Summary: While working on a case at a dinner party, Ned meets a mysterious stranger who reminds him of someone.
A/N: My first piece for this fandom, but hopefully not the last. Don't own anything except for my little crime scenario.
Ned stood uncomfortably beside a long table of finger food, trying unsuccessfully to blend into the crowd. He wished for the hundredth time that night that Chuck could be there with him, her bubbly personality would have made the affair more bearable. But Emerson had nipped that idea in the bud, declaring once again that Chuck remain out of the public eye so that people don't begin to question why she was not six feet under.
The facts were these: Marty Willencraft, aged forty six years, nine months, three days, ten hours, and eighteen minutes, had been a successful mask maker, making millions on original designs and selling them to major theater productions, when he had been found strangled to death in the foyer of his home where his most prized masks were hung on display. Hired by his daughter Melissa Willencraft, Emerson, Chuck, and Ned had spoken with the late Mr. Willencraft, who had pointed the finger at his estranged assistant George Birmingham, who claimed Mr. Willencraft had stolen his mask ideas and wanted them back. After the trio had checked out the crime scene and had found evidence against Mr. Birmingham, Melissa Willencraft had decided to throw a lavish masquerade dinner party, honoring all of the work of the late Mr. Willencraft, in an attempt to bait the murderer into coming into the house to steal back the masks he thought to be rightfully his.
Which was why Ned was now standing beside various cheeses and crackers as a lookout while Emerson was taking a look around the rooms upstairs. Emerson had told Ned to blend in and keep an eye out for anything suspicious, but Ned was finding it difficult to mingle, especially since he felt foolish wearing a suit and tie along with a cheap black plastic mask. He watched as couples danced on the floor in front of him and masked partygoers laughed with one another. He sighed, thoughts of his childhood sweetheart once again entering his mind. He was about to move, in search of a better place to keep an eye on things without being so noticeable, when he heard a soft cough beside him.
Ned turned and froze. The first thing he noticed was her mask, dark red feathers fanning out around her face on black velvet, the nose coming out into a gentle beak. It was obviously an expensive theater mask, the feathers meticulously placed and with pieces of see through cloth hiding the eyes. He felt his gaze unconsciously drift downward to take in the flattering scoop neck of the matching blood red gown, puff sleeves that exposed a sliver of pale skin while the rest of her arms were covered in long black gloves, and how the soft fabric hugged every curve before reaching to the ground. Her crimson lips were curled into a soft smile when his eyes returned to her face, her head tiled to the side.
"Hello." Her voice was low and soft, and Ned felt a jolt in his stomach at the sound.
"Uh, hi."
She fingered the champagne glass she was holding, and Ned could feel her studying him. "Are you having a good time?"
Ned knew he should lie, but he couldn't stop himself from replying with the truth. "Not really."
"I'm sorry to hear that." The woman took a sip of her champagne, turning her head to watch the dancers on the floor. Ned noticed how her chocolate brown hair was pulled up into a smooth twist, exposing the long line of her neck.
"Would you like to dance?"
The woman turned around to face him again. "I'm sorry?"
Ned was surprised with himself, but asked the question again. "Would you like to dance?"
A slow smile spread across her lips. "I would love to." Reaching around him, she placed her glass on the table and Ned offered her his hand. He thought he saw her hesitate, her gloved hand pausing for a brief moment before finally coming to rest in his, but he was sure he was just imagining things. His fingers closed around hers, and he led her out onto the dance floor.
She turned towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder as he tentatively rested a hand on her hip. He could feel her tense, but once he started to dance with her, she relaxed under his soft touch.
"Who taught you to dance?"
Ned felt his heart tighten at the memory. "My mother." He paused for a moment, studying the beautiful woman in his arms. There was something about her… "My name's Ned."
"And what do you do, Ned?"
"I make pies."
The woman looked up at him, never missing a beat as they continued to dance. "How wonderful. How did you get into the pie business?"
Ned hesitated, thinking of his mother and how the smell of pies brought back memories of her, of the home he once had. "Pie is comfortable, safe. I enjoy providing people with that comfort."
The woman's voice was soft when she replied, "But sometimes it's good to take risks."
Ned felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her gaze, so smoothly spun her out and pulled her back in, catching her around the waist with his arm. She laughed breathlessly once she was once more in his arms, and the sound brought back memories of someone else.
"What is it? You're staring at me."
"You just remind me of someone I know."
"Really? What's her name?"
Ned smiled as he thought of his childhood sweetheart. "Chuck."
The woman's face broke into a smile as she let out a soft, "Aw, really?"
Ned froze and looked down at the suddenly tense woman in his arms. The woman's voice had changed. It was no longer low and soft, sultry even, but warm, friendly. Loving. And he knew this voice. Knew it better then he knew any other voice. But he could feel this woman's gloved hand in his, his fingers resting lightly on her hip. It couldn't be. Could it?
"Chu-"
Before he could finish, there was a yell and a loud thud from the other side of the room. Ned's head snapped up at the commotion, just in time to see George Birmingham being chased by Emerson through the crowd.
"Ned!"
Ned jumped into action without thinking, releasing his dance partner and running to intersect their suspect before he could escape. Ned was able to tackle Mr. Birmingham as he tried to make it to the exit, feeling a surge of triumph as he held the murderer down as he waited for Emerson to come help. He looked up, expecting to see his dance partner, the woman he was beginning to think was Chuck, surely impressed with this display, but she was not there.
Once the police had arrived and taken Mr. Birmingham into custody, Ned searched all of the faces of the departing party members, looking for the woman in red he had danced with. She was nowhere to be found. But when he walked through the main foyer toward the front door, where the best masks of Marty Willencraft were hung, he froze. There, on the second row from the bottom, third from the right, was the black velvet mask with red feathers.
It took Ned thirteen minutes to find his car, twenty eight minutes to get home, and a record seven minutes to arrive on his floor and enter his apartment. The whole time, his only thought was of the girl named Chuck, and if that same girl was the one he had so enjoyed himself with at the dance.
"Chuck?"
He stopped at the threshold of the living room when he saw Chuck sound asleep on the couch, the end credits of a movie rolling across the TV screen. He walked carefully closer, not wanting to wake her, studying her closely, comparing her to the mysterious woman. Her freshly washed hair was dark against her pale skin but was already starting to gently curl and frizz. Nothing like the smooth hair of his mysterious dance partner. And besides, he could still feel the pressure of his dance partner's hand in his. If it really had been Chuck, she wouldn't have been able to hold his hand. Ned felt a touch of disappointment. He supposed a part of him had really hoped his mysterious dancing partner was the same woman as the one he loved.
"Ned?" Ned shook himself out of his musings and focused on the soft green eyes that were smiling up at him from the couch.
"Hey. How was your night?"
Chuck stretched lazily, her pajama top rising to expose a tantalizing glimpse of pale skin. "It was okay. How about you? Catch the bad guy?"
Ned grinned. "Yeah. Why don't you head to bed?"
"Sounds like a plan." Chuck rolled off the couch and padded on bare feet toward the bedroom. "How was the party?" she asked over her shoulder.
Ned paused, his hands still resting on the back of the couch. Images from the night flashed before him, awkwardly standing alone by a table of food, the mysterious woman asking him to dance, the way she smiled, the feel of her in his arms, the race to capture their suspect. "It was…interesting. But I still wish you could have been there," he answered honestly.
Chuck smiled to herself as she climbed into bed. "Me, too. Good night, Ned."
It was two hours and thirty four minutes later when Chuck slid out of bed. She listened closely to make sure Ned was, in fact, deeply asleep before getting on her knees and reaching beneath her bed. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled out a single long black glove. Carefully pulling it on, she made sure it was securely in place before rising. She walked over to Ned's bed, his face peaceful in the moonlight. Ever so softly, she caressed his face with the tips of her fingers. She relished the feel of him, even if she wasn't really touching him, tracing the contours of his face. Cloth was so much better than latex or plastic wrap or big rubber gloves. She knew he would never have allowed her to try this if he had known, but she had to see if it would work. She had to take that risk. She could still feel the way his hand had felt holding hers.
She held his face for one more moment before pulling away, resolving to show him her discovery in the morning. Putting the glove safely away in its hiding place, she returned once more to bed.