wardrobe budget for television appearances have been dangled in front of her as incentive. She's ready for the next chapter of her career, so she accepts.
What she isn't ready for about three months in is for Fritz Howard to burst into her office with a sulking, dark-eyed Andy Flynn in tow. She's going over press statements on improving community relations in LA's most under-served and over policed neighborhoods when Howard informs her of a string of credible threats received directed at Sharon.
"Me? Why me?" She's touched her blush brush more than she's touched her Glock in the last nine weeks. How could she be the target of anything?
"Because you're the one prancing in front of the cameras," Flynn chimes in, looking bored and irritated all at once. "Every dirt bag in a hundred mile radius with a grievance against the LAPD has a shiny new target to direct their complaints to." He grins at her. "Don't worry, there are plenty of nice messages about your more flattering attributes, too." This time he lets his eyes drag and linger on the flare of her hips and the long line of bare leg that ends in stilettos that cost him a quarter of his annual salary.
She doesn't shift and hide, though. She meets his gaze when it eventually returns to her face and smirks. "Well, that's more than I can say for the letters you probably receive, Lieutenant."
Fritz hides a smile behind a file folder before gesturing to the conference room across from her office. "I can bring you and your team up to speed, Captain. We'll need to increase security detail on your public events and the FBI, with the full endorsement of Chief Pope, think a personal detail is necessary."
Sharon opens her mouth to argue. She already lives so much of her life under the microscope, she does not need a personal detail as well. But before she can get the protest out, Fritz is already lifting a hand to stop her. "It's non-negotiable, Sharon. I'm sorry."
She sighs. "Who? Staples?"
This time, it's Flynn who speaks, toothpick plucked from his pocket and now hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Surprise."
"You?" It comes out harsher than she means, but there is simply no world in which she and Andy Flynn can exist peacefully side-by-side for an extended period of time.
He scowls at her, stepping closer so they're toe to toe. "Believe or not, this wasn't exactly my first pick for an assignment either." He huffs. "Apparently Major Crimes needs to earn some goodwill with the Vatican and Provenza's too lazy to be on detail and the rest of them, well--" He shrugs. "You got me."
(Andy ingrains himself into her life as an extra set of eyes and ears as the letters and threats ramp up. But as he accompanies her to events and engagements, he sees a new side of her: the woman who slumps tiredly in the backseat and answers calls from her daughter who just wants to tell her mom about the cute dancer in the company who finally asked her out, the woman who slurps saucy Pad Thai from greasy take-out containers ("Isn't that like the fourth take-out you've grabbed this week?" She glares at him. "What do you care?" "I care because you don't want to end up with clogged arteries like me. C'mon, noodles are so easy. I'll bring the stuff for it tomorrow. I'll show you."), the woman who stops and listens to every citizen who comes out to these stupid engagements--no matter how rude or nasty or angry or hurt, Sharon always, always listens.
He learns she sings under her breath to every song on the radio and abandons her heels the second she walks into the door and on the days when she has calls from the brass, the media, and her children she simply collapses against him--her head on his shoulder, her hand in his as she dozes in the back of their escort car.
She's not a witch at all--she's Dorothy, as lost and stumbling through life as he is. She's warm and funny and silly and can't cook to save her life and spends an extravagant amount of money on decorations for Christmas.)
(For her part, Sharon Raydor learns that Andy Flynn is an asshole and a hot head and he's more inclined to snark and snip when people are being especially stupid or troublesome. There's a reason his personnel jacket is as thick as it is. But she also learns that he carries around faded, yellowed paperbacks of noir detective books in his breast pocket on long press days. He frequently puts his hand on her back to steady her as she steps in and out of the car or across gravel pathways to events, his head on a swivel for danger but always returning to her like a beacon.
He teases her about her penchant for takeout and indulgent pastries and shows up at her door on his off days with sacks full of sesame oil and peanut butter and soy sauce to show her how to make a quick dupe for her favorite noodles. He likes soft rock and she hides her smirk into her glass of wine when he uses his spatula to imitate a guitar solo.
Jack calls over and over again the first time he sees her on television and when she snaps at him to lose her number and get used to only seeing her on his screen, Andy grins into his cranberry soda. "You go girl," he teases.
And then there are the times she sees him trying to desperately connect with his children. He proudly shows her pictures of his new step-grandchildren. "They call me Pop," he confides in her with a beaming smile. "Nicole is letting them spend the weekend with me while she and Dean have a weekend getaway." It's the height of happiness and pride for him that he is in his children's lives. He coughs and rubs his ear as he offers, "You know, you should swing by. I'm sure they'd love having you there and to be honest I could use another adult. Just in case."
She hears the doubt but she is quick to reassure him, her hand sliding over his forearm and settling against his hand as her fingers link with his. "You won't need me, Andy. But I'd love to join you.")
There are times he forgets himself. His day starts and ends with Sharon Raydor and he can't remember why his life wasn't always this way--greeted by her at the door with a cup of coffee and a toaster waffle burned to a crisp, soft good nights that are starting to linger in the entry of her doorway. (Her hands have started finding the length of his tie lately, pulling and smoothing the fabric like she can't decide if she wants to push him away or pull him inside with her.) (He's not sure, either, but more times than not he wants to say fuck it and get his mouth on hers and let her lead him around the condo by his tie if that's what she wants.)
But then at a rally for Go Green LA, a shot rings out and Andy doesn't know where the shot came from because he wasn't paying attention to the perimeter like he should have been. He was watching her. He was thinking how good she looked, how the wind was catching the curl of her hair, how when she promised her community justice for all he believed it could happen. He was thinking of sitting on her couch last night as she paced in front of him as she ate pretzels and ran through the speech with him to ask his opinion and all he could do was stare at the way her leggings clung to the curve of her ass.
The bullet is a through-and-through in the shoulder but Sharon goes down and blood seeps through her blouse and onto the stage. Andy should secure the scene but instead he throws himself over her body to shield her from any other incoming projectiles, his hands go to her shoulder and the back of her neck as she grips him desperately, the terror and pain in her eyes. They lose themselves for a moment.
At the hospital, she watches as he beats himself up. His hands run through his hair and his jaw clenches and he won't touch her. "I have to get back to PAB. Taylor wants to see me. I--"
But Sharon is there, sliding off the hospital bed in her slippered feet and her paper-thin hospital gown that slips off her shoulder. Her hand slides into his. "You did exactly what you were supposed to," she reminds him. "You protected me."
"You got shot, Sharon. Because I didn't see--"
"No one saw," she says stubbornly. "I wrote the book on surveillance policies. You didn't do anything wrong, Andy." She slides her hands up his chest and cups his cheeks in her hands, tilting his gaze towards her. "I'm fine."
She's waiting for him to nod into her touch and it's not the time at all, but he was so scared that he had lost her and there's been this thing building between them for months and he barely has time to process his own actions before he bends his knees to meet her where she is and kiss her. Her lips are soft and pliant beneath his, like she's been waiting for this as much as he's been wanting it. His hand slides into her hair and his other slides around her waist to pull her flush against him. She tastes like jasmine tea and mint and the first swipe of her tongue against his mouth, the initial drag of her teeth against his bottom lip has him groaning and pulling away before they get carried away.
"We can't," he pants against her mouth, forehead pressed to hers. "Not while I'm on the job. While you're the job."
For the first time in her life, Sharon Raydor wants to tell him to throw the rules out the window. It's desperately unfair that she can't have him now that she's found him.
In fact, she won't give him up now that she's found him. She looks at him with fire and determination in her expression. Her good arm winds around his neck, her fingers stroking the short silver hairs along his collar. "You think I became the face of the LAPD and didn't think I'd be cashing in a favor here and there?"
He raises an eyebrow, settles his hands at her hips. "I'm the favor?"
She nods, kissing him softly. "You're the favor," she mumbles against his mouth. When she pulls away, she doesn't go far. She settles against his chest and lets him hold her as she works through just exactly how she'll maneuver the pieces on the chess board.
(In the end, she reminds Russell Taylor that in order for him to write up Andy he needs to cite which specific procedure he violated. When Taylor can't come up with the correct citation, she nods and tells him Andy is the only one she trusts with her safety and it would be a shame if she shared her disappointment in the LAPD by accident on one of her upcoming morning show segments. In the meantime, she suggests, perhaps Major Crimes could dedicate some resources to catching her stalker and shooter since the FBI is clearly struggling.
"Think of it like a PR opportunity: Elite LAPD squad protects and serves one of their own when the FBI couldn't. The headlines write themselves, Commander. Don't you think?"
When the danger passes--Major Crimes catches her stalker and shooter in a week, a fact that Pope is gleeful in pointing out to Howard--Sharon finally tugs on Andy's tie and drags him across the threshold of her condo.
"I'm off the clock," he reminds her with a grin, backing her up and turning her against the closed front door. He ducks his head to nuzzle at her neck and jaw, lips trailing a barely-there trail across her skin.
"I'm not the job anymore," she confirms with a sigh, tilting her head back and rolling her hips against his, hands sliding over his back and shoulders over and over again in a meandering pattern.
Andy grins against her skin and pulls back, nipping softly at her lips. "Sweetheart, trust me. You're a full time job." He cuts off her protest with a heated kiss, all lips and tongue and teeth as he finds every spot in her mouth that makes her gasp and sigh and press against him. "Don't worry," he mumbles, kissing her cheek and temple and licking at the spot behind her ear. "I'm more than qualified.")
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