Summary: Sequel to TGIF. (You might want to read it before going on.) The continuing misadventures of Dr. Mallard and the hapless bookseller down the street. Fluff; no casefic.
Note: Mildly AU.
Betas and cheerleaders: Everyone who said, "I like TGIF, but I wanted to know what happens next" and/or "More Ducky lovin'!"… this is all your fault. Thank you.
Genre: General Drama/Romance
Pairing: Ducky/OFC
Rating/Warnings: Rated M: contains explicit scenes and situations and random strong language throughout. No slash; no BDSM.
Spoilers: None; an allusion or two throughout.
Time frame: Fall 2006 to Summer 2007
Disclaimer: All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.
O.H.I.M. (Oh, Hell, It's Monday)
Or
T.G.I.F: After the Ball
* * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER ONE – EPHEMERA
Ephemera—Printed material of passing interest in every day life (e.g.: advertising, ticket stubs, photos, postcards, programs, some booklets and pamphlets, etc.).
It's taken me a while to realize it but I finally can accept the fact that some people should just not travel by air—and I am one of them.
Take the year I tried to go out to Colorado for a mystery writers' convention. (Please take it.) Oh, that was a great time. Went from Dulles to O'Hare… rerouted to Dallas… then to Tucson (I never did figure that jump), then to Vegas then to Denver—oops, wrong answer, thank you for playing! Denver was buried in a freak snowstorm, so we ended up in SeaTac, then LAX, then back to SeaTac (with the hope we'd hit Denver) then… back to Dulles. (At least that leg was non-stop.) I was still in the clothes I'd worn the day before, it was now a day later, and my luggage ended up in West Virginia. (That still has me at a loss.) I logged so many miles and earned so many comp vouchers that trip I could have gone to Hawaii, first class, for free… if I dared.
The trip in 1979 to WorldCon—Brighton-by-the-Sea Con—well, I don't talk about that one unless plied with copious amounts of alcohol. (I still get twitchy when the in-flight menu includes salmon.)
And the phrase 'airport security' makes me want to throw things. Like—a fit. Or—up. (I've been stripsearched more than most gangbangers. I'm a kinda short, slightly graying, a little bit hippy (weight-wise and politically) bookseller—so I look like a terrorist? Wait; don't answer that.)
So why did I think a simple flight to New York for the '07 book expo would be… simple?
It is to laugh. A bit hysterically… but, laugh, nonetheless…
* * *
* * *
For the record: I don't believe in love at first sight.
Sorry, Hallmark. Forgive me, See's. It's just not possible. You can't love someone you don't know. You can be interested in them, sure. You can like them—like them a lot, even. But I just can't see that you could meet someone and fall in love, bam, right off the bat.
(If I say it enough, maybe I'll convince myself.)
A little Halloween history. The last time I went to a big bash costume party I was, what—35? Sounds right. The theme of the party—thrown by a not-quite-rival bookseller—was literary figures (she was really reaching on that one, eh?). I dressed as Mme. Du Farge (complete with knitting). My then-beau came as Mozart (an interesting choice for a heavy metal fan). (He claimed that since Amadeus had been a Broadway hit that it was a literary cousin. B.J. wasn't a picky hostess—she was just glad we'd come in costume, so she let it fly.) We played the corny games we'd played in childhood—bobbing for apples (I won; I always did)… throwing candy corn across to our waiting partner's mouth (we lost in the first round, but the winners made an impressive 8'7-1/2" distance)… pin the tail on the black cat (I wasn't even on the right wall)… and the like. Amazing how much fun you can have reverting to grade school.
Before that, my best Halloween party was from grade school. We'd grilled burgers and hot dogs and gone trick-or-treating en masse for a couple of hours. I guess we were a little scary, a block of twenty-some kids approaching at once, because the neighbors all dumped buckets of candy in our bags as bribes against potential 'tricks' we would have never considered (since both my brother and my dad were escorting us on our sugar raid). Enough candy for ages—so much that we tossed out the stale stuff for fresh Christmas goodies two months later. The local dentist bought a new Mercedes.
Halloween was long my favorite holiday, even before we started throwing an annual party at the store. And I'd had some great holidays and great costumes along the way. But 2006 became my apex, the bar by which future Halloweens would be measured. And they'd all come up short… guaranteed.
Now, this may be a sexist comment, but most men don't like to dance. I don't know why; I've always looked at dancing as long, slow foreplay—and what's wrong with that? But most of my boyfriends (oh, it seems silly to use that word at my age!) looked at dancing with the same expression one would use when offered root canal surgery without anesthesia.
Most. But not Dr. Donald Mallard.
When Ducky invited me to a Halloween costume party—pardon me, fancy dress party—I figured it would be hors d'oeuvres and nibbles and drinks, people in rented costumes making small talk with strangers and trying not to be too bored. I accepted because, well… because Ducky had asked me. We'd met during one of the worst weeks of my life; he'd been sweet and supportive and kind—and interested. I was coming out of the breakup from hell and wasn't going to jump into a new relationship… but a voice in the back of my head said I'd be a fool to shut the door completely if he was on the other side. So I left the door cracked open, a little curious to see what happened.
Well, what happened that Saturday was… wonderful.
The friends of Ducky's who were throwing the party—people he'd met through a vintage record club—had booked a gorgeous old Victorian house for the evening. You know the kind—drawing room, morning room, sitting room, ballroom… fifteen or twenty rooms without counting bedrooms and WCs. A little, unassuming place big enough to house a small town. They'd hired a band with the interesting name 'Blue Atomic Zombies' who played Halloween versions of oldies but goodies (things like, "I'll be haunting you, always"—interesting, given how important the song was in Blithe Spirit… but I digress)—and people were dancing up a storm. The nibbles were more than a veggie platter and chips and dips, and everything was Halloween-themed… and good.
Instead of strained chit-chat, everyone not dancing was involved in animated discussions. Not just 'how about the weather?' or the usual we-live-near-D.C. political crap. Music (not odd, given the hosting group). Movies. Books. History. Philosophy. Greek vs. Roman vs. Egyptian mythology, for heaven's sake. In one corner, a large, vocal group was discussing the Harry Potter series—and not one person was under 40. (As a bookseller, I loved it.)
Ducky, however, wanted to dance. "Shall we, schweetheart?" he asked, bobbing his head toward the dance floor. He was still channeling Bogie, his costume muse.
"My pleasure." I dropped a curtsey—well, the best I could manage in my dress—and tucked my parasol into a corner. After gauging the crowd, I added my feather-bedecked hat to the parasol and followed him to the floor.
I want it on record that Dr. Donald Mallard, M.E., is not a good dancer.
He is a fabulous dancer.
Oh. My. God. Dancing with him is better than—
Well, let's not go there. Use your imagination. We danced and danced and danced. And danced some more. Move over, Ginger Rogers. Hang up your shoes, Cyd. With Ducky holding me as we moved around the floor, I could out-dance anyone. And I have never, ever felt so special in my life. By the time we left at midnight, I was walking on air.
The drive back to his house was too short, our post-party aperitif (tea in his cozy kitchen) too brief. But I had a drive back to Silver Spring ahead of me and reluctantly walked outside to my van, Ducky guiding me with a hand at the small of my back. (And didn't that give me a lovely tingle. Oh, my, yes, it did.)
"I feel an absolute cad, having you drive home at this hour…"
"I don't mind." Hell, I'd had such a good time, I'd happily drive back to Texas. It was the leaving I was regretting, not the drive. "I can't remember having such a wonderful evening."
"Agreed." His eyes had a lovely twinkle. "I can't guarantee another fancy dress party in the future… but perhaps we could step out on the town again…?"
Boy. Oh, boy. Boy, oh, boy.
Part of me was still scared to death to 'get back on the horse' and put David Sutton, treasonous adulterer (whose death almost landed me in the hoosegow), far behind me. And… part of me said I was an idiot if I turned away from this chance.
"I'd love to."
Eep. Where did that come from? (Nervous cough.) Oh. Hmm. Apparently from my eager, idiotically grinning mouth.
He looked like he was considering a goodnight kiss… and I probably wouldn't say no.
Or would I?
Boy… I really was scrambled.
He picked up my hand and held it to his cheek for a moment, then kissed the back, a long, warm, lingering touch. As he let it gently fall back down I sucked in a slightly gasping breath, suddenly realizing I had stopped breathing for that lovely moment. "I look forward to it." Oh… such a sweet sparkle in those eyes.
I shivered faintly. "Me, too."
I never fell asleep that night. But… I didn't mind.
* * *
Sunday passed in a pleasant fog. Abby stopped by to help out during the afternoon (putting Alan and Geoff into ecstasy—two days in a row with their Goth angel straw boss); after hearing about her evening in detail, I was asked no fewer than four times, "So? So???"
I wanted to have a long, girly-girl hen party, spilling all the wonderful details and delicious fantasies from the night before. With a pang, it finally hit me. Evelyn, my longtime manager, friend and confidant, really was gone. Of course, hearing about my wannabe love life while nursing a silent crush on me would have hurt her tremendously, I thought guiltily.
Man. How can one life get so complicated so fast?
It was tempting to spill all to Abby. But she had known Ducky for something like ten years, worked with him every day, so… No.
So I limited myself to "wonderful" and details about the house and food and music. From her sly look, it was plain she knew there was more to be told. I had a feeling she'd be mugging Ducky for the details in the morning.
I waffled all day long. Call him? Don't call him? Too forward? Too timid? I'd never been so indecisive before. But, then… I'd never met anyone quite like Ducky before.
And there's no such thing as love at first sight. Remember that.
Monday was an insanely busy day. A lot of last-minute Halloween-themed purchases and promises from parents and kids to come back the next day for our party. Damn. Another heart tug. From her first year at the store Evelyn had turned our cookies, punch and treat bag into a full-blown bash. She had boxes of goodies in her—I bit my lip—in the online office. I squared my shoulders. I owed it to her to carry on her tradition. By god, this would be the best Halloween party, ever.
While I was sitting on the floor of what I didn't yet consider Valerie's office, bagging cookies and candy and toys, Geoff came in with a puzzled look. "Uh—you have a delivery."
"Put it in the stockroom," I said, tying bow after bow of black and orange ribbon.
He didn't answer, so I looked up. "Um… I don't think…"
"Is it too big?" I hadn't ordered anything recently—not that I remembered, anyway.
"It's… not books. It's…" He blushed. "Personal."
Personal? And Geoff was blushing? I scrambled up and hurried to the front desk.
A delivery boy was anxiously shifting from foot to foot, plainly antsy to get out and finish his route. "Miss Talmadge? Direct signature required." He shoved a clipboard toward me and pointed to line 43. I scrawled my name and dug out a couple of crumpled singles for a tip. "Thanks." He bailed out the front door.
I turned back to the desk and actually gasped when I saw what was waiting. A gorgeous arrangement of at least two dozen roses, full blooms of snow white and buds of impossible-to-get Sterlings, those lovely, delicate lavender roses, set in a tall cut glass vase. No wonder Geoff was blushing. I was, too. A box next to the vase bore the distinctive ribbon of the best confectioner in the tri-state area. Boy. Oh, boy. Boy, oh, boy. Thinking lustful thoughts (hey!—about the box and the contents thereof), I nonchalantly pulled the envelope from the ribbon on the vase and slipped out the card. My Dearest Cassandra—Thank you for a delightful evening. I look forward to seeing you… soon. Wishing you a lovely day—Ducky.
My blush was probably showing up on radar screens. Knowing everyone was curious about the note, I deflected them with a baser instinct: chocolate. I untied the ribbon and removed the lid and a chorus of, "Ooooooohhhh!" greeted the contents. Truffles. Itty, bitty, glorious, miniature bites of chocolate perfection known as… truffles. I held out the box and eager fingers dove in.
Hugging the flowers and clutching the box, I all but skipped back to my office and shut the door. Roses? And gourmet truffles? It is nice to be courted.
I curled up in my favorite old chair and pulled out my cell phone with one hand and found a champagne truffle with the other. Oh, god… I almost had an orgasm from that little spoonful of chocolate. No wonder she's won awards every freaking year for forever. (No wonder she charges so much, too.)
"Autopsy."
Amazing. Take a word that conjures up thoughts of death, dying, murder, crime and generally unpleasant topics—and if you hear it said by a kind, gentle voice, it doesn't seem that bad.
Sounds nice, even.
"…Autopsy?"
"Oh. Ah. Hi. It's me." Oh, jeez. Did I actually giggle?
"Cassandra." I could hear the smile in his voice. "What a lovely surprise…"
"I just wanted to call you—I mean—" I crossed my legs and settled back into the chair. "I had such a wonderful time Saturday." I was all but melting.
"You are a marvelous dancer."
"You are a marvelous leader."
"Is it too early in the week to ask if you have plans for this Friday?"
Ooooh. Roses. Chocolates. And a second date. "Oh, Ducky. Saturday night wasn't too early!" Yep, that's me, playing hard to get. I dropped my head into my hand and almost groaned.
He laughed. "That's very good to know." Good. He was laughing with me, not at me. "What are your feelings regarding amateur theatre?"
It was my turn to laugh. "Well… how amateur?"
"Well…" he echoed. "It's… a little theatre group."
I grinned. "It's not Abby's friend, is it?"
"No—though I tried to get tickets for their production of Dracula tomorrow. Alas—it is sold out. No, this is in Reston. A young woman who lives down the street—" He began to chuckle. "Is playing Eliza Doolittle—"
I almost fell out of the chair. The costume I'd borrowed for Saturday, a gorgeous black and white gown that made me look taller than my 5'3", was hanging on the outside of the closet door in my office. (The feathered hat—a cat toy, if ever there were one—was safely tucked inside.) I was going to return it on my way home that night. "My Fair Lady?" I got out around my giggles.
"The very same. She passed out flyers around the block last night, and dropped off two tickets for opening night."
"I think she's flirting with you." Ooh. Hiss, spit; back off those green eyes, girl.
He snorted. "Hardly. I frequently baby-sat her when her parents first moved in. She's barely drinking age, my dear."
I, on the other hand, was definitely drinking age—as he well knew. "Well—I'd love to go with you, Ducky." Understatement.
"The show starts at 8:30. I thought I could pick you up from the store, we could go out to dinner…?"
"Oh, Ducky—the 'out to dinner' sounds lovely. But that's so much extra driving for you. Back to the store after the show, then all the way back home—again… why don't I just drive to Reston?"
There was a short silence. I was sure his gentlemanly ways were at war with the pragmatism of my suggestion. "Sandy…" he started hesitantly.
"I know, I know… And I also know if we had plans in my neck of the woods, you'd be the first to suggest driving out to meet me."
"Well, yes, but that's different."
"Come on. You aren't Andy Hardy and I'm not Judy Garland, and we aren't walking down the street to the malt shop. Dating is always a little more complex when you live in one state, I live in another and we work in a third." Oh, gosh. I said the 'D' word.
He sighed, then laughed. "True enough. I guess I need to enter the 21st Century."
"Well, you don't have to enter too far." I popped another truffle into my mouth. (So much for my theory that he'd be anti-sweets.) "I like being escorted. I like having my hand kissed. And I love Charlotte's Chocolates."
"A weakness of mine, I admit."
"I'm delighted to share that weakness. You have excellent taste."
He chuckled, a delicious sound. "I agree." His laugh sounded just a hair naughty. Just a hair.
I knew I was blushing again. "And the roses—" I lost my voice for a moment. "They're beautiful," I managed to whisper. "Thank you."
"You are… very welcome." His voice was very gentle.
I cleared my throat. "So. Um. When should I meet you? At the restaurant? Or—" I swallowed hard. "Your place?"
"Well—you do know where I live…"
You betcha, I do.
"Do you like Chinese food?"
"I love it."
"I haven't been there in a while, but there's a place not far from my home—they had a wonderful Mandarin orange chicken…"
Note to self: don't ever, ever order duck again. "What would be a good time?" Besides now, an hour from now, Tuesday, Wednesday…
"When do you close on Friday?"
"That's the joy of paying other people. I can tell someone else to sit around until nine."
"Would 6:30 be convenient?"
I'd make it convenient. "Perfect."
* * *
Friday night was… wonderful. Dinner was out of this world, the show was as good as an off-Broadway show (and some of them on Broadway) and the coffee and cake back at 'Mallard Manor' was outstanding. (He's actually a better baker than I am, I freely admit.)
"Oh, Ducky." It was a pleasantly cool night. "I had a wonderful time." That word was getting quite a workout since I'd met him.
"They were rather good," he agreed.
"I always have such a good time around you," I blurted out. Yep. That's me: open mouth, insert foot. Add salt to taste and chew vigorously. I knew I was candy apple red.
He held the back of my hand to his cheek for a long moment. "I'm glad." He lingered over the kiss he pressed to my hand and I actually shivered a little. He flicked his eyes toward me… and I didn't throw caution to the wind. I pitched it right into the middle of a Cat-5 storm. I turned my hand over, cupped his cheek and reached up to kiss him.
He was startled for a nanosecond—then I found myself on the receiving end of a kiss that made my heart make like Desi Arnaz on the conga drum.
He slipped an arm around my waist, his other hand gently tangling in my hair; it's a good thing he had a firm hold on me, because I was tingling from my barrette to my toenails and I have a feeling I'd have fallen into a pile of tiny bones if he had let go. He'd never said so much, but I had had the feeling he's not much of a pda-type guy—but it was, as the last time, close to midnight and we were standing by my van, in front of his house. Not even a stray cat crossed our path.
Time is one of those amazing things. We kissed, over and over, beautiful caresses that left me breathless, that seemed to go on forever and ever… and felt like they were over in the blink of an eye.
"Good night, my dearest." A kiss to my cheek, then a whisper in my ear, "Drive carefully." A kiss to the other cheek, a whisper in the other ear. "Call me when you get home." A last, soft touch to my lips. "Sleep well."
I drove carefully. I called when I got home. I crawled into bed with his gentle, "Good night," echoing in my ear.
Sleep well?
Sleep?
Forget it.
Well… not for several hours, anyway. Though I did finally drift off with a slightly silly smile on my face, hugging my pillow.
But there's no such thing as love at first sight. Remember that.
-1-
