It was your first day at the 17th precinct in Manhattan, and none of the senior officers could take you seriously. Your boss was quite okay with the name change, even printed you a new badge with Y/N shining proudly upon it. Even your partner, Y/F/N, who was your roomate at the Academy, easily got in the swing of calling you Y/N. At the precinct however, the grizzled, balding men-who look slightly like turtles, but don't tell them that- did not seem to understand.
"They is plural isn't it?"
"What, you got multiple personalities?"
You were eager to get out of the eyesight of the gizzard eyes, so you hurried to retrieve your assignment and got to you and your partners cruisers before you even read it.
"Are we really on malicious mischief duty," your partner groans, sinking into their seat.
"It is are first day Y/P/N, we can work are way up. Soon we will be doing our CSI interrogations and stuff," you nudge them playfully.
"Fine, but if we don't catch anything, you buy me donuts after work."
"One day in and you are already a stereotype," you say as you start the car, pulling out of the station," I admire your gusto for the job." They just laugh and you cruise down the streets, making dumb jokes about becoming stereotypical cops until your radio patches through.
"We have a 10-59 on the corner of west 82nd street and Columbus avenue."
You quickly respond, "Patrol 38 has got it." Your partner smiles as they get to flick on the sirens, something that they confided in you was a lifelong dream of theirs. You jokingly mimic the sirens as you pull close to the alley where this is occuring. You pull your seatbelt off of you, eager to step out. Your partner opts to stay in the cruiser, letting you handle this one. You creep down the alley, fingers grazing the holster holding your gun. As you near the end of the alley, you see a figure with broad shoulders painting a gorgeous scene of a sunset on red rocks. You clear your throat, almost regretting interrupting the artist from his mission. He turns, dropping his brush on the dirty concrete.
"Well hello darlin'," his voice drawls, "You made me drop my brush. Was that necessary?"
His face shocks you with his beauty, strong features complemented by a cocky smirk that is beginning to spread.
"I-i'm sorry s-sir. Y-you can't do t-that."
"Why not darlin'? Don't like the picture?" He strikes a dramatic pose, like a pinup model in front of his background.
"N-no. You n-need a permit to do that," you volley back, gaining your composure.
"C'mon darlin'. Let me off once and I'll give you your very own art." He winks seductively, giving a small chuckle. "Why don't you give me your name and I can drop it off later."
You are so caught off guard by his seductive tone, you find yourself stuttering out your name.
"Alrighty then darlin'. The names Jack Kelly."
With those hardly parting words, he turns back to his painting, signaling it is your time to go. You disgruntledly wander back to the cruiser. You see your partner raise the radio, presumably telling the station you took care of the situation. As you jump in the car, your partner turns to you with and odd look on their face.
"Y/N, what's wrong? Did you get 'em?"
"They, they ran out of the alley before I caught them," you say, having to make up an excuse quickly for not taking in the handsome vandal. They eye you, as if they know that the alley was a dead end, but they let it go.
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Months later, you are working with your partner, doing all the stuff you dreamed a police officer would do. Turns out it is much less interesting than you thought it would be. You had found Jack Kelly's art, a portrait of you, on your doorstep a few days after the meeting. You have no idea how he found you, but after that, you seemed to keep meeting. Mysteriously he would turn up at your favorite coffee shop, your running route in the park, and your precinct when you get off work. Eventually one of you asked the other out -Jack swears that it was him, but you know that you asked first. After the long working hours and normally boring days of paperwork, you come home to see Jack in his paint-stained shirt, cooking dinner. Jack likes to hug you as you walk in the door.
"You're so gorgeous Y/N."
He would talk to you about your day, then get distracted by the handcuffs on your uniform. Needless to say your dinner ends up burned.
