Title: Does, Doesn't
Author: amazonqueenkate
Claim: Jacqui Franco
Fandom: CSI
Theme: (Set 2; #30, cross the line)
Rating: R
Summary: Jacqui Franco doesn't do relationships. Ever.
Author's Notes: Inspired by the happenings at csi_labs. It does mess with unaired canon a bit. Depends on how seriously you take unaired canon.

Jacqui Franco doesn't do relationships. Anyone who knows her will tell you that. Jacqui Franco doesn't do relationships because Jacqui Franco isn't good at picking the relationship-oriented man. She meets men in shady bars or shadier pool halls, where the scent of leather and cigarettes mingles with body odor. Where a normal woman would have a few dates, some long conversations, and then a few long months of discovering passion and compatibility, Jacqui Franco tends to have a marathon night of ill-advised sex, two or three awkward non-dates leading to more ill-advised sex, and then a few long months of being treated like shit, walked all over, and verbally abused between the bouts of ill-advised sex. She's never really had that slow build up to love that most people termed a "relationship."

Until, of all people, Bobby Dawson.

The man she always assumed was just plain gay is actually bisexual, and explains this to her over breakfast one day after shift. "Just ‘cause I was with a guy when I came to Vegas and stayed with him for a couple of years, everybody started thinkin' I only liked guys." He shrugs and squirts ketchup over his hash browns. "I mean, I like guys an' all, but just ‘cause I was with one doesn't mean I'll never be with a woman. Y'know?"

He looks at her. Really looks at her across the table, with those brown eyes and that sweet puppy-dog expression, and Jacqui swallows. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," he replies, and smiles. "That is. And I got just the gal in mind, actually."

The gal he has in mind rolls her eyes, but she doesn't say no. What's the point? It's not going to be a relationship, anyway, because Jacqui Franco doesn't do relationships. She doesn't do movies and then dinner, coffee shop talks and laughter, couch cuddles and rented movies. She isn't a relationship kind of woman, but Bobby is one of her best friends and she figures, okay, if he wants to take her out to a movie and hold her hand while they watch it, she'll let him. There's no real attraction, not when she ignores the butterflies in her stomach or the build-up of hope she gets when he kisses her goodbye, contact too long to count as a peck but too short to count as a kiss on the corner of her mouth. There has been no ill-advised sex, no awkwardness, and definitely no fighting, abuse or making her feel like shit. It almost feels…natural. Like this is supposed to happen.

But that's ridiculous, because it's not a relationship.

This is why she doesn't read into it the one night he invites her up to his apartment, the one night when the corner-mouth goodnight kiss lingers and ends up crawling over onto the rest of her mouth: because it's not a relationship. It's her and it's Bobby, stumbling into his bedroom, ending up on his mattress. It's his weight pressing against her, sure, but there aren't feelings to go with it.

It's not her stomach fluttering when he gently removes her blouse and tosses it to the floor. It certainly isn't her head swimming when he peppers her neck with soft kisses and explores every inch of her, as though he's losing his sight and must remember her solely by touch. And when everything is said and done, whispers of affection ... "damn, you're gorgeous, Jacq" ... and lust ... "oh, fuck that's good" ... it is absolutely, without a doubt anything but warmth and comfort that she feels, wrapped up in his arms.

It doesn't make sense, this mess, and she knows it. She knows it when they exchange warm smiles in the hallway, or when Bobby shows up in her lab to arrange time out together or to steal some of her coffee. She never rubs away the line his lip leaves on her mug, though, never pushes him away when he touches her back while speaking, never stops him from pressing his nose to her hair before he walks away. Even when other people look at them funny, she doesn't say anything. In fact, she glares at them. It's not of their damn business if Bobby Dawson wants to rub her back, kiss her hair, or have wild sex with her in his bedroom. Or if he wants to have causal, slow, comfortable sex, the kind of sex where they laugh and nip and play. It's her damn business, because it's her damn relationship with her damn Bobby.

Or it would be, if it was a relationship. But Jacqui Franco doesn't do relationships. She doesn't act like normal people do when it comes to finding men, and she certainly does not have a boyfriend.

At least, she doesn't think so. Until, of all things, Bobby walks up behind her as she's enjoying a beer at David's barbeque and slides his arms around her waist. He holds her in place and rests his chin atop her head, because she is short and he is definitely not.

"Enjoyin' yourself, darlin'?"

She smiles. Actually smiles. "Yeah. You?"

"‘Course. Though the hockey puck burgers ain't my favorites." He leans down, presses a kiss near her ear. "I'm gonna go find Greg. He owes me a basketball rematch. You good?"

"Yep." She sips her drink. "I think I might go teach David the Tao of grilling."

Bobby laughs. "Good deal." He uncoils his arms from her waist so he can look at her ... really look at her, like he did that first breakfast together after the hypothetical musing on sexuality that had ended up to be less-than-hypothetical. And then, he smiles. "Love you, y'know."

Of all the things she could and probably should do ... laugh, cry, run screaming ... the only expression she finds is a shy smile. "Love you too."

He beams back ... bright, sun-in-the-dead-of-night beams ... and goes off to find Greg.

Jacqui Franco doesn't do relationships. Anyone who knows her will tell you that.

But apparently, she's not so bad at love.