David Hodges, #2 Lost
Author: scary_sushi
Fandom: CSI:Las Vegas
Rating: G
Challenge #2 Lost
Summary: Jacqui considers David. And his skin.
Word count: 2,491
Author’s Notes: Un-betaed. Constructive criticism always appreciated.
Chapter 1
She has never seen his bare arms. He’s always wearing long-sleeved, collared shirts buttoned almost to the top, even on the hottest day of August. Oh, I know what you’re thinking: who would want to see anything more than David Hodges’ face? His tongue already drives every person in a two mile radius crazy, why anyone would want to see more of him is preposterous, right?
Wrong.
Jacqui Franco wonders about David Hodges’ skin just as much as she wonders about this particular day in July where David’s tongue deserts him for a whole of twenty-four hours. Which is to mean she does think about it quite a lot, having no other distraction when she isn’t on the job (she blames it all on the non-existent boyfriend she’s been waiting for: you’d think the guy would turn up when her life hit rock bottom, thinking about her asexual colleague’s skin while she soaks in her bathtub on Saturday night). Jacqui hates mysteries: this is probably why the female population never truly accepted her as part of their ranks (and why she has no relationship to speak of with her mother). Women love to weave webs of vagueness and deceit. They are never straightforward: everything is always double-entendres or hidden meanings, the likes of which Jacqui has never been good at deciphering. Which is undoubtedly why all of her friends (what she would have called ‘best’ friends had she been twelve, but of course she isn’t twelve anymore and she secretly thinks it’s a bit pathetic her true -read only- friends are also her co-workers), well, all of them are male. It seems she’s inherited more than her father’s looks and temper. Part of his Y-chromosome has certainly wormed its way right down to her core: that alone should be making her able of understanding David Hodges.
Only it doesn’t. While her basic female powers of deduction are always put to good use when Archie doesn’t have a clue why Laura didn’t call, or when Bobby can’t figure out why, for the life of him, Brian is sleeping on the couch after one of their ‘car’ arguments as opposed to their ‘daughter’ arguments, in David’s case... Well, apart from the fact that David always seems to give as good an advice as she does (which is rather unsettling given how he deals with people on a regular basis), David never, ever, contributes to these conversations. He says what he thinks alright and sometimes he might even go on about car trouble or his n-th Blockbuster membership refusal (the Vegas Blockbuster head manager still hasn’t forgiven David for reducing him to a stuttering jumble inside his own office: Jacqui is surprised not to see posters of David’s head plastered in all Blockbuster branches captioning “See this man in here? Then chase him away with a bat!”). David talks about all the stuff that funnily, no one can do anything about, but... It seems he never breaches the subject of problems that can be improved. He never asks for guidance, not even for the smallest, most random things: what color his new curtains should be, what brand of soap he should buy for his washing machine because the one he uses gives him rashes (once Jacqui glimpsed the angry eczema on his fingers, she proceeded to scold him and order him to buy the non-biological tablets; three days later, the rashes were gone). David never asks for anything: is it weren’t for the hours spent recognizing different fingerprints patterns and making positive identifications, Jacqui would not notice half the things she notices about him.
Like the July Day. Or the long sleeves that drive her nuts.
“Who wears long sleeves in summer?” As she runs the prints through AFIS, Jacqui can’t help but mutter under her breath. And of course, Greg just happens to overhear: even though is a CSI now, he still hangs around her most of the time when awaiting lab results: Archie’s screens give him headaches and David, like Wendy, hates his hovering.
“You’re talking about Hodges, aren’t you?” Greg casually observes. Jacqui raises an eyebrow.
“Hodges? You’ve been spending too much time with Grissom, Greg. It’s David, remember?”
Greg has the decency to blush. “Yeah, I know, it’s just... Sorry, Jacqus. It’s about the shirts, isn’t it”. It isn’t even voiced as a question.
“Please don’t tell me you know something I don’t”, she hisses. “How dare you withhold information, Gregory Sanders!”
“Jacqui, calm down! Touchy, touchy...” he nervously chuckles. She’s seething. “I’ve been guessing the why of the shirts for three solid years now and you tell me you know?”
“Wh-wh-what I do know” Greg clears his throat, “What I do know is this: David never changed in the locker rooms. Not once.” “Greg, we’ve never seen even a hint of his forearms,” Jacqui whispers. Greg fidgets “Actually...” Jacqui’s head whips towards Greg, her eyes sending The Glare Of A Thousand Deaths.
“What? Did you just say... Actually?”
But Greg doesn’t seem to wither under her gaze and her interrogation: instead, he’s looking at his hands and his voice is far, far away. “Jacqus, you remember the explosion, I’m sure you do... When I... When I try to remember, it’s chaos. Even the memories still smell like smoke: but there’s this thing... this one thing, this one picture etched into my brain. When I was sitting with the paramedics and they were looking me over... I remember I was watching the other ambulance and David was sitting over there and they had him pull up his sleeves to check the damage...” Greg’s voice gets caught in his throat and he rubs his arms, chasing away the shivers. “He has scars, Jacqus. I was ten feet away at least, and I saw them. They were... They were like a pattern, and they were covering almost all of his forearm and what I could see of his elbow. I remember... In red lights, they looked white. They were a pattern, Jacqus...” Greg’s voice breaks.
She’s shocked. As she gazes through the glass panel across the hall, she sees Hodges, his eyebrow raised, his gaze penetrating. He’s looking at them. Her breath hitches, and her eyes fall to his sleeved arms in August and his gloved hands holding a vial. And she sighs. Because this man, this man who knows most of her secrets, is but shrouded in mystery. He’s cloaked in it: she can guess he has mastered the art of deception, of appearing what he isn’t but should be. I mean, if you ask anyone in the department, they all know who Hodges is, and they all know enough to commiserate when someone has to pick up trace results from the man.
But that’s all they know.
Apart from her and Bobby, she doubts anyone has seen the interior of David’s apartment (and she doesn’t even count: she once had to pick him up and drive them both to the lab back when David didn’t have a car). When Ronnie, Archie, Bobby and her decide they want to go to that deli behind the Strip that serves the best burgers, David is never asked if he wants to go anywhere else. He always complies. Albeit with loud comments about how more time spent with her will get him to grow rounder (she usually smacks him for that), but he goes. There, you have it: she doesn’t even know what his favorite food is. Os, he’s quite vocal about what he doesn’t like (pickles in his hamburger, for example) but as for what he prefers... And she thinks it’s sad that he feels he has to shield himself: because she knows what this is. It’s a protection mechanism in case something goes bad, in case he’s betrayed again in some sort of L.A repeat they can only guess about. And she wishes she could tear those shields down and tell David that it’s okay, and she won’t leave him ever, because he’s too much of a diamond in the rough. A gem with very sharp edges, to be handled with caution but whose value would never permit it to be abandoned. Just look at how he baby-sits Lisa: the first time Bobby had even dared to ask him, it was because no one else had been available. And he wasn’t even going to pop the question! He had said he’d rather call a nanny service than be laughed at by Hodges, who would undoubtedly turn him down spectacularly (and publicly) in a bout of sarcasm. She had looked at Bobby then asked “Do you trust me?”
He had nodded, “What kind of question is this, Jacqus?”
So she had gone and seen David, telling him she was pulling a double shift but had promised to watch Lisa, and “Could you please save me David?” He had raised an eyebrow (as usual) and had politely enquired about the whereabouts of the other gang members before almost turning her down, as Bobby had predicted, when she struck out her card “David, you know why Bobby doesn’t like baby-sitting services? He’s too afraid of what happened to Nick”. And David had frozen on the spot. Because everyone knew what happened to Nick (news, especially gossip, travels fast in the lab) and David had immediately agreed to watch Lisa on his only free night of the week.
Now Lisa didn’t want to be baby-sat by Archie or Wendy (even though she had fun when she was): each time Bobby and Brian had gone out, she asked if ‘Unc’ Daaaave’ was on his way. Bobby just couldn’t figure it out. It took him an early return home (after he broke it off with Brian... That slime had been sleeping around so much even the waiter at the restaurant they’d been to had had a piece of him), well, Bobby was pissed off (to say the least) and about to slam the door in anger when he spied David and his little girl, her arms wrapped around his neck and him rocking her off to sleep while singing softly. Not shower humming, but actual in-tune singing. He had remained there, unmoving, listening: Bobby would have never guessed David had an affinity with music. And he realized that even though he had let David in his home, he still let David’s work demeanor be a barrier to them both being more than passing acquaintances. And frankly, Bobby had just realized there was way more to David Hodges than what initially met the eye. He had entered the room half-an-hour later, when it was obvious Lisa was in a deep slumber. David had looked up, startled, and tensed up faster than you Bobby could have whispered “Hi”. His eyes were guarded but the blond man ignored the obvious signs, sat heavily on the couch, and spilled. Everything. In a low voice, Bobby told David how the evening went, how fucked up he now was, what he had ignored when it had been spelled out for him, right out there for everyone to see. And David had listened. Hadn’t mocked him or offered pointless advice. Had just listened to Bobby get all that weight off his chest, interrupting only to go put the little girl (who had still been in his arms) to bed.
Bobby is the only one who has ever been willingly invited to David’s apartment. And he has seen the cello (and told her about it: she had expected it and hadn’t enquired), but David has never played anything yet, although Bobby hasn’t been afraid to ask (not anymore). Jacqui’s throat stings and she thinks of all of David’s secrets and his ‘Hodges’ mask: how difficult it must be! Although there is but one face behind any mask, sometimes the disguise has been worn for so long what was genuine is forgotten, and you are left with nothing. Nothing of what once you were, and only a few seeds of what you may become. She feels the day Dave will trust them enough to offer any musical piece for all of them lab rats on that cello of his (and he’s going to), that will be the day Hodges dies and David takes over. But he has to trust them enough first. And although it’s been more than three years, he’s still all alone in this ivory tower of his.
David is still frowning at her from across the hall but her sorrow for him and his godforsaken loneliness is obstructing her throat: she determinedly strides past the corridor till she’s in his lab and standing behind him, vial and all. Then she wraps her arms around him. He tenses, taut as a pulled string. But she doesn’t let go and she rests her head against the nape of his neck. After an incredibly long minute where, amazingly, he says nothing, she hears him exhale and relax into her. She smiles and whispers “You know we love you, right?” She can imagine him rolling his eyes, looking dismayed. And puzzled. More puzzled than dismayed, though, which certainly bodes better for her.
He’s still standing there with his vial, and people are starting to stare. Greg is jaw-slacked (has been since she went to give David a hug out of the blue and in front of witnesses and the fact that she hasn’t been blown to smithereens by said hug recipient), then David clears his throat.
“Jacqui, what... What prompted this?”
He’s shaken out of his wits and she can feel it: his body language -and lack of habitual snarl even though she’s invading his space- tell her more than David ever would. He’s also evading her question, and she shakes her head as she disentangles herself from him. “Nothing... Just felt like telling you you’re in here, you know” and she taps her left breast.
He just raises his eyebrow. “Uh huh... You’ve smoked something, haven’t you? Did you raid Sanders’ stash, by any chance? Since he became a CSI, he has to have more contacts now...”
“Hey!” An offended Greg is hollering from across the hall, people have stopped looking (now that willing physical contact with David Hodges has ended) and are scuttling back and forth again, and she still has a job to do. So she moves towards the door and she almost misses David’s murmur of “You know... Me too”.
She turns back and looks at him right in the eyes as she whispers, “You love us... But do you trust us?”
He just smiles sadly. Now she wonders what he possibly could have lost for him to make love and trust not go hand in hand.
The bright side of the whole ordeal is she got to hug him without him being all fussy about it. And she got to feel his forearms through the light sleeves he was wearing.
She felt the scars. And yes, Greg was right: it’s a pattern.
Fandom: CSI:Las Vegas
Rating: G
Challenge #2 Lost
Summary: Jacqui considers David. And his skin.
Word count: 2,491
Author’s Notes: Un-betaed. Constructive criticism always appreciated.
Chapter 1
She has never seen his bare arms. He’s always wearing long-sleeved, collared shirts buttoned almost to the top, even on the hottest day of August. Oh, I know what you’re thinking: who would want to see anything more than David Hodges’ face? His tongue already drives every person in a two mile radius crazy, why anyone would want to see more of him is preposterous, right?
Wrong.
Jacqui Franco wonders about David Hodges’ skin just as much as she wonders about this particular day in July where David’s tongue deserts him for a whole of twenty-four hours. Which is to mean she does think about it quite a lot, having no other distraction when she isn’t on the job (she blames it all on the non-existent boyfriend she’s been waiting for: you’d think the guy would turn up when her life hit rock bottom, thinking about her asexual colleague’s skin while she soaks in her bathtub on Saturday night). Jacqui hates mysteries: this is probably why the female population never truly accepted her as part of their ranks (and why she has no relationship to speak of with her mother). Women love to weave webs of vagueness and deceit. They are never straightforward: everything is always double-entendres or hidden meanings, the likes of which Jacqui has never been good at deciphering. Which is undoubtedly why all of her friends (what she would have called ‘best’ friends had she been twelve, but of course she isn’t twelve anymore and she secretly thinks it’s a bit pathetic her true -read only- friends are also her co-workers), well, all of them are male. It seems she’s inherited more than her father’s looks and temper. Part of his Y-chromosome has certainly wormed its way right down to her core: that alone should be making her able of understanding David Hodges.
Only it doesn’t. While her basic female powers of deduction are always put to good use when Archie doesn’t have a clue why Laura didn’t call, or when Bobby can’t figure out why, for the life of him, Brian is sleeping on the couch after one of their ‘car’ arguments as opposed to their ‘daughter’ arguments, in David’s case... Well, apart from the fact that David always seems to give as good an advice as she does (which is rather unsettling given how he deals with people on a regular basis), David never, ever, contributes to these conversations. He says what he thinks alright and sometimes he might even go on about car trouble or his n-th Blockbuster membership refusal (the Vegas Blockbuster head manager still hasn’t forgiven David for reducing him to a stuttering jumble inside his own office: Jacqui is surprised not to see posters of David’s head plastered in all Blockbuster branches captioning “See this man in here? Then chase him away with a bat!”). David talks about all the stuff that funnily, no one can do anything about, but... It seems he never breaches the subject of problems that can be improved. He never asks for guidance, not even for the smallest, most random things: what color his new curtains should be, what brand of soap he should buy for his washing machine because the one he uses gives him rashes (once Jacqui glimpsed the angry eczema on his fingers, she proceeded to scold him and order him to buy the non-biological tablets; three days later, the rashes were gone). David never asks for anything: is it weren’t for the hours spent recognizing different fingerprints patterns and making positive identifications, Jacqui would not notice half the things she notices about him.
Like the July Day. Or the long sleeves that drive her nuts.
“Who wears long sleeves in summer?” As she runs the prints through AFIS, Jacqui can’t help but mutter under her breath. And of course, Greg just happens to overhear: even though is a CSI now, he still hangs around her most of the time when awaiting lab results: Archie’s screens give him headaches and David, like Wendy, hates his hovering.
“You’re talking about Hodges, aren’t you?” Greg casually observes. Jacqui raises an eyebrow.
“Hodges? You’ve been spending too much time with Grissom, Greg. It’s David, remember?”
Greg has the decency to blush. “Yeah, I know, it’s just... Sorry, Jacqus. It’s about the shirts, isn’t it”. It isn’t even voiced as a question.
“Please don’t tell me you know something I don’t”, she hisses. “How dare you withhold information, Gregory Sanders!”
“Jacqui, calm down! Touchy, touchy...” he nervously chuckles. She’s seething. “I’ve been guessing the why of the shirts for three solid years now and you tell me you know?”
“Wh-wh-what I do know” Greg clears his throat, “What I do know is this: David never changed in the locker rooms. Not once.” “Greg, we’ve never seen even a hint of his forearms,” Jacqui whispers. Greg fidgets “Actually...” Jacqui’s head whips towards Greg, her eyes sending The Glare Of A Thousand Deaths.
“What? Did you just say... Actually?”
But Greg doesn’t seem to wither under her gaze and her interrogation: instead, he’s looking at his hands and his voice is far, far away. “Jacqus, you remember the explosion, I’m sure you do... When I... When I try to remember, it’s chaos. Even the memories still smell like smoke: but there’s this thing... this one thing, this one picture etched into my brain. When I was sitting with the paramedics and they were looking me over... I remember I was watching the other ambulance and David was sitting over there and they had him pull up his sleeves to check the damage...” Greg’s voice gets caught in his throat and he rubs his arms, chasing away the shivers. “He has scars, Jacqus. I was ten feet away at least, and I saw them. They were... They were like a pattern, and they were covering almost all of his forearm and what I could see of his elbow. I remember... In red lights, they looked white. They were a pattern, Jacqus...” Greg’s voice breaks.
She’s shocked. As she gazes through the glass panel across the hall, she sees Hodges, his eyebrow raised, his gaze penetrating. He’s looking at them. Her breath hitches, and her eyes fall to his sleeved arms in August and his gloved hands holding a vial. And she sighs. Because this man, this man who knows most of her secrets, is but shrouded in mystery. He’s cloaked in it: she can guess he has mastered the art of deception, of appearing what he isn’t but should be. I mean, if you ask anyone in the department, they all know who Hodges is, and they all know enough to commiserate when someone has to pick up trace results from the man.
But that’s all they know.
Apart from her and Bobby, she doubts anyone has seen the interior of David’s apartment (and she doesn’t even count: she once had to pick him up and drive them both to the lab back when David didn’t have a car). When Ronnie, Archie, Bobby and her decide they want to go to that deli behind the Strip that serves the best burgers, David is never asked if he wants to go anywhere else. He always complies. Albeit with loud comments about how more time spent with her will get him to grow rounder (she usually smacks him for that), but he goes. There, you have it: she doesn’t even know what his favorite food is. Os, he’s quite vocal about what he doesn’t like (pickles in his hamburger, for example) but as for what he prefers... And she thinks it’s sad that he feels he has to shield himself: because she knows what this is. It’s a protection mechanism in case something goes bad, in case he’s betrayed again in some sort of L.A repeat they can only guess about. And she wishes she could tear those shields down and tell David that it’s okay, and she won’t leave him ever, because he’s too much of a diamond in the rough. A gem with very sharp edges, to be handled with caution but whose value would never permit it to be abandoned. Just look at how he baby-sits Lisa: the first time Bobby had even dared to ask him, it was because no one else had been available. And he wasn’t even going to pop the question! He had said he’d rather call a nanny service than be laughed at by Hodges, who would undoubtedly turn him down spectacularly (and publicly) in a bout of sarcasm. She had looked at Bobby then asked “Do you trust me?”
He had nodded, “What kind of question is this, Jacqus?”
So she had gone and seen David, telling him she was pulling a double shift but had promised to watch Lisa, and “Could you please save me David?” He had raised an eyebrow (as usual) and had politely enquired about the whereabouts of the other gang members before almost turning her down, as Bobby had predicted, when she struck out her card “David, you know why Bobby doesn’t like baby-sitting services? He’s too afraid of what happened to Nick”. And David had frozen on the spot. Because everyone knew what happened to Nick (news, especially gossip, travels fast in the lab) and David had immediately agreed to watch Lisa on his only free night of the week.
Now Lisa didn’t want to be baby-sat by Archie or Wendy (even though she had fun when she was): each time Bobby and Brian had gone out, she asked if ‘Unc’ Daaaave’ was on his way. Bobby just couldn’t figure it out. It took him an early return home (after he broke it off with Brian... That slime had been sleeping around so much even the waiter at the restaurant they’d been to had had a piece of him), well, Bobby was pissed off (to say the least) and about to slam the door in anger when he spied David and his little girl, her arms wrapped around his neck and him rocking her off to sleep while singing softly. Not shower humming, but actual in-tune singing. He had remained there, unmoving, listening: Bobby would have never guessed David had an affinity with music. And he realized that even though he had let David in his home, he still let David’s work demeanor be a barrier to them both being more than passing acquaintances. And frankly, Bobby had just realized there was way more to David Hodges than what initially met the eye. He had entered the room half-an-hour later, when it was obvious Lisa was in a deep slumber. David had looked up, startled, and tensed up faster than you Bobby could have whispered “Hi”. His eyes were guarded but the blond man ignored the obvious signs, sat heavily on the couch, and spilled. Everything. In a low voice, Bobby told David how the evening went, how fucked up he now was, what he had ignored when it had been spelled out for him, right out there for everyone to see. And David had listened. Hadn’t mocked him or offered pointless advice. Had just listened to Bobby get all that weight off his chest, interrupting only to go put the little girl (who had still been in his arms) to bed.
Bobby is the only one who has ever been willingly invited to David’s apartment. And he has seen the cello (and told her about it: she had expected it and hadn’t enquired), but David has never played anything yet, although Bobby hasn’t been afraid to ask (not anymore). Jacqui’s throat stings and she thinks of all of David’s secrets and his ‘Hodges’ mask: how difficult it must be! Although there is but one face behind any mask, sometimes the disguise has been worn for so long what was genuine is forgotten, and you are left with nothing. Nothing of what once you were, and only a few seeds of what you may become. She feels the day Dave will trust them enough to offer any musical piece for all of them lab rats on that cello of his (and he’s going to), that will be the day Hodges dies and David takes over. But he has to trust them enough first. And although it’s been more than three years, he’s still all alone in this ivory tower of his.
David is still frowning at her from across the hall but her sorrow for him and his godforsaken loneliness is obstructing her throat: she determinedly strides past the corridor till she’s in his lab and standing behind him, vial and all. Then she wraps her arms around him. He tenses, taut as a pulled string. But she doesn’t let go and she rests her head against the nape of his neck. After an incredibly long minute where, amazingly, he says nothing, she hears him exhale and relax into her. She smiles and whispers “You know we love you, right?” She can imagine him rolling his eyes, looking dismayed. And puzzled. More puzzled than dismayed, though, which certainly bodes better for her.
He’s still standing there with his vial, and people are starting to stare. Greg is jaw-slacked (has been since she went to give David a hug out of the blue and in front of witnesses and the fact that she hasn’t been blown to smithereens by said hug recipient), then David clears his throat.
“Jacqui, what... What prompted this?”
He’s shaken out of his wits and she can feel it: his body language -and lack of habitual snarl even though she’s invading his space- tell her more than David ever would. He’s also evading her question, and she shakes her head as she disentangles herself from him. “Nothing... Just felt like telling you you’re in here, you know” and she taps her left breast.
He just raises his eyebrow. “Uh huh... You’ve smoked something, haven’t you? Did you raid Sanders’ stash, by any chance? Since he became a CSI, he has to have more contacts now...”
“Hey!” An offended Greg is hollering from across the hall, people have stopped looking (now that willing physical contact with David Hodges has ended) and are scuttling back and forth again, and she still has a job to do. So she moves towards the door and she almost misses David’s murmur of “You know... Me too”.
She turns back and looks at him right in the eyes as she whispers, “You love us... But do you trust us?”
He just smiles sadly. Now she wonders what he possibly could have lost for him to make love and trust not go hand in hand.
The bright side of the whole ordeal is she got to hug him without him being all fussy about it. And she got to feel his forearms through the light sleeves he was wearing.
She felt the scars. And yes, Greg was right: it’s a pattern.