Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, they belong to Cheryl Heuton and Nicolas Falacci
Author's Note: The inspiration for this chapter came from a comment Rob Morrow made on one of his appearances on Craig Ferguson about his wife and the tactical gloves. The movie Robin is watching when she first comes home is "On the Town" from 1949-and it's my favorite of the three musicals Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra made together.
Chapter 1: Tactical Hands
Tactical (adj): aiming at an end beyond the immediate action
Robin Brooks unlocked her front door and dropped her keys and purse on the end table. It had been a long day of depositions and paperwork, and all Robin wanted was a glass of wine, a hot bath, and whatever old movie happened to be on TCM that evening. That's Don's fault, she thought, thinking about how she'd used to go straight to bed on days like this, but now she was finding comfort in the arms of Donald O'Connor, Esther Williams, Judy Garland, Cary Grant, or whoever happened to be the profiled golden age person of choice that evening.
Plus, speaking of the devil, Don had plans to come over that evening after he got off. Except the last Robin had heard, Don's Violent Crimes Squad was currently working a hostage situation somewhere in the Angeles National Forest. Which meant there was no telling when he'd be by, if at all.
It was the nature of their relationship. Two workaholics trying to carve out time for each other. Robin found a clean wine glass in the dish drainer. As an afterthought, she reached up into the cupboard and pulled down a second one. For when he does get here. Then, it was a quick jaunt into the laundry room to lose the work blouse, blazer, and dress pants in favor of her bathrobe.
The wine was a Sauvignon Blanc from up in Napa Valley, the movie that evening was a Gene Kelly-Frank Sinatra musical, and Robin was feeling the stress of the day slip away along with the singing and dancing through the streets of New York City.
A quick glance at her watch told her it was almost ten-thirty. Robin hadn't heard from Don, but considering he was out in the Angeles Forest, that wasn't surprising. Gene was busy romancing Vera-Ellen onscreen.
The movie wasn't half bad. Robin curled into a ball on the couch and tugged the afghan off the back of the couch. She was glad that it was heading into a weekend, she could actually stay up and finish the film. These old movies were wonderfully crafted, but sometimes tended on the long side.
Robin tucked her feet under the blanket and took a sip of white wine, leaned her head on one of the throw pillows, and returned to the movie.
The gentle touch of someone pulling the afghan up around her shoulders woke her some time later. Robin's eyes opened slowly and she craned her neck to see Don, still clad in all of his tactical gear, two steps toward the bedroom. "Hey," she whispered.
Don Eppes paused mid-step and turned. "Hey," he said softly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."
Robin yawned and curled her legs in toward her so Don could sit down on the couch. He sat down awkwardly, still in his Kevlar vest, tactical gloves, and boots. He worked on undoing the Velcro straps on the vest, the Technicolor movie on the television glowing in the reflective paint of the letters FBI. "Everything okay?" Robin asked him.
He lifted the vest over his head and set it down against the arm of the couch on the floor. "Yeah. Guy's in custody, everybody made it home in one piece." He rubbed a hand down his face. "Just tired."
Robin sat up and adjusted so she could pull Don back against her chest. He sighed contentedly and leaned back into her hold, resting his head against her shoulder. Robin ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp as he worked to loosen the laces on his boots and pull them off, setting them underneath the coffee table. Once they were off, Robin felt his body go almost slack as Don finally relaxed.
"How'd your day in court go?" Don asked her, his eyes tracking the movie on TV. One hand, still in the black leather tactical glove, entangled his fingers with hers and he ran a thumb over the back of her hand in little circles.
"Long," she told him. "Almost fell asleep in front of the defense."
"Probably wouldn't have helped your case," Don teased.
"Not so much." Robin fiddled with the Velcro on Don's gloves absently as her eyes tracked the movie. It wasn't one she'd seen before.
Don smiled. "You know, I can take these off," he said, wiggling his fingers under hers. "They're pretty sweaty and gross, smell a little bit like gunpowder."
Robin ran her thumb over and around the Velcro strap. "No, it's okay," she said, feeling her face get warm. "Actually, there's something sort of calming about this feeling." She tilted her chin. "It just…feels like you."
"Never pegged you for a leather girl," Don tilted his head upward, enjoying the brief look of panicked awkwardness that crossed Robin's beautiful brown eyes.
She tugged at the Velcro and pulled it loose, sliding the tactical glove finger by finger off Don's hand. Don's fingers tingled at the touch of her hands on his. "Yeah," he whispered thickly, enjoying the feeling. "Yeah, that's pretty nice."
"Told you." The glove plopped onto the floor, and now Robin's and Don's fingers were tangled together with no barrier between them. "There's a glass of wine out in the kitchen for you," Robin said. "Had a feeling we both could use one."
"Oh yeah?" Don got up and reluctantly let go of Robin's hand, padding into the kitchen. Robin heard the cork and the neck of the wine bottle clink against the long stemmed glass. A few moments later, he was back, but this time, he traded places with Robin so she was leaning against him. In between reaching for his glass, his hand slid her robe off her shoulder and his hand drifted over the bare skin of her arm as they watched the movie together.
Robin's hand covered his, undid the Velcro on the remaining glove and dropped it onto the carpet.
And soon the gloves, like the movie, were forgotten.
