Author: linaerys
Pairing: going toward Nigel/Woody, but not there yet
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: On the Spot (Part 2/3)
Summary: Nigel and Woody get closer, somewhat against their own will. Set sometime after "Second Chances" and THAT scene.

Nigel gave a good lecture, Woody found, if a little too full of his favorite witticisms. And how someone flirts with an entire audience, thought Woody, I'd love to know. After attending Nigel's first presentation, Woody had a full day of other speakers: talks on lifting fingerprints from unlikely surfaces, an obnoxiously thorough review of Miranda laws, and a case study of a truck stop murder.

At six, when the last workshop let out, he went to have a beer with some of the DC detectives he'd befriended during the day. One of the women detectives surprised him by asking if Nigel was single. Woody raised his eyebrows for a moment, and said that he thought probably so.

Later, he went back to the room and called Jordan. "You surviving without me?" he asked when she picked up her cell phone.

"Well, you know me," she answered vaguely.

"Sorry I had to miss you this weekend," he said. They'd sort of had plans to go walking around Gloucester when the department decided to send him to the conference instead. "Next weekend maybe? What do you think?"

"Oh no," she said, not sounding particularly concerned. "I told Garrett I'd help him with some inventory next weekend."

"All weekend?" Woody asked.

"'Fraid so," she answered. Woody considered calling "bullshit", but decided that wouldn't accomplish anything but widening the rift between them. If she really wanted to see him, she would have been able to make the time.

He slammed his cell phone shut with more force than necessary as Nigel came bouncing into the room. "Sorry I'm late," he said, "but there was this lovely blonde detective who wanted to know so much about what MEs do. It was all I could do to get away."

Woody held up his hand to try to stem the flow of words. "Late? Nigel, you and I don't have any plans. Go find your . . . blonde or something."

"Ah-hah. That's what you think, however, I am now the proud owner of two VIP passes to the FIT spring fashion show after-party." He pulled two glossy cards out of his back pocket with a flourish and splayed them out on the hotel desk like a winning poker hand.

"I don't know," said Woody, "I think I might just turn in early—wait—fashion show? As in models?"

"Models, designers, and all manner of college-age lovelies," said Nigel with a raised eyebrow. "Got them from an instructor friend of mine. Not bad, eh?"

"Not bad at all," said Woody as he grabbed for one of the passes. "What does VIP mean for this?"

"Nothing, really, just means we get into the party. Don't worry, though," he said, "I know people."

"How long, exactly, does it take you to get ready?" Woody asked an hour later. Nigel had disappeared into the bathroom, and aside from the sound of the shower and then the hairdryer, Woody had no idea what was going on.

"Gotta look good, love," came Nigel's voice through the closed door. "Plus, hotel hairdryers are for shit. I can't believe I forgot mine." A few minutes later he came out wearing black leather pants and a slinky button-down shirt that seemed black but under certain light turned the deep red of dried blood. It was unbuttoned several buttons too far, in Woody's estimation, but he had to admit that the look suited Nigel.

"Okay, let's go," said Woody, rubbing his hands together.

"You're wearing that?" asked Nigel, incredulous.

"What? What's wrong with it?" replied Woody, a little defensive. Nigel walked toward him and Woody backed up a little.

"Relax love," said Nigel, "this is what I do," he said. "Now, can we lose the jacket? You're not going to be interrogating a manacled suspect. At least not—" Nigel smirked, "—right away." Woody rolled his eyes, but took off his sport coat.

"That's a little better," Nigel continued. "The trousers are bad, but that's something we're going to have to live with." Nigel walked around behind Woody and un-tucked his shirt from the maligned pants. "Mmmm, you're going to have to take off the undershirt." Woody rolled his eyes again, but complied.

"Mmmm," said Nigel again. He stpped in close to Woody and undid the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Okay!" said Woody a little too loudly. "I think that's just about enough."

"Just trying to help, love," said Nigel. "You need it."

"Yeah, help with what?"

"These aren't Boston girls. I love a man in a suit, but you would have been too . . . preppy. Fratty."

"Hey, I was in a fraternity," said Woody.

"Yes," said Nigel sadly, "we all have skeletons in our closets, but it's really not best to advertise them."

"Okay," said Woody dubiously, "as long as all this is really for the girls."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Nigel quoted. He stepped in close again and mussed Woody's hair a little. "Don't worry, they'll love you."

In the club, a gorgeous Latina woman greeted Nigel with an enthusiastic kiss on the lips. She had light coffee skin and honey blonde hair. Probably dyed, but on her it looked incredible. A bemused Woody watched Nigel return the kiss with vigor. Even when Nigel talked about women, it was still hard for Woody to believe it.

"Maria, this is my friend Woody," said Nigel. "Woody—Maria." Maria kissed Woody's cheeks then turned back to Nigel.

"Friend?" she asked skeptically.

"Not like that, love," answered Nigel. He wrapped his arms around Maria from behind and nuzzled her neck for a moment. "Let's introduce Woody around," he said.

Maria nodded decisively, and took Woody's arm, leading him deeper into the club. The music and lights were overwhelming, and everywhere Woody looked he saw girls dancing and drinking and laughing and looking like they belonged in some movie, not standing in the same room with him. "Woody, this is Francesca," Maria said, "She just completed her masters' portfolio. Make sure she has a good time." Francesca was tall and curvy with long, loose curls and huge dark eyes. Woody didn't often get to talk to women this glamorous, and he swallowed hard.

"Congratulations on your portfolio," said Woody. "Can I buy you a drink." Francesca's eyes traveled up and down Woody's body for a moment.

Then she called out, half to him, half to the bartender behind them, "vodka martini."

"Make that two," yelled Woody over the music. "You could be a model," said Woody after a moment of waiting for their drinks. Francesca just looked at him. "Sorry, you must get that all the time," he said, chagrinned.

"Models are dumb and skinny," she said in an accent Woody couldn't place. "I am neither." Woody was about to beat a hasty retreat and see if Nigel knew any girls who weren't too beautiful to talk to, when Francesca reached down and took his hand.

"Let's dance," she said. She downed her martini in one gulp and Woody did the same. Francesca was soft in his arms, and her hair smelled delicious. After a few songs, she reached up with a cool hand and pulled his face down to hers. When Woody came up for air, he saw Nigel across the room, dancing with Maria, laughing and whispering to her. When they turned with the music, Woody saw that Maria had her hands tucked firmly into the pockets of Nigel's trousers.

The evening wore on. Woody bought many rounds of drinks until his cash ran out, and his head was swimming. Near midnight Francesca and Maria went off to the bathroom, and Woody found himself talking to Nigel again. From across the room, Francesca looked a little bit like Jordan.

"It's not going to work," he said to Nigel, with the exaggerated diction of the very drunk. "Jordan's the only woman I want right now." Nigel looked at him for a moment, listening less to what he was saying than how he was saying it.

"Bloody hell," said Nigel after a moment. "You're drunk."

"No, I'm not," said Woody, and drank the rest of the vodka in the glass in front of him.

"You're drunk," said Nigel again, "and in am moment you'll be too drunk for any cabby to risk you puking in his car. I'm getting you out of here." Nigel said a hasty goodbye to Maria and Francesca, who looked pouty, and poured Woody into a cab. "Just focus on the meter," he told Woody, when Woody looked like he might not make it back to the hotel, and Woody focused blearily on the changing red numbers.

"She doesn't love me," said Woody after a moment, and the cab drove smoothly uptown. "She doesn't love me and she never will." He paused a moment. "Lots of girls want me. France—whatever—she wanted me. She would have taken me home. Hell, you want me."

"Not right now I don't," said Nigel acidly, but he saw how distraught Woody was and relented. "You can't always get what you want," he said quietly. "And Jordan? She'll love you only when she can't have you." Nigel sighed, and dragged Woody up to their room and put him to bed.

Sometime during the night Nigel heard Woody get up to go to the bathroom. Nigel was drunk enough himself that he didn't think anything of it when someone snuggled up behind him in bed. He simply relaxed back into the strong arm flung over him and fell back asleep.

Nigel woke up next to morning light coming in around the curtains, and the feeling of someone's morning hard-on pressed into his lower back. He went over the night before in his head a moment, and debated sneaking out of Woody's embrace before he awoke himself and started freaking out. Then he grinned; it's his arm around me, he thought.

Nigel felt Woody shift behind him, and draw him close. Then Woody froze. Now it comes, thought Nigel. He had a wicked urge to turn around a face Woody and give him a nice good morning kiss, but waking up with his arms around Nigel was probably traumatic enough to the poor boy's heterosexual identity without Nigel twisting the knife.

Suddenly, Woody sprang out of bed, and Nigel heard a crash behind him. Nigel rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow. "Did you have nice dreams, love?" Nigel asked. Woody sputtered for a moment, and looked a little queasy. "Calm down," said Nigel, "you got drunk, passed out, and at some point got up and got into the wrong bed. End of story."

Woody sat down on the other bed and put his head in his hands. "Oh God," he said after a moment, "I was really bad last night, wasn't I." He raised his head gingerly. "Thanks for taking care of me."

"That's what friends are for," said Nigel.

"Oh God," said Woody, running his fingers over his forehead and wincing. "I feel like shit. I'm going to take a shower. And Nigel, can we not mention this—" he gestured to Nigel's rumpled bed—"to anyone?"

"My lips are sealed," said Nigel. And after Woody had gone into the bathroom he grumbled, "I just wish there were something to tell."

Next: Blood and kisses