daemonluna

Cleaning off my desktop again...

Gen CA ficlet, David knows what Pamela needs. Mid-season one. Not so much a crossover as containing a vague allusion to another series that probably nobody but me will spot.

The Peculiar Habits of Mongamous Creatures

It was after six, and the tight band of tension had been closing around Pamela's skull since noon. Lack of sleep, helped along by the astounding amount of stupidity that surrounded her on a daily basis. She dry-swallowed another two Tylenol and chased it with cold coffee.

She knew that it was time to go home when her pen snapped between clenched fingers.

And it was just so absolutely, perfectly in line with the rest of her day that David chose that moment to knock on the doorframe. She raised her head, but he had stepped into the room, and closed the door behind him before she had time to protest. "Hey. Everything okay?"

"Just wonderful." She carefully placed both halves of the pen onto the desk. " Why do you ask?"

"I hear you've taken off a few heads today."

"That's new?"

"Well, no. But usually, berating the judge is a bad idea." He deftly straightened her abused files, put her coffee cup back on the coaster, and caught her left hand in his, examining her bare ring finger. "Mmm-hmm. So I guess I can take back that offer to do your hair for the big day."

"I don't want to talk about it," she gritted out.

"Of course not." But still, he sat perched on the edge of her desk, something very close to sympathy in his eyes. Persistent bastard.

"There was something... not right," she says, sounding vague and hating it. "I called in a favour."

Richard had been her last-ditch attempt at men--but not to give her mother grandchildren. That was going too far. And he was smart, and funny, and looked at her eyes instead of her breasts when she talked.

It had only been three months of casual coffee dates when he proposed. At first, she'd though he was joking, but the ring was exquisite, and it had been a very long week and her defenses were down, and quite honestly, she wasn't getting any younger. And so she though, why the hell not.

But after another month, there were too many little things that didn't add up. Or rather, did add up, especially once you took her trust fund into consideration.

"Background check?"

"Yes. And the credit check."

"Ah. You need a drink," he said, almost kindly. "Let me buy you one. No strings attached, I can promise you that."

Pamela made a point to avoid any unnecessary socializing at work. No lunch dates, coffee klatches, or drinks after work. She was a lawyer, not a social convener.

But going home to her tasteful, meticulously maintained condo, her empty condo, weighed her down with so much damn regret and horribly inescapable self-pity that before she knew it, she'd agreed.

"I just have to, ah, call home." At least he had the good grace to look apologetic about it. He dialed, listened, and left a message while she packed up and put on her coat. The quiet affection in his voice made her throat unaccountably tight.

"How long have you two been together now?" she asked.

"Almost eight years." He had the good grace to look embarrassed, at very least.

"Have you talked about getting married, now that you can?" She tried to suppress the bitterness, she really did. After all, she liked David.

"Maybe for our tenth anniversary. But I promised you alcohol. Come on--we can commiserate on how all men are bastards."

"Oh, they are," she said grimly. And after some thought, adds, "And women aren't any better."

David raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I need a drink first. Just... promise me one thing."

"Within reason."

"Don't tell Elliot."

"Done."

END

(Cross-posted to