Title: One-Third My True Feelings
Author: amazonqueenkate
Claim: Jacqui Franco
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: (Set 2; #13, bittersweet)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There are a number of things that David says and does not say to Jacqui.
Author's Notes: Written for tobiasdominik, who wanted angsty David/Jacqui for her birthday. From David's POV, but very much about Jacqui.

There is little for David to say to Jacqui Franco that he's never said before.

She's beautiful. He tells her this and she laughs, wrinkling her nose before she spears another lettuce leaf. "I'm not beautiful." She threatens him with her fork, and her curls bounce. "I'm average-at-best. Flabby, too. And if you're trying to get into my pants, it won't work. I've got more sense than that, David Hodges."

She's intelligent. He mentions this to her and she rolls her eyes, twirling her print brush idly over a shard of plastic found at the crime scene. "Archie taught me how to defrag hard drives." She quirks an eyebrow as she meets his gaze evenly. "It's no natural talent. You wouldn't have even asked me to do it if he wasn't out sick. I'm nothing to you but the tasks I can perform, I swear."

She's kind. He brings it up and she scoffs, flipping through this month's copy of Cosmopolitan magazine. "I wasn't letting Greg walk home in the rain." She doesn't glance up, even as her fingernail snags on a page corner. "You wouldn't have let him, either, so don't go making me into the hero here. I've already had enough of it, and I swear, if Greg ever sings ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings' to me again..."

David doesn't say these things often, and he supposes that's why she reacts the way she does. They spend their days and nights bickering, fighting and yelling at each other across the hallway or shoving each other in a race to the coffee pot. She confides in him that she hates shaving her legs and loves the smell of her medicated shampoo, and laughs when he steps into her personal space and sticks his nose into her hair. He makes a face, pretends to hate it, and she smacks him in the arm before flitting away. It doesn't keep David from remembering her scent, though, or her from mentioning a new perfume and letting him smell her again, the next day.

She's a proud woman, too, but he doesn't actually tell her that. He watches her stand up to Ecklie, arguing that she can handle four days of backlog on her own, insisting that she's unsinkable even as the water's up to her portholes. Help shows up the next day, and she snorts and skulks about.

She's stubborn. He lets her win, sometimes, because the river needs to flow and the swift waters can't always be dammed. She crosses her arms and glares at him anyway, even as he shows her that, no, her shoes really are too small for him, proving in a hilarious way the one thing she hates – that she's wrong.

She's insecure. She stares at Catherine when she thinks no one is watching, sometimes, and straightens her spine in an attempt to mimic her carriage. She spends hours straightening her curly hair and checks it four times a day, ducking in and out of the bathroom in a flash of blue lab coat.

David wants to point out all these things, and he blames himself for never knowing the right way to explain it. They spend their time talking about anything but the important topics, obsessing about food and friends rather than the things he's noticed and adores about her. She ducks her head and smiles shyly when he says something too personal, glancing at the floor in a way that makes his stomach turn. He mocks her, pretends that she's lost face in his little world, and she rolls her eyes before returning to her normal, challenging expression. It doesn't keep David from remembering that smile, though, or her from dropping her eyes when their shoulders brush in the hallway, later that day.

There are very few things David says to Jacqui because they are things he doesn't know how to say. He prefers sarcasm to sincerity, an alternative to admiration, and his voice catches in the back of his throat. Even as she slips out of the sheets and begins searching for her blouse, her bare feet silent on his hardwood floor, he has a thousand things he'd rather say than lay in the quiet of his half-empty bedroom and watch her leaving.

He's proud, stubborn, and insecure, too.

But when she glances over her shoulder, her hair no longer straight and her face showing the shyness and helplessness he wants to put words to but finds he can't, he sighs.

"Stay," he says.

She's never heard it before, but she ducks her head and smiles before she tosses her shirt back on the floor. And even though it's nothing like what he'd wanted to say at all, he figures that one-third his goal is a good start.