A/T: Wow. It's the 11th chapter and I have a feeling things will be wrapping up soon. As CatStokes asked, "How many more chapters?", I had to ask myself the same thing. Our favorite quintet (or quartet, considering Bobby can't be in the know) shall continue in their matchmaking quest, David and Nick shall go on their second date, but I can't seem to think of anything other than that. Ideas, no matter how ridiculous (short of sending our boys into space, of course) will be welcomed and considered. I'm thinking it'll only be 2 or 3 more chapters until I put this baby to rest.
Sorry, there isn't much David/Nick in here. I'm just trying to tie up loose ends, but I promise chapter 12 shall have much smoochy goodness to offer. :D
Disclaimer: Most certainly not mine. However, I like to believe that people like Mr. Bruckheimer and Mr. Zuicker got their start by typing on a hand-me-down PC (oh, but I how I love it! hugs computer) in the corner of their bedroom, filled with big dreams. If they did, then there's hope for all of us!
Snapshots
Act 11: Wherein All Is Well and the Restaurant Murders Are Finally Closed
"So what, is this going to become a tradition?"
"I swear Warrick, I'll seriously-''
"Oh, come on. I already know about you guys. Besides, it's just a picture."
"Yeah, but you taunt. I hate taunting."
"It's not taunting, Nicky. It's friendly ribbing."
"Tell that to my bruised ribs."
"So where was this taken? And I've never seen Hodges in this shirt before. Did he go shopping just for you?"
"Rick, I'm two seconds away from-''
"Threat, nag, whine. Yeah, I get the drill. So what is this, you first date?" Pause. "Aha. It is your first date!"
"Warrick, what happened to your decency?"
"Never was born with it, man."
"I can vouch for that."
"Hilarious. So you've only been on one date? 'Cause that's some poor timing, bro."
"He'll forgive me. I don't think he's much of a date person."
"Dating requires social skills, so I'm not surprised. And wipe that smile off your face."
"Why should I? I thought you liked taunting me."
"I do, but you're looking too happy right now. I mean, it's Hodges."
"His name's David."
"Yeah, well, I'm not dating him. He'll always be 'Hodges' until otherwise noted."
"Only those who've known him for years or date him can call him David, so he'll be 'Hodges' to you forever."
"Possessive much? And seriously, ditch the smile. You're freaking me out."
"What, is it too lecherous?"
"Um, is 'hell yes' clear enough for you?"
"You don't find him the least bit attractive?"
"Pleading the fifth, dude."
"But he's-''
"Don't go there. Whatever you do outside of work is fine, but I'm begging you not to give me details."
"Y'know, Jacqui's practically drooling to hear this stuff."
"She ain't wound too tight either."
"Doesn't matter. I'm not about to go spill the intimate-''
"Ew."
"-details of my life. Now quit being such a baby and give me back my picture."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"What's it look like I'm doing?"
"You're hanging it up inside your locker? You've never done that with the other ones."
"We weren't dating then. We are now. It's only logical, Rick."
"Huh. You're really crazy about him, aren't you?"
Nick's smile only grew.
…
Jacqui hadn't gotten much sleep that day. She awoke with a headache born from both her crying and lack of rest, dressed in the first thing she saw in her closet (a wrinkled white blouse and black skirt), skipped breakfast due to lack of hunger, and smeared on the most basic of cosmetics. She made a move to get into her shoes until she realized she had yet to slip on her panty hose, but the thought made her start tearing up again, and she was sick of that.
Ridiculous. They were stockings, for crying out loud. Nevertheless, they still reminded her of David. Just a week ago, he had stolen her only spare pair to help Nick. Would strange things always remind her of him, like goats and Coke cans and bottles of Tabasco sauce?
She knew they would and, even more, she knew she was being unreasonable. David hadn't died, but he had been terribly close. He just blew it off and told her he was okay; didn't he understand that he would have left her and Ronnie, Archie and Bobby, Nick and Daphne torn in the wake of his death? She was his best friend and loved him deeply; it pissed her off that he would be so flippant. However, her fear overrode that anger and she had gone home the night before, blinded by tears, and cried in front of her television until she dragged herself to bed, knowing she'd only toss and turn, visited by nightmares where David was actually shot.
She felt decades older than she actually was when she heaved herself into work that evening. Everyone else was acting the exact same, as if David's life hadn't been in peril the night before. Didn't they care? Frowning, she made her way towards the lab, ignoring the few looks she received.
She bypassed Archie, Ronnie, and Bobby. She wasn't in much of a mood to talk, but it warmed her to know they were worried about how she was faring.
She didn't notice the man sitting in her lab (looking back, she knew she should have. The walls were glass, after all.) until she had entered, grabbed herself a pair of gloves, and turned towards her trusty computer. However, the screen was partially obstructed by a certain trace technician whose expression was one of (if she wasn't mistaken) worry.
"Oh," she lamely greeted, uncertain of what to say and taken by surprise. "Hey. I didn't notice you."
"I'm sure you didn't," he replied. "Those glass walls are a bitch to see through."
She frowned before spinning towards her Inbox of evidence, angrily ignoring him. He had nearly died and all he could be was sarcastic? She grabbed the first file before stalking towards the microscope. If he wanted to be that way, then that was just fine with her. She didn't care. At least, she could pretend not to. Maybe that would get the message across.
David grimaced, watching his friend sort through the files in an irate manner. In truth, he didn't know what to say. He just wanted her to talk to him again; twelve hours without Jacqui was a strange span of time and it was disconcerting to know that she was upset enough not to give him the time of day. Did she expect him to break down? Or somehow take it all back? He couldn't do either of those things, but he could try to understand her position. However, understanding usually required explaining, which Jacqui had yet to do. Maybe he could get some enlightenment in exchange for an apology. He wasn't apologizing for almost getting shot, because that was out of his control… but he was sorry that he didn't understand what she was trying to tell him.
"I'm sorry, Jacq. I don't know what to say."
"You say the most when you say nothing at all," she replied, her voice clipped and her motions jerky.
"You've got to help me," he explained, rising from his seat and walking towards her. "I don't know what you're angry about. You wouldn't answer any of my calls."
"I was asleep."
"Do phones stop working when we're sawing logs?"
"I turned the ringer off."
"Jacqui, listen, just tell me what's on your mind."
"I don't feel like talking, David."
"Jacq-''
"Fine," she snapped, slamming her hands against the table and whirling around to face the startled man. "Fine! Want to know what I'm so upset about? I'm upset with you. You could be on Doc Robbins's table right now with a pretty Y incision on your chest, but do you care? Do you care that you would've left all your friends behind? No. You treat it like it was nothing!"
David took a breath before exhaling. He had no idea she felt this way. Well, he had an idea, but for someone to care so much about him was still foreign and strange. He oftentimes tried to convince himself that no one really worried about his well being; after all, he didn't want to be let down when his suspicions proved to be true. In L.A., he didn't have a single friend, but Las Vegas was different. Jacqui had pulled him into the group, showing him around, taking him to lunch, introducing him to the rest of the lab rats. They made him feel like he belonged and that was almost impossible.
"Jacqui," he began, hesitant as to what to say. He yearned to tread carefully, but he had never been good at being subtle. "We can't timeline our lives. Either it's our time or it isn't, but I got lucky yesterday. It's enough, don't you think?"
She shook her head, standing in the middle of her print lab, looking trodden. She sniffled and he realized with rising alarm that she was crying. Ho boy. He wasn't good with crying people, especially females. Where was Nick when you needed him? The man could handle a weeping woman with one hand tied behind his back and a sweet word. David could offer a tissue and then sit in awkward silence. As it was, he didn't even have the tissue.
"It's just," she said, her words hitched between sobs. "You're my best friend and I love you. I was so scared when Catherine told me what happened."
"C'mere," he ushered. Surprisingly enough, she obliged, shuffling towards him. He wound his arms around her waist and bestowed her with something so few received from him: a hug. She sniffled again but returned it with earnest.
"First of all, I'm not dead. I'm fine. I'm standing here while you get mascara all over my coat and I'm not even complaining about it."
She laughed but didn't let him go. "Second of all, we get so involved in the fact that we could've died that we forget we didn't. I learned my lesson. I'll be more careful with everything I do, but I promise that I really am okay and you'll be getting sick of me in a few days."
She laughed again, her voice thick with weeping-induced congestion. He was sure that (along with the mascara) there was going to be some snot as well, but he found that he didn't mind.
"And third of all, you're crying, which is weird and a little scary because I've never seen you do it before."
"There was the time I lost my mom's earrings."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
She disentangled herself and shook her head, wiping her eyes with the hem of her sleeves. "I'm getting sick of you already, David."
He smiled before leaning over and kissing her forehead, a rare and loving gesture. "Good. Then it'll be exactly like it was. Should I go steal something from your locker now or later?"
She laughed this time, genuine and relieved. "Preferably later, hose thief."
"Never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"Does it cause you any amount of humiliation?"
"Yep."
"Then no, I won't."
"Ah, friendship. What more can I ask for?"
"Some charm?"
"I'm taking lessons from Nick. Does it show?"
She snickered. "Not even Nick can help you now, David. Oh, and I have some bad news."
"We're out of coffee?"
"No."
"Then bring it on."
She sighed, crossing her arms and leaning against the side of the table. "It didn't work."
"What didn't work?"
"Our plan to get David and Bobby together," she replied, seemingly affronted that David didn't understand the meaning behind her vague words.
"We'll think of something," he reassured, throwing his right arm around her neck. "I know you have a million other plans in that head of yours."
She gave a soft laugh before resting her head on his shoulder, content to have her friend in one piece.
…
The interrogation room was dark and bland. David had seen it before, but had never really been inside, having no reason to even view an interrogation in his years of working at the lab. However, he found himself standing next to Greg, looking through the one-way window as Brass sat down across from Martin Porter, casually opening a file and crossing his ankle over his knee, as though he were going to have a friendly chat with a longtime friend.
"So, Martin," Brass nonchalantly began, Nick taking a seat beside him. "Quite a rap sheet you've got here. Assault, trespassing, instigating a riot."
Martin Porter looked like a normal man, but had a chilly edge around him if you took the moment to truly observe. His face was pleasant but held no emotion; his hair was groomed but far too perfect. He sat at the table, unmoving, refusing to speak.
"You got nothing to do in your spare time, Martin?" Brass asked, his tone one of utter relaxation. Martin's lawyer bristled in her seat, a blonde twenty something with an impassive expression and a frown set on her deceivingly sweet lips.
"My client feels as if he's doing God's work. Is that a crime?"
"It is, actually. Funny you should ask," Nick replied, leaning forward and looking the lawyer straight in the eyes. She didn't flinch, but her posture straightened. "He held a law enforcement officer hostage and murdered thirteen people. That doesn't constitute as holy labor."
"You'll have a difficult time proving that. It took you a full week to clean up the scene," she responded, flipping blonde strands behind her shoulder. "Evidence is easily contaminated in that long of a period."
"With all due respect, ma'am, we had CSIs there twenty four seven. Day shift, swing shift, and graveyard. Every print and every trace was taken and analyzed. Your client isn't going anywhere."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mister Stokes. From what I understand, the law enforcement officer my client allegedly threatened wasn't even supposed to be there."
"Ms. Cox, is it?" Brass interjected, lifting a heavy brow. "Your client was seen holding a gun to David Hodges's head. Attempted murder gets quite a sentence."
"He was under mental duress."
"Ah, the insanity charge," Brass sighed, now sporting a grim smile. "Our favorite."
"Mister Porter, according to our records, you worked for Paradise Tours. You drove a bus, right?" Nick asked, his voice direct and somehow still informal. Martin, not a man of many words, simply nodded.
"And is that where you found your victims?"
"They weren't victims," Martin calmly replied as Ms. Cox swiveled her head to her left, hiding her shock in a poor manner.
"Martin, I would advice you not to talk," she muttered, turning back to Nick and Brass, her head held high. "He's still shaken from yesterday. Anything he says can't be taken to heart."
"They deserved what they had coming to them," Martin explained, rolling his eyes at the transparent excuse she was trying to get away with. "I could tell by their appearance and accent that they were Russian."
"So what prompted you to pull the freezer stunt?" Brass queried. "Heat of the moment?"
"Purifying our race is going to be difficult," Martin snapped, sending a cold, unfeeling glare towards the police Captain. "I kept the bodies as proof to my group that I had done it. I passed that shitty restaurant on my route every single night. It didn't take a genius to know it would be the perfect place to store my verification."
"A group? So there's more of you?"
Martin sealed his lips and leaned back into his chair, allowing a quiet span of time to pass. It seemed as though he wasn't planning to speak again until he asked, "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"As disgusting as I find you to be, Martin," Brass replied, "It's my job to know. So what, is it a cult thing?"
"This interview's over," Ms. Cox barked, slamming her leather briefcase shut. "He was clearly unstable at the time. He needs help, not jail time."
"Yeah, that's the thing," Nick replied, returning the look ten-fold. David had to give him mental points for that; there was no way in hell Nick was going to let a lawyer stomp all over him. "I hope you go to court with that excuse and then I hope you choke on it. Your client calculated every move he made, Ms. Cox. He chose his victims by their ethnicity and then he killed without a second thought. This is the Las Vegas crime lab, ma'am, and we're going to do everything in our power to make sure your client gets thrown in prison for the rest of his miserable life."
"That's bias," Martin declared, rising from his seat in a threatening manner, as if he honestly thought he could take Nick on in a building swarming with trained uniforms.
"No, it's a guarantee," Nick replied, his tone cool and concrete. "See you in court."
As David and Greg watched an officer escort Martin Porter and his prissy lawyer back to his holding cell, Greg leaned to his right, whispering, "They say people like Porter have souls."
"Sanders, people like him are either completely soulless or we've misunderstood what a soul is. Anyone with a shred of conscious shouldn't find it so easy to kill thirteen strangers and store them away like hamburger," David replied as they watched Brass rise from his chair, give Nicky a tired pat on the shoulder, and leave the Texan alone in the interrogation room, the file still open as he stared at the wall in front of him. David wanted to be in the room as well, only without anyone watching. He wanted to talk to Nick without being overheard, to touch him without the entire lab speculating as to what it might mean.
"Maybe it's just science," Greg replied, shrugging. "Bodies are just bodies. Maybe ending a life isn't as hard as it looks."
"I'm willing to try that theory on you."
Greg scoffed. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but your insults are expected. Nice try, Davey."
"Call me that again and your coffee won't live to see the sunrise."
They both should have left by then, but David was rather transfixed on a certain CSI who was tiredly rubbing his eyes and closing the case file that lay before him. Greg glanced at the technician standing next to him before peering back through the glass. Nick looked exhausted, that was for certain.
"Yesterday, he was so worried about you," Greg murmured, sending the Texan a frown as he bit his right thumbnail, a habit David had been trying to break him of for years. Nick, still oblivious to his audience, stood up and pushed the chair back into its previous place underneath the table. "In all the hustle and bustle, he just looked really scared."
David let out a soft laugh, pressing his fingers against the glass, wishing he was with Nick so he could just touch, just make sure that it was all real. "Well, he has that kind of heart. I think he'd worry about me even if he hated my guts."
"You shouldn't belittle his feelings towards you, David. I've seen him with his old girlfriends, but you're different. The way he treats you, looks at you; it's all there."
"Since when did you become such a love expert?" David queried, hoping to veer Greg off the heavy topic. Greg, however, was never one to be deferred.
"Since I saw you two together," the young man promptly replied before falling silent.
…
David was almost –almost- ashamed to admit he had forgotten about Daphne's phone call from a few days earlier, telling him about the date that Carter had proposed. So when she showed up after he had gotten off of work, dressed in what appeared to be normal clothing, he had been alarmed. After all, Daphne was to fashion what Greg was to intelligence, so the mental equation wasn't making much sense.
"Hey," she said, her voice lacking its usual certainty as she stood in his doorway, scratching the back of her neck apprehensively. "Can I come in? Or are you feeling badly? 'Cause I can take a hint and go back to my apartment pronto."
David sighed, truly not understanding women. He told them he honestly wasn't traumatized by yesterday's events, but they didn't seem to believe him. Either way, she was steered inside; he had just gotten off of work and it was only in between that span of clocking out and conking out that he would be awake enough to listen anyway. It was either pay attention now or try and decipher a rushed message on his machine the next day; needless to say, the former was a much more preferable option.
"I'll only let you come in if you swear to stop asking me that," he replied as he closed the door behind him. "It's almost as if you guys want me to be scarred for life."
"Alright," she conceded, holding up her hands in surrender, a bit unsteady in her tiny heels as she turned to face him in the middle of the living room. "If you say you're okay, then you're okay."
"That's what I've been saying for the past twenty-four hours."
"I was too shocked to care what you said."
"Too shocked to care? I was the victim, Daph. Need I remind you?"
She quickly shook her head. "That's a negative, Dave. Anyway, I know you're perfectly healthy if the tone in your voice is any indication."
"Trust me, it's an indication. As a matter of fact, we're leaving this subject alone. Forever. Burying it in the back of our minds along with our algebra lessons from middle school."
"I was great at algebra."
"I knew you were a freak when I first met you."
"Takes one to know one."
David opened his mouth to retort, but she quickly waved her hand to silence him, as if she didn't have time for their trade of wits. She seemed nervous and looked a bit sick as well. "David, I promise you can insult me all you want tomorrow, but I need your opinion. I'm going out with Dexter today, remember?"
"That's today?" he asked, trying to flip through his mental calendar. "Daphne, why didn't you remind me? I would have… I don't know, helped you pick out a dress or something."
"More like made fun of every piece of clothing in my closet," she retorted, smiling. "It's what you do."
"It's my way of showing that I care."
Daphne snickered at the words before shaking her head quickly, as though reminding herself that there was no time for games. "I didn't want to bother you after what happened-''
"It's buried, remember?"
"Fine, I won't talk about it anymore. But just tell me how I look, okay? What do you think of the belt? Does it match my shoes?"
She was wearing a lime green camisole with glittery crystals at the top (he had been told blouses like that were all the rage, but he wouldn't know first-hand.) A sky blue shrug went over it, and a patterned skirt fell below her knees, boasting a sparkling, India-inspired belt. Her shoes were new; they were also blue with flowers on the top and a tiny heel with which she had minimal difficulty. Her long necklace reached down to her stomach, dazzling under the lights. Combined with the extra effort she had put into her makeup, the bead purse with which she clutched with a bit too much force, and the hair that probably took at least one full bottle of hairspray and gel to tame, she looked very… well, normal. It was disconcerting. Where was the plaid? She always wore plaid.
"You look very… nice," he said. She stared at him for a long moment, as though offended, and then groaned, flopping onto his couch in what appeared to be despair.
"Nice?" she echoed, her voice rising an octave or three. "Nice? These clothes are brand new, David! I've been getting ready for an hour and a half! I just look nice?"
"Spectacular? Stunning?"
"No, just nice. Oh my Lord, this is it! Seven minutes until we're supposed to leave and I look nice."
"Daph, I'm not good with compliments."
"No, but you're good with the blunt truth. All that time spent in front of a mirror and all I look like is nice?"
"Daphne, relax. It's just Cart-''
"Dexter."
"The guy who won't throw out his own trash," David amended. "I'm almost insulted that you would date the enemy anyway. What happened to our volcano and island savages? It was a great plan."
Apparently, Daphne wasn't listening. She had hopped up from her spot on the couch, biting an un-manicured nail as she paced back and forth in David's living room, almost stumbling in her foreign shoes. David could tell that he had really messed it up this time; she was in alarm mode and he needed the advice of someone who actually understood women, who was sweet and charming and who could get him out of this mess unscathed.
So, of course, Nick instantly came to mind.
However, he needed a way to call him without her knowing. David had a feeling he wouldn't be able to go anywhere without her following, demanding to know what made her look "nice" as opposed to "amazing". The only place she wouldn't follow would be the shower; then again, he wouldn't put it past her to stand in his bathroom's doorway, insisting that he shovel over the answers while he shampooed his hair.
Well, it would be ridiculous to try and shower at that very moment. Maybe he could cleverly getaway through his infamous fire escape? No, she knew that trick. Maybe he could somehow knock her out? (Just to get her to stop pacing and chewing on her nail.) Huh. That sounded illegal. Maybe Ms. Rainey was the answer? Probably not the best idea; she'd most likely insist they all sit down for some cake and a calming DuranDuran album. Bernard? Well, he wasn't exactly Romance 101. Carter himself? Now that was just suicidal.
It appeared as though Nick was his only choice. He quickly turned, grabbed his wireless phone, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
"Where are you going?" she called, panic seeping into her voice. "I'm having a crisis and you decide you need a bathroom break?"
"In the words of Greg Sanders," David replied, "When you gotta go, you gotta go."
He closed and locked the door behind him before dialing Nick's number, slightly surprised at himself that he even had it memorized. He wished there was more room to pace, but bathrooms were only so big, so he settled on leaning against the door as he listened to it ring once and then twice. Wait, Nick was home, right? He had to be. This was too big of an emergency for Nick to be doing something other than sitting in his house, waiting for David to call.
He nearly burst into a joyous Riverdance jig when Nick answered on the third ring.
"Hello?""Hey, it's me. I need help."
"Help? What kind? Are you okay?"
"Not sure yet," David replied, although he had to feel a bit bolstered by Nick's sincerity. "Anyway, what do you tell a woman after you've told her she looks nice?"
"Wait, where are you? It sounds all-''"It echoes, I know. I'm hiding the bathroom."
"You're hiding where?"
"The bathroom, Nick, and she's going to get suspicious when it takes me twenty minutes to take a piss. Can you help me or not?"
"I always loved your subtle ways with words."
"Focus, Nick. Focus. My mortality's on the line."
"Okay, well, you told her she looks nice, right?" Nick asked, clearly perplexed by the entire conversation and just trying to keep up with the situation. "What was the context?"
"She's going on a date."
"Right now?"
"Yeah."
"And you told her she looked nice?"
David groaned; obviously, he had missed something. When did "nice" turn into an insult?
"Is that a taboo word with women? I was trying to give her a compliment."
"No wonder it came out wrong," Nick teased. "You've never given a compliment before."
"She's having a nervous breakdown in the middle of my living room. Mock later, help now."
"Okay, let's see if we can salvage this. First things first: what does it look like she spent the most time on?"
"Clothes."
"Are they new?"
"Down to the shoes."
"Then point out how great the clothes look on her and mention you've never seen the shoes before, but you can't generalize it. They can't look nice. They have to remind you of something specific, like… I don't know. The color of a Tiffany box."
"Tiffany? Like the store?"
"Yeah, it's a girl thing. I don't get it either."
"I think they're darker then that. Like cerulean."
"See? You can do this."
"You know, I think you could be on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."
"Dude, I grew up in Texas. Five sisters. Lots of dates. You learn things about ladies."
"Right."
"You had better stop poking fun at me. I'm trying to keep you from losing one of the two women in the world who find you tolerable."
"Hey, I have priorities besides social status."
"David, you're hiding in a bathroom in hopes that Daphne won't hate you forever. You don't have an upper hand here."
"Fine, you win. Thanks. I owe you."
"With dinner?"
"This is an odd time to be asking for a date, isn't it?"
"No time like the present."
"Clichés aside, I accept. Where?"
"My place tomorrow. Around eight?"
"I-'' Wait, Nick's place? That wasn't a public area. And if David wasn't in a public area, then there was a good chance David would be tempted to jump the poor man right then and there.
"David?"
"Yeah, sure. That sounds great. See you tomorrow."
"Good luck," Nick laughed as the Texan ended the call, leaving David clutching his phone and wondering if he was going to be able to survive the next twenty-four hours. Sure, it was tempting to just hide away in his bathroom, but Daphne hadn't abandoned him on his first date with Nick, and it would be wrong (although so very tempting) not to do the same. And if he lived through Daphne's breakdown, he still had dinner with Nick tomorrow, at his house. That would certainly be the end of him.
He flushed the toilet for realism and ran the water, as though washing his hands, before quietly opening the door and sticking his head out. Well, she wasn't waiting for him in the hallway, at least.
He crept towards the living room and took another peek, watching as she continued her pacing, still biting that blasted nail. Maybe he had been spending too much time with Mia, but didn't people know that biting your nails gave your worms? Bad habits aside, he had a bigger problem. He took a breath and went through the mental steps.
Step one: Make sure she hadn't worn a hole in his floor.
One glance at the floor told him that the damage to his carpet was minimum.
Step two: Note clothing.
"Okay, where were we?" he asked, calmly walking back into the living room as she turned towards him, her expression grim. He hoped his composed demeanor hid his… well, absolute terror. "Right, I was trying to shower you with compliments."
"Trying being the key word," she replied, placing her hands on her hips.
He blatantly ignored her comment, giving her a once over before turning and walking towards his bedroom. She was quick to follow.
"By the way, I think I saw that belt in…" What was one of the fashion magazines? What had Jacqui been reading that afternoon? Thinkthinkthink! It was pink and had a blonde chick on it. Fortunate? Privileged? "Lucky," he finished, praying that Daphne had heard of the magazine and that he had gotten the title correct.
To his relief, she had.
"Really?" she asked, brightening. "Well, it's a knock off, but I saw one like this for two hundred dollar in last month's issue. Two hundred. Can you imagine? Naturally, I bought all of this at Stacey's Natural Boutique."
"Of course. Made in America, no child labor."
"Don't mock me. It's an important cause."
"I'd never mock the cause, just your taste in clothing."
"You mean what I'm wearing right now?" she asked, her tone morphing back into its original worried state. "Is it bad?"
Well, crap. That's the last thing he had intended.
"Actually, I'd mock everything except what you're wearing today. It matches. And would you just trust me on this? You look really…"
"Say 'nice' and I'll kill you."
"So where are you going out tonight?" he asked, turning towards his desk and forgoing the compliments. He couldn't waste time boosting her shattered confidence when he had a camera to find; he began to go through his "stuff I don't know what do with" drawer. There was a Polaroid in there. Somewhere. Maybe.
"An art gallery and lunch," she replied, frowning and fidgeting with the hem of her skirt.
"Sounds like fun."
"It is."
"You still don't look really enthused about it."
"I guess I'm… nervous, you know? Remember you and Nick?"
"It wasn't that bad."
"David, you tried to climb out of the fire escape."
"It was the heat of the moment."
"So what, you can have panic attacks but I can't? That's sexism."
"That's me being unfair based on gender. It's two very different things."
She gave a short laugh but didn't comment. He paused in his shuffling before letting out a sigh. He supposed this was the part where he became over-protective; he was usually bad at this sort of thing, but it was beginning to come easily. Obviously, he blamed his co-workers for the previously nonexistent trait. If he didn't hang around such caring people, he wouldn't be so damn concerned about her and Jacqui's safety all the time.
"If you need anything, call. I don't care what time it is," he muttered, beginning his previous task of sorting out the drawer.
"David, Dexter's hardly going to try and assault me or something."
"I work in a crime lab, Daph. No one plans on getting assaulted."
"Okay, okay. I'll be careful."
"If he tries to make an unwanted advance, stab him in the toe with that heel of yours. Then call Jacqui. She knows a little karate."
"Dave-''
"If he makes you pay for your meal, then a second date isn't an option."
"David, I go-''
"And it's always good to carry a can of Mace and a charged cell phone. Considering we don't have any Mace, make sure your phone's working so you can call out for help. If that doesn't work, start screaming. You've got tuba lungs, so utilize them."
"David Hodges, I und-''
"Oh, I almost forgot. Have a good time. Now smile."
"What? David, no!"
It was too late: he had already snapped the photo, the bright flash making Daphne take a step back and try to clear the floating dots that danced in front of her eyes.
"I wasn't ready!" she protested, scandalized as a square, white-bordered photo slid out from the slot in the camera. Sure, digital camera were great, as were your basic Kodaks, but there was nothing more gratifying than instant humiliation on film. Need only add a small shake, some light, and voila! Embarrassing first-date jitters captured forever.
He gave her a smug smile. "Payback never tasted so sweet."
Twenty minutes later, he locked the door, checked to make sure he had turned off his oven, fed Nana and gave her a scratch behind the ears, and went to bed, intent to sleep for as long as he could.
It wasn't as comfortable as the morning before where Nick had slept beside him.
How much longer will it take to cure this?
Just to cure it cause I can't ignore it if it's love
Makes me wanna turn around and face me but I don't know nothing 'bout love.
-Accidentally in Love, Counting Crows
TBC.
A/T: Chapter 12 on its way! My promise: smoochiness. And everyone love smoochiness. :D