AN: A gift for my friend Laura; may your recovery be aided by the semi-fluff semi-humor I have written.

This couple can be anything you want it to be, except Ingrid/Fillmore. Let your imagination go to work.

I own nothing.

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"I'm going to kill Vallejo for this one," he muttered, quietly so that no one else could hear.

Quietly. In her ear. As they danced. Oh, how he wished the room were more brightly lit, or less crowded.

But no, not with his luck.

It was just his luck that ten fast songs would be played in a row, leaving her breathless… in his arms. It was just his luck that when they finally got to a slow song, it would be a semi-slow Spanish song that forced them to dance within inches of each other. He could feel the heat coming off of her, his hands placed gingerly on her hot bare shoulders.

With his luck, of course, she just had to be wearing that dress, too. That dark red dress that stopped mid-thigh and those sinfully long dark red boots. And that wig, one she'd used for undercover operations a million times before, the bright red, not quite chin length one. Recently, the Safety Patrol had gotten color contacts as an addition to their usual disguises. Hers were pink. She just had to choose those ones, since pink was his favorite color. Curse his bad luck. She looked wonderful.

Why him?

He could not function like this! Any moment now this whole operation was going to fall apart because he could not keep undercover if undercover meant 'dance nose-to-nose with Ingrid Third'. He glanced at the door. Too far away. He couldn't make a break for it. He was going to have to stay here for the rest of this dance. This informal dance held in X Middle School's old ballroom, against school rules, past his curfew!

He didn't even want to be here.

Fillmore handled stuff like this. Fillmore was used to things like this. Cornelius would not be nervous, wouldn't be blushing, and wouldn't be this flustered over whispering into Ingrid's ear. But this undercover operation called for two white Patrollers, because these crooks – as Fillmore would've called them – were very biased.

After this, he would never have a vaguely prejudice thought again. Clearly those thoughts had consequences. And those consequences involved the severe loss of personal space.

"People are staring," Ingrid observed. They continued to dance. She spun around and looped her arms around his neck… and one leg around his waist. "You're not acting like you love me."

"What do you want me to do, kiss you?" he snapped quietly, trying to figure out where he was supposed to put his hands.

Finally they settled on her hips, and he bit his lip, flinching.

Of all the rotten luck.

"That'd be nice," she said with that oh-so Ingrid coolness of hers.

His jaw dropped even though he'd been expecting that answer.

Kiss. Ingrid. Third. The idea made his heart slam into his chest. It wasn't a bad idea, no, actually, it was a nice idea, a great idea, she just wasn't the person he'd thought he'd share his first kiss with. His first kiss on his first undercover mission the first time he'd broken his curfew. For a moment he wondered if this was all an elaborate joke set up and he was wearing a wire. With his luck, that could happen.

Then suddenly it all overwhelmed him. She smelled of wildflowers. Her skin was like porcelain. He couldn't stop staring. One his hands, having a mind of it's own, touched her cheek. The silky skin drove him insane. In the back of his mind, he knew Fillmore was going to kill him. He didn't care. He gathered his courage and placed his lips on hers.

Wow, he had good luck tonight.