Flip the Boss [Flip Zimmerman]

Chapter 4: Do what I say

A/N: Hey there. Yeah, sorry bout Rick. Could I interest you in some angsty Flip and steamy sex while you mourn?
TW: Y/N experiences a loss of orgasm in this chapter (I know that sounds insane bc it's Flip). I realize that can be difficult for readers so proceed as you wish.

It had been a week since you learned about Rick's death. Hopper confirmed it was homicide so of course that sent red flags up to everyone. Flip had been keeping himself occupied with work, staying at the station until almost midnight while also trying to fix things up around the house during any free time.

When you asked him if he wanted to attend the funeral he dismissed the idea like it was a mundane task that he didn't have time to fit into his busy schedule. Your heart became heavy as you watched him go through the stages of grief, with the first phase being that of disbelief.

One night you woke up to an abandoned bed and while roaming the house looking for him, you discovered a drunk Flip slumped over and passed out on the couch with an empty whiskey glass clutched in his hand. You knew he was still having issues getting the rest he needed but it was painful to see how much he needed to numb his mind. The man you loved was hurting and he was doing everything in his power to appear like nothing was wrong. Night after night he would drink himself into a slumber while you witnessed him sink deeper into another world.

You tried to think of different ways to comfort him beyond just sex so you began teaching yourself how to cook, believing that maybe some home-cooked meals could help him feel loved.

The kitchen filled up quickly with smoke as you were off to a rough start with the rosemary chicken you were attempting to roast in the oven. You blamed the old oven for not having a reliable thermostat as you took the pan out. Rushing to address the boiling potatoes next, you looked like a crazed woman on the latest episode of Top Chef.

Flip walked into the kitchen, beer bottle in hand to find out what the hell was happening when he saw your stressed-out state. His lips curled into a smile, entertained by how much trouble you were going through just to cook a meal.

"Should I call the fire department?" he joked, calmly taking a swig of his beer.

"Ugh...NO. Everything's fine," you said, shooing him away with your oven mitt.

Ignoring you, he leaned over to examine the over-cooked chicken. "Hmm," he hummed to himself. "I'm no doctor, but I think it's dead."

You sighed in defeat. "I know, I know... it's not going to be the best chicken you've ever had, but... the potatoes... they will be good, I promise. I know my way around a potato." you said, mashing them into the pot before adding butter and milk.

Flip walked up behind you as you worked hard to press the potatoes in the pan and bent down to rest his chin on your shoulder, wrapping one arm around your waist.

You smiled at his puppy dog expression watching you prepare dinner so intently.

He gently kissed your shoulder, then your neck, pulling you in closer to him and pressing his body against you.

"Okay, are you trying to make me fuck up the potatoes, too?" you said, giggling at the way his facial hair tickled your neck.

"Mmm... you look like a hot little housewife..." he said, raising his beer up and taking another swig.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at the beer bottle in his hand and wondered how many he had today. Asking him was probably a bad idea, so you shrugged it off for now, and just enjoyed that he was coherent and in a good mood.

"Well I can assure you, I'm a much better cop than a housewife. I'm a terrible cook, I don't know what most of the buttons on the laundry machine do and I break at least one dish every time I wash them," you said, as Flip listened from behind you, leaning up against the counter.