Cecil trots through the halls of the office, cheerfully greeting everyone in his path and reflecting on the meaning of life and the authenticity of existence. Not out loud, of course. Last time he'd done that they'd sent him to a man who asked him a lot of very personal questions and wrote the answers down. That had not ended well for either of them; several cats and a copy of Raising Arizona got involved, but that's another story.

Right now, he's waltzing down the halls of the office to deliver a paper bag to the Forensics department of the NYPD headquarters. Why is he carrying a paper bag, you may ask? Well, obviously it's not an empty paper bag. That wouldn't make any sense. No, he's carrying a paper bag with one of those plastic zippy-bags that they use for evidence inside. This bag is not empty, either, as there are several very important pieces of evidence to be analyzed in Forensics. Hence why he is heading that way now.

"Dana, we've got a murder!" He calls as he pushes the lab door open with his butt, peering down at his pocket watch and adjusting his glasses with the back of the hand holding the evidence. He turns around, grinning in an entirely inappropriate way considering the murder case he's here for, and nearly drops his all-important paper bag.

The most perfect human being he's ever laid eyes on is sitting in Dana's usual spot, looking utterly magnificent in a white lab coat, a dull pencil held between his teeth as he studies the microscope slide before him intently.

He stands there like an idiot for one hundred and eighty-seven seconds (he counts) before he finally musters up the courage to speak. When he does, his voice is a squeak.

"He-" he pauses to clear his throat and quickly grab a gasp of air before continuing, sounding awestruck but significantly less like a fifteen-year-old. "Hello, uh, I have some evidence for the Peters murder case?"

The man glances up as if in surprise, his glasses slipping down his (perfect) nose and revealing brown eyes that defied description, with universes reflected in them. His voice, when he speaks, is like the caramel candies Cecil's grandmother used to make him; warm, but a little too gooey, a bit rough, and with a hint of an oakey flavor. It took Cecil's breath away.

"Thanks, just set them there. What do you guys need?"

"Uh. Ahem. A DNA test on the blood sample, and an analysis of the mud from some boot prints we found."

"Alright, no problem. What's your name, by the way? I was just transferred here from Arizona, so I don't really know anyone. Dana's arranging for more supplies, in case you were wondering, everyone's been asking where she is."

"I'm Cecil. Detective Cecil Palmer," comes the only slightly breathless reply.

The scientist smiles, really more of an upwards twitch of his lips, and adjusts his glasses. "I'm Carlos. Scientist Carlos Garcia."

"Pleased to meet you, Carlos." Cecil smiles and heads over to the desk shakily, trying to weave through the rather excessive number of trays covered in petri dishes without breaking any. Unfortunately, shakiness and glass objects are never a good combination, and Cecil ends up almost knocking over an entire tray of weeks-old cultures that are essential to a high-profile case, and shattering a whole cart of unused dishes. He falls to the ground, flailing like a helpless jellyfish as the glass comes tumbling down after him. He doesn't try to stand up after the dust settles, just lies there with a bright red face and multiple cuts.

"Ow," Cecil says intelligently after a few heartbeats of that shocked silence that follows the destruction of material things that may or not belong to this universe.

He can hear Carlos' muffled chuckle and the scrape of stool legs as a broad, strong arm reaches down to grab his hand.

"Need some help?"

He grasps the hand and pulls himself up easily, face still flaming. "Thank you, Carlos. I'm so sorry about all your petri dishes, they must have been so hard to organize, and there I went just shattering them all. I'm so sorry," Cecil babbles, quickly letting go of Carlos' very warm hand to brush the glass shards from his purple suit vest and skinny jeans.

"No problem, friend. We needed to replace those anyway, that's why Dana's getting new supplies. Are you okay?"

"Yes, yeah, just a few cuts."

"Do you want disinfectant for those?"

Cecil looks up at him, a severe look on his thin face. "Carlos, you should know better. Disinfectants are positively full of harmful fumes."

Carlos' face melted from confusion to a large, half-uncertain, half-amused grin as he considered Cecil.

"My apologies. But let's get this cleaned up, alright? We'll have hell to pay if Dana finds this mess."

Cecil outwardly cringes. "Where are the brooms?"

This is a birthday present for the Abster, who has been there for me so much these past couple of years. Thank you for helping me, my dear friend, and I hope this is okay. As promised, I waited until all of it was written to post it, and I apologize profusely for its abominable lateness.
~kandyblood