Setting: Somewhere in season 2.
Summary: Just another ordinary day in Blackpool, capital of the north.
Author's Notes: Written for tthjinni’s birthday.
DI Carlisle was more than a little surprised when the blonde teenager licked his ice cream cone. “Mmmm!” she said, and stole his flake as well.
“Excuse me?” he said in his soft Scottish burr, staring up from his deckchair at the brat in the hoodie leaning over him. Looked fit, physically healthy, no obvious traces of drug addiction, but still possibly a runaway. After all, who would be out here visiting Blackpool at this time of year?
She looked up, little flecks of ice cream visible around a set of very pouting lips and smirked. “Nice accent, and just as nice to see you in that outfit.” She leant forward, and softly whispered “Of course, I can think of a lot better outfits I’d like to see you in right now.”
She leant forward and licked more ice cream off his cone, slowly running her tongue around it. “And a much better use for that ice cream….”
“Are you solicting me?” he asked, somewhat in disbelief. This could be one of his easiest arrests ever.
She paused, thought, and cast a glance up at him through her fringe. Putting the tip of one finger in her mouth, she said “Why, yes. Yes, I am. Let’s get out of this cold air and go somewhere where we can be much… hotter… together.”
DI Carlisle took his handcuffs out of one pocket and dangled them in front of her face. “Last chance,” he offered, really not wanting the paperwork.
The blonde’s eyes lit up. “Wow…” she said, excited, “If I’d known you liked that sort of thing, I’d have gone through Jack’s stuff a lot earlier.” Her questing hand had now started sliding up the inside of one of his thighs, and he shifted uncomfortably in the deckchair.
“Jack?” DI Carlisle queried, desperately trying to concentrate, “Who’s Jack?”
She looked at him with slight confusion. However, the deckchair chose this moment to collapse and the two of them fell to the floor in a tangle of legs and arms. What was left of his ice cream jammed itself into her face and smeared across her face.
“Rose?” came an angry voice from not too far away. “What is going on here?”
As if from a distance, DI Carlisle could see how this looked. A young girl scrambling up from near his groin, white stuff all over her face…. Please god, let this not be anyone from the local newspaper.
Firm, strong hands were pulling him and the girl (Rose?) apart, and hauling him to his feet. Turning around, he stared into his own face.
“What the--!?!” they both said simultaneously.
“Oh crap,” said Rose very quietly, and in the most embarrassed tone DI Carlisle had heard in quite a while, “That explains the accent.”
Across the street, Ripley Holden stared, and swore off drinking for at least two whole days.