Does Your Mother Know
Pairing: Dana Evans/F!Reader
Rating: T
WC: 2.5k
Summary: You need a ride home from the bar- Dana is powerless to say "no" to you.
Tags: Alcohol Use, Flirting, Age Gap
A/N: i have no excuse except apparently i love being rejected
Dana glances toward her phone as it pings for the third time this hour, expecting another text from one of her girls. Pulling her reading glasses up her nose again, she shuts the book in her lap and holds her phone out, reading the text.
You: sont yell at me it’d trin and huckleberrys fault xan uoi pick me ip at sonny’s’
“What the-” Dana grumbles, swiping open the text thread with you. There weren’t very many messages, usually just things to do with being late or switching shifts. She stares at the words as she attempts to decipher them, giving up eventually.
Dana: Run that by me again, kid.
Your reply comes almost two minutes later. Dana inhales and exhales slowly, a throbbing in her temples starting.
You: i had to much too drink can you gibe me a ride? at sonnys
Her brow flickers in a frown as she finally realizes what you’re asking for. Disappointment sears through her before she realizes she has no right to feel that way. She’s your boss, not your keeper, and most certainly not your mother– what you do in your free time shouldn’t be her business.
She reaches for her keys before she fully thinks it through, shoving her arms through her jean jacket as she flicks off the lights in her home.
Sonny’s is about 10 minutes from her townhome, one of her old watering holes before she’d stopped drinking. Why the hell you’d gone to the hole in the wall, she’d never know. Her drive is quiet, parking in the lot on the side at nearly midnight. She’s gotten more irritated on the drive, almost appalled with herself that she’s catering to you like this.
But she is a kind person, Dana reminds herself as she gets out and finds her way inside. She spots Santos and Whittaker immediately, a short burst of panic welling inside her when she doesn’t see you.
“Where is she?” She forgoes a greeting, exhausted from a long shift and in no mood to play games with them.
Trinity startles, her beer spilling just a little as she sets it down. Whittaker has the right to look guilty as he blinks at her.
“Dana-”
Dana holds up her hand, halting anything either one of them would say. “Just trying to get the kid home. She asked me to come get her.” She lets out a breath, shaking her head.
"Bathroom," Trinity supplies, jerking her chin toward the back of the bar. "She's been in there a while, actually." Guilt flashes across her face, too, realizing the time.
Dana doesn't wait, weaving through the thin crowd toward the back hallway. The bathrooms at Sonny's are the kind that make you want to hold your breath, a single bulb overhead and sticky floors that she tries not to think about. She pushes through the women's door without knocking.
You're sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, knees drawn up, head tipped back. You crack one eye open when she comes in, and something in your expression shifts– relief, maybe, or embarrassment, or both tangled together.
"Hi." you say, like you haven't just dragged her out of her house at midnight, blinking up at her.
"Hey yourself." Dana crosses her arms and looks down at you for a moment. You're not sick, at least, just glassy-eyed and blurry around the edges. She reaches down, offering her hand. "Come on. Up."
You take her hand, grunting softly as you offer close to no help with getting up. “Jesus, kid. How much did you drink?” Her hands find your arms to steady you as you sway, her lips pressing in a fine line of disapproval.
“Lost count after the fourth shot.” You slur, your cheeks flushed from how much you’d had to drink. Your lower lip trembles a little bit, like you’re trying really hard not to pout.
"You did the right thing calling someone." The words come out before she can think better of them, and she feels you go still for just a second. She clears her throat. "Calling anyone. Calling a cab, for instance, would have also been an option."
"Wanted someone I knew."
Dana doesn't have an answer to that, so she just steers you toward the door. "Watch your step."
The bar feels louder on the way out, or maybe that's just her head. Santos and Whittaker are still at the table and Dana fixes them both with a look that communicates, plainly and without any words at all, that they'll be hearing more about this. Trinity has the good sense to stare into her beer. Whittaker at least meets her eyes, something apologetic and genuine in his expression. She'll decide later if it's enough.
She doesn’t think anything of it as she wraps her arm around your back and under your arm to support you on the uneven pavement outside– she’s dealt with her girls coming home a little too drunk from high school parties.
She does, however, notice when you lean further into her, your arm wrapping around her waist.
“You’re mad at me.” You’re actually pouting now, and it’s the most endearing thing Dana’s seen.
“Nah, kid, I’m not mad at you. Just surprised is all. This ain’t usual for you.”
"You're really pretty." You announce, with the full confidence of someone who’s had far too much to drink.
Dana blinks. Then she laughs, short and surprised, the sound leaving her before she can catch it. "Oh, honey."
"I mean it." You're not deterred in the slightest. If anything, you lean further into her side, chin tipping up toward her face. "I always think so. I just don't usually say it."
"Is that right?" It isn't really a question. She keeps walking, keeps her eyes forward, though her grip on you shifts just slightly.
"You have a good mouth." You add, thoughtfully, not taking a breath as you continue. “Your lips look very soft and kissable.”
Dana is quiet for exactly two seconds. "You’re gonna be mortified tomorrow."
"You smell good too." You add, grinning lopsidedly up at her. "Like, really good. What is that?"
"Nothing you need to know."
"I want to know."
"That's nice."
You make a noise that is almost a whine and she feels it more than hears it where you're pressed against her side. "You're mean."
"You have no idea." The words come out a little lower than she intends. She clears her throat.
You pick your head up to look at her, slow and considering, and she makes the mistake of glancing down at you at the same moment. You are looking at her like she personally hung the moon, and something twists in her stomach. Possibly the realization that you’re being serious. You may be drunk, but the words you’re spouting are true– it almost makes her feel sick.
She’s grateful when she pulls the passenger side door open, but you refuse to let her go. “Come on, kid. Get in.”
“I’m not a kid, ya know.” You grumble, your fingers tightening in her jacket.
“You’re younger than my daughters.” She tenses further, having to quite literally pry your fingers from her.
“Ohhhh, yeah, you’re a certified MILF.” You giggle, such a delighted sound that Dana can’t do anything but sigh in exasperation.
“Get. In. The. Car.” She uses her commanding tone— the one reserved for difficult patients and unruly children. She watches as you wither just the slightest, dropping yourself ungracefully into the seat. She shuts the door behind you, taking a moment to breathe with her palm still pressed against the cool metal frame.
She had to admit to herself– fleetingly– that your comments were flattering. What sixty year old woman wouldn’t find a hint of glee from the attention of a twenty-something pretty thing like you? It’s wrong.
The drive back is quiet in the way that feels intentional. Dana keeps her eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel, and you keep yours trained on the passenger window, watching the streetlights blur past. She'd turned the radio on low– some late night R&B station she hadn't bothered to change– and it fills the silence well enough.
You'd gone soft and sleepy in the warmth of the car, your head tipping toward the window, and she'd thought for a moment you'd drifted off entirely.
"Sorry." You say, eyes still staring out the glass.
Dana glances over. "For which part?"
"Dragging you out." A pause, and then, quieter. "Not for the other stuff."
She keeps her eyes forward. Her grip on the wheel adjusts as her lips press into a fine line, her brow furrowing.
"You're not going to say anything?" You've turned to look at her now, head lolled to the side. "About what I said."
"What do you want me to say?"
You turn from the window to look at her, and she can feel it even without looking. "I don't know. Something."
Dana exhales slowly through her nose. "I think you had too much to drink and Trinity and Whittaker let you get there, and I think you need water and aspirin and eight hours of sleep." She pauses. "I think the rest of it doesn't need to be said."
The rest of it being that you'd meant what you said. That she knows you meant it. That she is sixty-one years old and your employer and has absolutely no business turning that fact over in her mind the way she's been doing for the last ten minutes.
"That's not really an answer," you murmur.
"No," she agrees. "It's not." She can’t give you any type of hope. Sure, it would be nice to give in but you are far to sweet and young for someone like her. You want everything and she can only give so much.
"I think it," you say, turning more fully toward her in the seat, your shoulder pressing into the headrest. "Sober. All the time, actually. Tonight just…" You gesture loosely. "Took the lid off."
"Is that right?" Her tone is measured. No give in the flatness of it.
"You could just say it back." The words come out smaller than you probably intended, the bravado worn down to something genuine underneath. "You don't have to do anything about it. I just…" You pause. "I think you could admit it wasn't totally one-sided."
And there it is.
Dana takes her time before she answers, which is itself a kind of answer. The radio fills the quiet with something slow and low, a woman's voice crooning over a bassline.
"You're a good kid," she starts.
She watches you physically deflate, pushing the words past the lump in her throat as you open your mouth protest. “No, honey, you gotta listen to me. You're sharp and you work harder than half my staff and you make me laugh, which is-” A snort of self-depreciation breaks her sentence. “Not easy to do. I like you. Genuinely do. And that's exactly why I'm not going to tell you what you want to hear right now."
She can feel you watching her now, your eyes wide and attentive. She continues, blowing a breath out of her nose.
"It wouldn't be fair to you." She continues, more quietly. "My age alone. You want things I'm past wanting. You've got your whole life still ahead of you and I'm not-" She stops, recalibrates. "I'm not a stop on the way to somewhere else. And I'm not here to be someone's experiment. I’m too fuckin’ old for that."
“That isn’t what you are.” You protest, finally able to get a word in. “I have fucked women before, just so you know. I’m waaaaaay past my experimentation phase.”
“Jesus Christ.” She mutters, the steering wheel creaking under her grip. “It ain’t happening, kid.” She’s bordering on irritation, but she’s got the patience to deal with your drunkenness. She wants you to give up, she doesn’t want to give into temptation.
"Dana." Her name in your mouth, quiet and careful, is more than she knows what to do with. "You came and got me. At midnight. You didn't have to."
"I told you, I'm a kind person-"
"You came and got me." You say it again, gently insistent. "You didn’t tell me to get a cab, you didn’t tell me to fuck off, you didn’t ignore me. You got in your car and you came."
The steering wheel is very solid under her hands– she focuses on that.
"That doesn't mean what you want it to mean." She says, and she almost believes it.
You don't push again after that. You turn back toward the window, drawing your knees up to your chest in that way you have, and the silence settles around you both like something worn and familiar. She pulls onto your street a few minutes later, parks in front of your building.
She expects you to try once more. You don't.
"Drink some water." Her voice comes out even. She doesn't know how. "Eat something before you sleep."
You move to push the door open and she's already getting out, rounding the front of the car on instinct before she can think better of it. Old habit. She'd done it for her girls a thousand times.
She pulls your door open and offers her hand, and you take it without a word, letting her draw you up and out onto the pavement. You're steadier than you were at Sonny's but still soft around the edges, still swaying just slightly when the cold air hits you. She keeps hold of your hand for a moment, her other coming up to grip your elbow, making sure you've found your footing.
You look up at her, something close to hurt or shame swimming in those beautiful eyes of yours.
She doesn't let herself think about it. She just does it– tilts forward and presses her lips to your cheek, soft and brief, the kind of thing that could mean anything or nothing. Her hand squeezes yours once before she lets go.
"Go to bed," she says, quietly.
You've gone completely still. When she straightens, you're watching her with something open and undone in your expression, like you're not sure whether to cry or smile, and you open your mouth like you might say something.
"Go on." She says, before you can.
You close your mouth. Nod once, just barely. Then you turn and make your way up the front steps, one hand trailing the railing, and she watches until the door swings shut behind you.
You watch her leave from your window– the pleasant buzz of alcohol still coursing through you, your cheek still burning from the touch of her lips.
You touch the spot when her tail lights disappear, your lips curling in a hopeful smile before you stumble to your room, riding your high until you fall asleep.
