Title: Five Things Bobby Dawson Never Did for Jacqui Franco
Author: amazonqueenkate
Claim: Jacqui Franco
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: (Set 2; #1, blood, sweat, and tears)
Rating: R
Summary: There are five things Bobby Dawson never did for Jacqui Franco.
Author's Notes: Written for (and posted for) jaygoose, because her Bobby makes me so happy.

 
I.

"It's not a filthy habit," she complains, and waves her arms above her head. She's short - six inches under him in heels, which she's not wearing today - and thinks that hopping, jumping, and yelling is going to magically make him lower his arm and hand back her cigarettes. "It's a necessary evil. Give them back!"

"It's disgusting, and you know it," David puts in. David is nowhere near as tall, but effective in sucking morale out of the opposing troops. Or the opposing five-foot-three fingerprint technicians, as it is. "You're going to be hickory smoked if you don't stop. That's really why we're here - an intervention."

She stops jumping to glare daggers at him. "I don't need an intervention. I need my goddamned cigarettes."

David rolls his eyes and he, with all the subtlety of a stereotypical man driven to desperation, takes the pack of cigarettes and sticks them down the front of his paints. "Make ya a deal," he says while she's too busy looking horrified to protest. "You let us watch ya for two weeks. No smokin', no thinkin' ‘bout smokin', no tryin' to steal ‘em when we're not lookin'. And if you still want a cigarette after two weeks're up, you can have ‘em back. No complaining from us. Right Dave?"

David is staring at him in abject horror, and not because of the pants incident. "You cannot change the plans, Robert. You do not have enough Southern comfort brain cells for - " He cuts David off by cuffing him neatly around the ear. David smacks him back. "Fine. Two weeks. But we'll be watching, Franco."

She doesn't say anything, but instead storms off in a huff. At the end of two weeks, no one mentions cigarettes, but she does glare at them every time she pops another stick of gum into her mouth and starts chewing.


II.

He doesn't meet John until the night of the rehearsal dinner, but he seems like a good enough guy. He smiles a lot, and when he laughs it's in his belly, reverberating through the room. It's a funny match, though, given that the soon-to-be groom's a grinning goofball and the will-be bride stands outside, smoking cigarettes and watching cars drive past the casino.

"I gotta say, Bobby my man," John announces halfway through the dinner, once the main course has come and gone and the rest of the groomsmen - John's brother Pete, best friend Neil, and cousin Brett - have wandered off to play nickel slots until dessert comes, "I was a little jealous of you when Jacq told me her best friend was a dude."

"Really?" he asks, putting on his most appropriate "I had no idea" face. She'd only bitched about that for the first six weeks of their relationship. "You okay with it now?"

"Considering you're my best man? Sure, sure." He thumps him on the shoulder, all warm and friendly-like. "I figure any friend of Jacq's is a friend of mine, you know? ‘Sides, she really loves you. A helluva a lot, in fact. That's why I was so damn jealous."

This isn't news to him, or shouldn't be, but as far as he's known up to this point, she'd never said it. When she hugs him after the rehearsal, though, a barely-embrace that catches him off guard, the thought comes back into his mind, and lets him smile the next day when he hands off the rings and watches his best friend become Mrs. John Carter.


III.

He recognized the muscled, tattooed hooligan (his mother's favorite word, bless her Irish roots) from the one time he was hovering around outside the lab, and now he sees the asshole again. Except now, instead of hovering, the asshole pressing the short, chubby, curly-haired print tech from days up against a car and growling something at her, and she's struggling.

Even though he figures it's a lover's quarrel, it doesn't stop him from striding up to the car and tapping the Asshooligan on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but I don't think that's a real nice way to treat a lady."

The Asshooligan glances back at him and scowls. "Go away, country boy," he growls.

"Oh, see, now you're gettin' personal. I was just tryin' to help you with some manners. Maybe I should instead say, ‘leave the lady alone and get goin'.'" He reaches forward, grips the Asshooligan's upper arm. He wrestled in high school and parts of college, and still knows where every body part goes. He can make that fake fairly clear in one firm grasp, too. "Or, you know, we can try to have a talk if ya want. Don't think you want that, though."

The other man almost seems to consider it, but even though he's taller and broader than his parking-lot opponent, it's not by much. He grunts and steps away from the frustrated-looking woman, then spits a loogie the size of most small towns onto the sidewalk. "Fuck you, man."

Once he's out of earshot, the woman tosses her curly hair. "Sorry about that," she says quickly. "He's an asshole. I have no idea why I dated him. Desperate times call for desperate measures, or something like that." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboros. "Want one?"

He snorts. "Those things might kill ya."

"What doesn't kill me makes me stronger," she kids, and sticks out her hand. "Jacqui Franco, day shift."

"Bobby Dawson," he introduces, and squeezes her fingers in his. "Nights."


IV.

"Why am I here? I hate malls. You know I hate malls, Dawson. This'd better be good."

David keeps bitching even as he smiles serenely and leads him through the sea of bored, milling shoppers. He's a man with a mission and skips over bookstores, clothing stores, electronic stores, the seasonal store that is now trying to convince the denizens of Las Vegas that, really, the Christmas season starts in October, and brings David right to the goal:

"I repeat again, though in a different context: why are we here?" David demands, and not kindly. He glares at the necklaces, the bracelets, and the watches, making a show of his disdain. The woman behind the counter regards them carefully - especially since David is still complaining - and he flashes her his kindest smile. "Gold isn't your color, you know."

"Cut it out, Dave, and c'mon over here." David heaves and overwrought, overdramatic sigh and shuffles his feet over to the case he's stopped in front of - a case of at least fifty rings. They're various sizes, shapes, and prices, and every rock is a little different. It's a daunting display to look at, the Wal-Mart of quality diamonds. "I need a hand, ‘cause - "

"You're shitting me. You are shitting me, Dawson." The jeweler behind the counter is now frowning at both of them, especially since David is being loud, indignant, and openly confused. "You are not - you can't. You - seriously?"

He grins. "Lookit that. I'm the first person to ever render the great Dave Hodges speechless." David recovers enough to glare, but his grin doesn't go away. "Now cut it out, and help me pick out a ring."

David harrumphs. "When Franco cuts off the frank and beans because you stepped out of line, don't you dare come whining to me."

"Parish the thought," he replies, and catches David smiling ever-so-slightly at him.


V.

Hers is like all the others, a gray-white stone in a row of gray-white stones, and he arrives with a bouquet of flowers just as the sun is pressing up over the horizon. The first time he showed up so early, on his last break, the caretaker had been concerned, almost challenging. But they've gotten used to one another, never mind the constant flow of other coworkers in and out of the black, iron gates, and can even sometimes share a smile as he pulls up in the rose-tinted pre-dawn light.

Thursdays are his days, like Fridays are David's and Tuesdays are Wendy's, his day to come and add flowers to the site. The story's always the same - drunk driver, slow reflexes after a long day, a squeal of tires before there was nothing but twisted metal and silence - but he still replays it in his head as he stands in front of her stone. It'd been ten minutes after shift. She'd had a date with her new boyfriend, an accountant from Henderson. That was the only reason she'd left the parking lot before him. She'd been in a hurry for the first time in her life - and two blocks later, she'd been announced dead at the scene.

The flowers Catherine brought on Wednesday are wilting, and he replaces them carefully. There's still enough water, but by time Saturday (Ronnie) rolls around, it'll need replacing. He makes sure everything's as it should be - flowers, clean stone, neatly-trimmed grass - and then sticks his hands in his pockets. It's hard not to feel useless, to be useless, standing here like this.

"Nothin' much new to tell you, girl," he sighs into the emptiness of a dawn over gravestones. "Just the usual: I miss ya."

It's been six months, though, and this week's silence is just as cold and heartless as the week before.