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Bea had a plan for the day. A simple, well-crafted one: take an early lunch, swing by her wife's office, convince her to do the same, and whisk her away to that charming little pub on the Thames in Hammersmith - the one she'd discovered at a work lunch the previous week.
But when she arrived at the precinct and made her way up to the squad room, she found it practically deserted. In most circumstances, that would signal trouble, yet the absence of a frantic text from her wife suggested a more pleasant reality: the rest of the squad was likely soaking up the rare summer's day.
Scanning the room for a familiar face, she spotted DS Quinn in the break room, cradling a mug of tea.
"Ah, Quinn, perfect," Bea said, leaning against the doorframe. "Have you seen my wife?" Quinn took a deliberate sip, savouring the moment before pointing towards the back door with their mug.
"Last I saw, she was out back helping one of the other DI's fix... a thing."
Bea smiled, murmuring a thanks as she followed the directions, curiosity piqued about what kind of "thing" required her wife's particular brand of assistance.
--
Heading down the steps into the back parking lot, she took a moment to look around. It only took a few minutes of searching before her gaze landed on a motorbike - and the scene unfolding beside it. Someone stood off to the side, watching, but all of Bea's attention was immediately snagged by the figure bent intently over the machine.
It took a couple more paces for her to register the familiar blonde bob and realise it was her wife at the centre of it all, currently clad in a tank top that was already doing interesting things with the summer heat and a few streaks of oil.
“Sorry, Dan,” Jill’s voice floated over, calm and assured as she pushed herself up from the ground. “I think it’s a fuel injection issue.”
She wiped her hands on a rag, the movement drawing Bea's eye to the flex of her forearms, smudged with grease in a way that was far more attractive than it had any right to be. There was a smear of oil on her shoulder, another near her collarbone, and Jill either didn't know or didn't care - completely absorbed in the problem, competent and utterly in her element.
“Ah, thanks Jill.” Dan patted her shoulder in thanks.
Jill just nodded, a small, satisfied smile on her lips as she finally turned. Her eyes scanned the lot until they landed on Bea, who had been standing there, unabashedly watching the whole display.
For a beat, Jill just looked at her, a slow smile spreading across her face. She walked over, each step casual, the afternoon sun catching the smudges of oil on her skin.
“Hi,” she said, her voice warm.
Bea’s gaze travelled the length of her, lingering on the grease marks, the way the tank top clung, the quiet confidence still radiating from her. She finally met her wife's eyes, a slow smile of her own forming. “Hi yourself. I see you’ve been busy.”
Jill closed the remaining distance and quickly stole a kiss from her wife, soft and warm despite the day's heat. She pulled back just enough to speak, her smile lingering against Bea's lips. "Just helping Dan out."
"How noble," Bea murmured, though her gaze had already drifted back to the machine, then to the streaks of grease on Jill's arms. "Since when did you know how to maintain motorbikes?" Jill chuckled, low and easy, and leaned against the low wall nearby - a movement that did absolutely nothing to help Bea focus on the question.
"Ah, back to my youth. Used to ride them a lot back then." She glanced at the bike, a nostalgic glint in her eye. "Changed to a car due to the wonderful British rain." Bea hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against a smear of oil on Jill's forearm.
"Shame," she said, her voice dropping a little. "I think I'd have liked to see that. You on a bike." Jill's eyes darkened just slightly, her smile turning knowing.
"Oh, I can still ride."
"Is that right?" Bea's thumb traced a slow line through the grease, leaving a clean trail on her skin. "Maybe you'll have to show me sometime. Preferably without the rain."
"Maybe I will," Jill said softly, her gaze holding Bea's.
With a soft smile, Jill pushed off the wall, the movement bringing her back into Bea's space. "Not that I don't love seeing you," she said, her eyes tracing over her wife's face like she was still half-convinced this was a pleasant surprise, "but how come you're here?" Bea's lips curved, her hand still resting on Jill's forearm, thumb idly stroking through the grease.
"Ah. I was coming to steal you away for a lunch date." She let her gaze travel pointedly over the oil-smeared tank top, the smudges on Jill's skin, the general state of dishevelment that somehow looked impossibly good on her. "However, now I think it'll include a midday shower first." Jill cocked her head, a flicker of interest in her eyes.
"Oh?"
"I love you," Bea said, leaning in to kiss her—soft, deliberate, letting it linger just long enough to make her point. She pulled back, her expression fond but firm. "But you stink of oil. So: shower, then lunch date." Jill laughed, bright and unreserved, the sound carrying across the quiet parking lot. She kissed her back, quick and warm.
"Okay, my love."
She didn't move immediately, though. Just stood there, smiling at Bea like she'd said something wonderful, one greasy hand coming up to rest against her wife's hip.
"Well?" Bea raised an eyebrow, fighting her own smile. "Shower. Now. I'll even help you scrub." Jill's grin turned decidedly wicked.
"Promises, promises."