A STICKY SITUATION
A/N: This story was inspired by the conversation in Death Takes A Bow when Danny begins to tell Fliss (Adam's new girlfriend) an amusing story about one of Adam's mishaps in the lab... Some people wanted to know the rest of the tale, and I promised to write it. So, here it is!
NB: Whilst Danny doesn't feature in this story, I doubt that Adam's 'little incident' would remain secret for long. Lab gossip is a terrible thing...
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Adam had something of a reputation in the lab for his skill with glass. A reputation that he prized, and worked hard to maintain. But this was so far beyond a joke, it lay in the realm of nightmares. Watching the last set of evidence crates roll into the lab, he stared at the mountain of work ahead of him and felt an increasing sense of doom.
This was a very bad day.
Moments ago, there had been several lab techs in the room. Now, as he looked up, he saw that there were none.
Traitors.
It was late in the afternoon already, and Adam hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Even then, there had barely been enough time for a quick bagel, rammed down his throat as he hurried into the building. The demands on his time had been non-stop, from the moment he walked through the door. Computer searches, reconstructions, finger-printing, trace... Adam had an active mind and loved to keep busy, but surely there was only so much that one geek genius could do before his brain imploded?
Captured by this image for a moment, Adam's mind began to wander and his eyes glazed over.
"Adam. Are you listening? Can you handle this?"
Put your foot down, his inner voice prompted - but Adam needed to please, and saying 'no' was hard. Especially to Mac.
"What am I looking for?" he asked, by way of a recovery. He already knew the answer.
"A killer." Why was it, Adam wondered, that when Mac stated the obvious, it sounded so cool? Like a quip from a James Bond movie, or something. Whenever the lab tech tried to do the same, it always fell flat - or worse, left him looking disrespectful. "These shards were all collected from the party. Put them back together and run the prints. Then we'll see what they tell us."
"On it, boss. I know the drill." Adam tried to sound efficient, but his heart was in his shoes. Ten crates, eight bags in each. I'm going to be here all night...
Oh well. It wasn't as though he had anything planned. Adam's social life had pretty much been on hold since he started in the lab, two years ago.
Mac's eyes swept over the evidence pile. He gave the lab tech an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Call me as soon as you have something useful," he said, as he left the room.
"So - next week, then," Adam muttered, when the man was safely out of earshot.
He turned on the scanner, checked that he was wearing two sets of gloves for safety, laid out the chemicals and tools that he needed - and set to work on the first bag, which contained shards of what had once been a beautiful leaded crystal decanter.
"Broken?" he asked it, quietly. "I know how you feel..."
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Five long hours later, a total of ten glass items stood before him on the counter, next to a little pile of print lifts. Adam tried to work the crick out of his neck without touching it. There was glue on the tips of his gloves, and the stench of the noxious stuff in his nostrils. Maybe I should have worn a mask, he thought, feeling slightly dizzy. He swayed - and grabbed the counter. Okay. Time to take a break.
His stomach rumbled in agreement.
Adam turned to leave, and his elbow swung out across the counter top. It caught the bottle of cyanoacrelate a glancing blow. He felt the connection, but it was already too late to react, as the bottle spun, its top flew off, and the contents spilled out everywhere.
"No!" Adam gasped in absolute horror. Picking it up, he tried to scoop the worst of the superglue back inside - but to his dismay, he found that the plastic container had now stuck firmly to his hand.
Or rather, his glove.
With an air of shame, he ripped off the first set of gloves, which were snarled up tightly against the plastic. Now he was down to one set. He picked up the bottle once more, with its gummy new jacket, and tried, yet again, to rescue the glue from the counter.
Stupid.
Two minutes later, the same thing happened.
Nervously, Adam removed his second pair of gloves. Now he was down to bare skin.
The gloves - and the bottle - slipped from his grasp. They fell to the floor and lay there in a tangle of plastic and latex, like some kind of strange white beetle floundering on its back.
With a sigh, Adam bent to retrieve them. His final mistake.
In an act that was prompted purely by instinct, one hand moved to grasp the counter top firmly for balance.
Adam scooped - and rose - and squealed in fright.
He was stuck.
Four fingers, one thumb and the palm of his hand - all welded firmly to the edge of the table. He tried to look casual, as though he were leaning there for a rest, and nothing more. Nervously, he scanned the immediate vicinity and considered his options.
Scream for help? Embarrassing. A last resort. Besides, it was late by now and the lab was ominously quiet. Anyone who wasn't out on a call, or safely at home, would be busy at work - and none of them were nearby, it seemed. A good thing, or a bad thing? Adam was in two minds.
Dissolve the glue. But how did you do that? I should know, he thought, and racked his brains. Acetone! he remembered, at last - and stared across the room at the cupboard where the precious bottle sat smugly on its shelf.
Dammit.
Resisting the urge to pull, Adam tried to quell the panic that was churning in his gut. He needed his hand - and he needed the skin that was on it, too. Pain was not an option that he wanted to consider.
But neither was spending the whole night stuck to a table.
His eyes continued to dart around the room, and suddenly he noticed his cell phone, placed neatly out of the way on a side-bench.
Could he reach it?
Adam strained and wriggled. He stretched his arm out, and pushed his fingers as far as they could go - but it wasn't quite far enough.
Perhaps if he threw something, he could dislodge it?
Resisting the urge to pick up the bottle, which was the closest thing to hand, Adam bent down and tried to untie the lace of his sneaker. It was awkward but, at long last, he made it. He pulled off the shoe, and lobbed it across the room at the cell phone. His aim was excellent - but instead of knocking the tiny device in his direction, the shoe sent it skittering away so far beyond his reach that he let out a tiny, dismal groan of despair.
Yelling it was, then.
"Help!" he shouted. His voice sounded high and tight in his ears. A pitiful sound. He cleared his throat and gave it another shot.
"HELP!"
For a while, nothing happened. Adam tried again. And again.
No reply.
With hopeless resignation, the lab tech sank to his knees - just as the sound of urgent footsteps hurried down the corridor towards him.
Adam lifted his head, his blue eyes weary.
Mac.
Of course it was.
"Hey, boss," he croaked.
"Hello, Adam." To his credit, Mac's face was poker straight. "Having a problem?"
"Oh... just a hiccup..." He tried to give a charming, 'I'm-alright-really' kind of smile, but it wobbled. Mac crouched down beside him.
"Cyanoacrelate?"
"Yes, boss."
"Need some help?"
"Yes, boss..."
As Mac strode across the room, side-stepping the errant bottle and the pool of glue in which it lay, Adam sighed with a mixture of relief and total embarrassment.
Another day that he would have to push from his memory as soon as it was over...
One of far too many.