Work Text:
Detour
Author's Note: I don't own them, it's sad, I know.
This is a little story that has been stuck in my head forever and I just wanted to get it out. I thought it would end up being longer but after keeping it on my computer for a bit, waiting for more inspiration to hit, nothing! So here it is, short and sweet. Maybe a little out of character for everyone but like I said, the idea was just stuck in there.
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Detour
The dashboard clock reads 11:47 PM, and red tail lights stretch into the horizon. Perry rests one hand on the steering wheel and drums the other on his thigh. Della Street sits beside him, her shoes off, legs curled beneath her, flipping through her notes from the evening's witness interview.
"We could've been home by now if Harold hadn't decided to explain every single fishing trip he's ever taken," she mutters, not looking up from the notebook.
"He was building context," Perry says dryly. "And trying to impress you."
She looks over at him with a sidelong smirk. "It almost worked. But then he got to the story about the trout with the birthmark."
Perry chuckles, low and warm. "We'll get through this in—" He peers up ahead, then sighs. "Maybe another hour."
Della stretches her neck and glances out the window. Her gaze lingers on the next green freeway sign: "French Creek Overlook – mile." A slow grin curves across her face.
"Take the next exit," she says casually, like she's asking him to change the radio station.
Perry frowns. "What for? You know French Creek doesn't take us home."
She tilts her head, eyes sparkling. "It'll get us off this parking lot, won't it? Besides, there's… scenery."
"Scenery," he repeats, unconvinced. His lawyer instincts are kicking in. "Della… that overlook's a make-out spot. We're not in high school."
She leans closer, her voice dropping just enough to make him forget about brake lights and deadlines. "No, but that's exactly why we should go. I have no interest in necking with some pimply quarterback in a letterman jacket." Her gaze flickers down to his tie, then back to his eyes. "I have far more… distinguished company these days."
Perry sighs, but there's a smile tugging at his lips now, despite himself. "You're trouble."
Her grin widens. "You've known that for years. Now take the exit, Counselor."
He signals and merges off the freeway, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. "You're going to get me arrested."
Della hums, entirely unbothered. "Only if we're lucky."
The road winds up into the hills, the city lights glittering behind them like spilled diamonds. French CreekOverlook is deserted. On weekends, it's crawling with teenagers in beat-up Chevys and stolen lipstick. But tonight, it's just them and the wide open silence.
Perry puts the car in park. Della opens her door and steps out, breathing in the cool air.
He joins her outside, closing the door with a soft thunk. "So this was your plan? Fresh air?"
"Not entirely," she says, stepping closer. "Sometimes a girl just wants to kiss her boss under the stars without worrying about subpoenas."
Perry chuckles. "You should put that on your business card."
She slides her arms around his neck. "We've earned this," she murmurs, tilting her face toward his. "Don't argue."
He doesn't. His lips meet hers in the quiet, and the rest of the world—courtrooms, clients, traffic—slips away. Her hands are warm against his collar. His are at her waist, drawing her closer until there's no space left between them. The kiss deepens, unhurried and insistent, and for a few suspended moments, it's just the two of them and the hush of night.
Until the red-and-blue lights flash behind them.
Della groans, pulling away just enough to whisper, "You've got to be kidding me."
Perry turns slowly. A black-and-white patrol car idles behind them, and a young officer steps out, flashlight already in hand.
"Evening," the cop calls, shining the light toward Perry's face. His brow furrows. "Wait a second…"
Della closes her eyes. "Here we go."
"You're Perry Mason."
"I am," Perry says calmly, already bracing himself.
The officer's expression tightens. "I have standing orders. If I see you at any scene—even one like this—I'm to call Lieutenant Tragg. Won't be long. I just left him about 5 minutes from here."
"Oh for heaven's sake," Della mutters. Turning, she can see the patrol car has them blocked.
The officer walks a few paces away, speaking into his radio. Perry and Della exchange a long look.
"Well," Perry says, deadpan. "You wanted to get off the freeway."
"Don't be smug. I thought we might have fifteen minutes of privacy. Silly me."
Not even ten minutes later, Tragg's unmarked sedan rolls up the hill. He gets out slowly, surveying the scene with visible suspicion and a healthy dose of amusement.
"Perry," Tragg says, hands in his coat pockets. "I expected to find you hovering over a body. Not steaming up a windshield."
Perry smiles faintly. "Just trying to support the local overlook tourism."
Tragg looks at Della, who raises her chin with practiced dignity.
"Thursday night, Lieutenant," she says. "There wasn't a soul here."
"Except Officer Hinkley," Tragg says, nodding at the patrolman. "He'll be dining out on this for months. 'Caught Perry Mason playing tonsil hockey at French Creek.'"
Della presses her lips together to hide a grin. "Lieutenant, unless you're here to charge us with excessive affection in a public space—"
"—which technically is not illegal unless it leads to complaints," Perry adds helpfully.
Tragg sighs. "No. No charges. But next time, Mason, warn me when you're going to take up necking in public. I've got a reputation to maintain."
He turns back toward his car. "Try not to scandalize any more patrolmen tonight. And maybe keep it in the courtroom from now on."
Tragg pulls away, tires crunching over gravel. Perry looks down at Della.
"Shall we return to traffic?"
She huffs a laugh. "Yes. Let's go sit bumper to bumper like respectable adults."
They get back in the car, her hand slipping into his as he starts the engine. The dashboard clock now reads 12:27 AM. Perry glances over at her and smiles.
"Worth it?"
Della leans in, kissing the corner of his mouth.
"Definitely."
THE NEXT MORNING
The morning sun slants through the blinds in Perry Mason's office, striping the walnut desk. Paul Drake leans against the windowsill, coffee in hand, grinning like a man who's just discovered pure gold.
Della Street perches on the arm of Perry's chair, perfectly composed as always, but there's a certain smug glint in her eyes.
Paul takes a sip of coffee, shaking his head. "You two… French Creek Overlook? Really?"
Perry sighs, flipping open a file in an attempt to look busy. "It's not illegal to take in the view."
Paul snorts. "Pretty sure 'taking in the view' doesn't usually fog up the windows."
Della smiles sweetly. "Paul, you sound jealous."
"Jealous? Of getting caught by a rookie cop? Please." He grins, pointing a finger at Perry. "You? Mister Cool, Calm, and Cross-Examination, practically tackled at Lovers' Lane like a high school quarterback. Tragg's never going to let this die."
Perry looks at Della, completely deadpan. "I told you we'd get arrested."
"We didn't get arrested," she counters. "We got… mildly inconvenienced."
Paul chuckles, pushing off the windowsill. "And now the whole department probably has a pool going on where you'll get caught next. My money's on Griffith Park."
Perry groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Della slides off the arm of the chair and smooths her skirt. "I don't know about you two, but I'm starving. How about lunch? My treat, since apparently we're providing city-wide entertainment."
Paul perks up. "If you're paying, I'm in."
Perry grabs his coat, resigned. "Fine. But we're avoiding the courthouse district."
Downtown Los Angeles – Some Diner - not in the courthouse district :)
The lunch crowd buzzes quietly, plates clattering, the faint hum of conversation filling the air. Perry, Della, and Paul slide into a booth near the window, menus in hand.
Paul's mid-way through teasing them about their "moonlit adventure" when the bell over the door jingles—and in walks Lieutenant Tragg, followed closely by Hamilton Burger.
Della spots them first, murmuring under her breath, "Speak of the devil."
Perry doesn't even look up. "Tell me they're not coming this way."
Paul laughs. "Oh, they're coming this way."
Tragg spots them instantly, a crooked smile spreading across his face. He and Burger approach the booth like sharks circling the water.
"Mason," Tragg drawls, pulling up a chair uninvited. "Didn't expect to see you outside the courtroom. Or outside your car—upright."
Della exhales sharply through her nose to suppress a laugh.
Burger grins as he sits beside Tragg. "Couldn't resist checking in after last night's… romantic detour."
Perry folds his menu, unbothered. "If this is about traffic violations, I suggest you file the proper paperwork."
"Oh, it's not about violations," Tragg smirks. "It's about entertainment. The entire precinct's still talking about it."
Della sips her coffee, unfazed. "Lieutenant, you act like it's the first time two people kissed at an overlook."
Burger laughs. "It is the first time it's made the department bulletin board. Tragg's been parading that story around all morning."
Paul leans in, grinning. "I warned them the whole city was gossiping."
Perry sighs. "If you're here to harass us—"
"We're here for lunch," Tragg cuts in. "Your little… extracurriculars are just a bonus."
Burger chuckles, eyeing Perry and Della. "Careful, Counselor. You'll be giving the public the wrong impression—romantic, human, soft around the edges."
Perry smiles thinly. "You're mistaking me for Paul."
Paul raises his hands. "Hey, I'm soft around the edges and proud of it."
Tragg waves down a waitress, clearly settled in for the long haul.
Perry exchanges a look with Della, utterly resigned. "Next time," he mutters, "your place."
She smirks, leaning just close enough to whisper, "We'll see how long that stays secret."
Burger clinks his coffee cup, grinning. "To Perry Mason—lover's lane legend."
Paul howls with laughter. Perry groans.
THE END
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