Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Chapter Eleven
"You seem distracted," Robin says over coffee.
"Hm?"
She nudges Jim's foot under the table. "What is it?"
He sighs, sets his napkin on the table. He's wearing his good suit, his classy tie, he de-scuffed his shoes as well as he could, and he feels like a fraud. "It's... I had an awkward conversation with Gil yesterday. This morning. Whatever."
"Oh?" She tilts her head to one side, settles her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her hands. "I thought you and Gil were close."
"Yeah, well." He shifts. "It's, uh... he's Nick's supervisor, he's worried about the Nigel Crane thing..."
"O-kay..." She narrows her eyes. "You do remember that I'm a lawyer, right?" she asks with a half smile.
"Yesss..."
"So what was awkward about it?"
He sighs. "Just... it's nothing, Robin. It's just a Gil thing."
She gives him a smile that eloquently tells him she's not buying it, but that in the interest of being civil in a restaurant, she's not going to call him on it.
He swallows and reaches for his coffee - Irish Cream, and he's never been so glad of a liquor-laced cup of espresso in his life. He licks the foam off his upper lip and tries to smile becomingly, or what he vaguely remembers as becoming from his younger days.
He can't believe how long it's been since he's been on a date.
"I really like your hair like that," he tells her. "Short, and the curls - it looks good."
She clearly isn't buying that, either, but she smiles back anyway. "Thanks," she says. "Natural curls, totally fake colour."
"It suits you though."
"What, the colour, or the curls?"
"Both." He tries another smile.
After a moment, she laughs at him, but it's a good kind of laugh, and Jim feels himself relax a little. So it's not a stellar date, he thinks and takes another mouthful of coffee; it's not the worst he's ever been on, either.
"Is it really the Crane thing?" she asks after a while.
He sighs. "Partly," he says, because that's easier than the truth. Well, easier than the whole truth anyway. Good thing she's a lawyer, he thinks, and not a judge.
"What?"
"He - Gil, I mean, not Nick - he wants to know everything about the case. He's, uh... he's real protective of his boys. His team. He's real protective of his - of all of them. He's a good supervisor that way."
She's examining him curiously now, and he's heartbroken to see that his coffee is empty. He'd order another one, but the waiter is already off with his credit card. He tries to meet her interrogatory gaze evenly, like he would a suspect, but... it's not the same.
"Okay," she says eventually. "I have the Crane file in my car, you know."
He blinks. "You do?"
"Yes," she says. "I thought you'd probably want to see it sometime, so I ran off another copy of everything that isn't confidential. I've been carrying it around with me."
He's not sure what to say to that. "Um, thanks," he says. "You've been carrying it around-"
She shrugs. "I always try to think a couple steps ahead of the game," she tells him.
He smiles. "You must be a hell of a lawyer," he says with a grudging trace of respect.
"You have no idea," she says, and she's smiling.
He has a moment of near-panic when he's dropping her off, because he doesn't know if he's supposed to get out with her, if he's supposed to walk her to her door and kiss her goodnight, or if - is she supposed to invite him in for coffee? And all that entails? It's only a first date, and it's not that she's not everything he's been looking for, but...
Dammit, it's been years since he's been on a date, since he dropped a girl off after dinner. He doesn't know what the rules are to this game, and whether there's a separate set of rules for the plus-fifty crowd, or.... He feels like an idiot sitting there, paralyzed by doubt. He turns uncertainly towards her and relaxes when he registers the amused warmth with which she's regarding him. Amusement he can deal with. He tries on a little smile.
"Thanks, Jim," she says, smiling at him. "I had a lot of fun."
"Me too," he says.
She lets her head fall to one side a bit, coy's big sister. "Next time, you want to try Japanese?"
He knows he gets a slightly panicked look on his face. "I'm not so good with chopsticks," he says after a moment.
She laughs at him, in the good way again, and leans across the front seat of his car to kiss him. It's a chaste kiss, a quick touch of her lips to his; a promise of something more, maybe, but not tonight. She licks her lips when she sits back again, and that amazing smile is back.
"Let me get that file for you," she says, and opens the passenger door.
Jim is standing in her driveway before he actually makes the decision to follow her out into the night air. "Thanks," he says, "I mean, you know - for the file, for dinner, for the - just thanks."
She laughs at him again while she unlocks her car, and her upper body disappears into the back seat.
Jim tries not to stare at her lower body, but it's a losing battle. It's been a damned long time since someone has done that for him, doubled over at the waist on his behalf; and that must be what she's doing, he thinks, because the files are over on the far side of the seat and if she'd been going for comfort, she'd have tried the other door.
He knows he's wearing a bit of a blush when she straightens up again and turns to face him, but he's beyond caring. She seems a little flushed, too, and she hands him the file.
"Thanks," he says, feeling a little sheepish again.
She leans in enough to brush her lips against his again, and this time he catches her shoulder and keeps her there long enough to actually kiss her back.
Yep, he thinks when they move apart, we're both definitely wearing a little pink now.
"What are you up to on Friday?" she asks.
He shrugs as coolly as he can, and he knows he's failing miserably at impressing her. "Up until work starts," he says, "probably staring at my fish tank."
"I like fish tanks," she says and winks. "Maybe we could have dinner and watch your, uh, fish together?"
He quirks a smile. "Sushi?"
She laughs. "Okay," she says, "we can do Japanese the next time."
"I like Chinese," he offers hopefully.
"What a coincidence," she tells him, "so do I. I'll call you?"
"That sounds great," he says.
She smiles at him again, and pushes a short end of hair behind one ear, then hurries up the walk to her house.
Jim stays where he is, in the middle of her driveway, between his car and hers, until she's inside. She turns on the hall light and pulls the sheer curtain aside just inside the door to wave at him. He waves back, and then climbs back into his car.
He tosses the Crane file into the passenger seat, and thinks, So that's what a date is like. He could get used to this.
He's still enjoying the happy feeling of having someone else's lips on his, so he doesn't see the ambush coming. His feet take him down to the labs to catch up with Warrick about that double from yesterday, only David Phillips tells him that Warrick is back at the Montecito with Nick. He thanks him, and he's practically whistling when he turns a corner and barrels into Al Robbins.
Al, who has look that Jim associates with his proctologist. That look that says, Neither of us is going to enjoy this, but we'll both be better for it.
"What?" he asks with a frown. He can't think of anything he's done to Al - well, not since the last time they got drunk together, and he doesn't see Al holding that little fiasco against him. Certainly not this far down the road.
"Had lunch with Gil last night," Al says, clipping his words.
He's about to ask what that has to do with him, and then it clicks. This is Al, he reminds himself. Al doesn't believe in personal boundaries, not between friends.
The lingering memory of Robin's perfume evaporates and Jim thinks he feels a mother of a headache coming on.
"Oh yeah?" he tries valiantly. "How's he doing?"
"Interesting that you should ask," Al says, and Jim wants to kick himself for having asked. It's almost as though he can hear his doc's rubber glove snapping as it's pulled on; next thing he knows it's going to be, Turn around and touch your toes.
"Al," Jim says, "this is not the time or the place-"
"Good," Al says, "because that means I'll have your undivided attention."
He closes his eyes. "Fine," he says through clenched teeth.
"First of all," Al says in his less-than-kindest voice, "you've known Gil long enough to know who he is, what he's capable of. What he's not capable of. Right?" He doesn't give Jim the chance to defend himself before plowing on.
"Secondly, do you think for one instant that either of them would do anything they didn't want to?"
"Should we really be having this conversation in the hall?" Jim asks when Al takes a breath.
"Don't change the subject," Al snaps. "Thirdly - and this is the big one, Jim - so what?"
Jim rolls his eyes. "I'm an old-fashioned guy," he says, "so sue me."
"Oh, grow up, Jim."
He raises his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"What's the worst thing you've seen?" Al asks him.
"What - I haven't been pressing my nose against Gil's windows, Al-"
Al barks a laugh at him. "Aha," he says, "I think we've found the root problem. Is that what bothers you? The - the geometry of it?"
Jim stiffens. "I am not having this conversation," he says.
""What's the worst thing you've ever seen?" Al asks again. "As a cop, as a detective, whatever. What's the worst act of depravity you've witnessed?"
Jim clenches his jaw. "Not something I want to talk about," he says.
"I don't blame you," Al tells him, "but think of it this way. There's a spectrum of good and evil, right? Put the worst thing you've ever seen on one end, and put Nirvana at the other. Now, somewhere in the middle-"
Jim knows where this is going, and he doesn't want to go there. "That's an overly simplistic way to look at things, Al-"
"It's a perfectly fine way to look at it," Al counters, "because it makes sense. I mean, Jesus, Jim - you of all people-"
"Me of all people?" Jim demands. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You deal with the worst that humanity has to offer," Al reminds him, not particularly gently, "and this - this? - is what turns you against your best friend?"
"Al-"
There's a loud cough immediately beside them, and they both turn to see Gil Grissom standing not two feet from them, one eyebrow arched pointedly. "Not interrupting anything, am I, gentlemen?" he asks icily.
Jim winces. He doesn't mean to, but it happens anyway and there's no way he can stop it. "Shit," he mumbles.
Gil looks from Al to Jim and back again. "Can I assume," he says, his voice rich with sarcasm, "that this conversation has reached its natural conclusion? I mean, before it carries through the entire building..."
"I don't know," Al says, locking his eyes evenly with Jim's, "you tell me."
Jim knows Gil is watching him now, too, and he decides then and there that he really hates getting it from both barrels. "I'm going to leave now," Jim tells them.
"That's pretty cowardly," Al says.
He doesn't even have the energy to get upset at that. "Whatever," he says, "I've got work to do." He pushes between them and lets his feet take him away from them.
"Jim-" Al calls after him.
He hears Gil shhhh at him. "Let him go," he hears him say. "Let him come around on his own time. That was mean, Al."
"Yeah, well," Al says, "sometimes you just gotta rip the bandaid off all at once."
He hears Gil chuckle at that, and then he's in the elevator and the door is closed and it's not his problem anymore.
He parks in the back of the Montecito, and then sits with the engine off for a bit. He knows that Warrick and Nick are inside with something hot to tell him, but... He sighs, slumps back against the headrest and watches a young couple make out against the hood of an SUV.
How is that Gil is so sure that he's going to come around? That one day he's going to wake up and not be freaked out by this? Not get that sick feeling when he thinks of what they get up to-
He gets a horrible image then, rising unbidden in his mind, of some acrobatically improbable three-man manoeuvre with Gil in the middle, and he has to rub his eyes at that. He does not want that idea in his head, not while he's at work, not when he has to face Nick's earnest grin for the next couple of hours.
Not, in fact, when he's at home, either. Not while he's trying to get to sleep, not while he's taking Robin out for dinner again, not while he still has breath in his body.
He just - he doesn't need, he doesn't want to know about that.
He sits in the car for a while longer, waiting for his blood pressure to drop back to normal. He can't walk in there looking like he's going to have a heart attack, because Nick will make him sit down, take his vitals and stay with him while Warrick calls a bus - god. He doesn't need that, either. Doesn't really need Nick around him at all.
But that's the problem, isn't it? Because he can't get away from them, from any of them, not without leaving Las Vegas and there's no way he's going to do that. This is where his home has been for a long time now, and he's feeling too old and too tired to pack up and start again.
Besides, that really would be cowardly, wouldn't it?
Anyway: Robin lives in Vegas, and no way he's walking away from that. Sure, he'll probably fuck it up somewhere down the line, but until he does, he's going to try optimism.
Since it seems to work so well for Gil and Al.
Maybe it's against his better judgement, but he finds himself sitting in his car across from Gil's townhouse a couple hours after sunrise. He's got the Crane file lying next to him, he's got the nagging memory of Al's lecture in his mind, and he's got a burning desire to tell someone about Robin.
It used to be Gil that he would go to when he had something to talk about, when something excited him for no good reason and he wanted to share it. That's what Gil used to do, too - they would share a drink in Jim's office when they were both off the clock and just -talk. About anything. Gil would trip over his own words when he'd learn something neat about some bug in South America that no one's ever heard of. Jim would let his frustrations about Ellie and Marie find a voice. Gil would have one more ridiculous story about a rollercoaster that was exactly like all his other stories about rollercoasters, but he'd be smiling like a six-year-old when he told it, and Jim had liked to see that.
Then had come the Nick Period, as Jim liked to think of it, when he knew Gil was seeing someone, but he hadn't mentioned it. It had taken him all of a month and a half to put it together, and another three and a half months to screw up the courage to let Gil know that he knew and that it was okay... ha. He remembers that after-work drink because it was one of the few times he'd seen Gil get drunk - well and truly shellacked - without Al being around.
Al, he thinks. Right.
He sighs, hauls himself out of his car, and walks up the path to Gil's door. He counted the cars when he first showed up, so he knows that everyone is home. And maybe this would be easier if they weren't all there - if maybe Nick and Greg were somewhere else so he could at least salvage some of his dignity - but he's not going to wait. Not going to wait because they deserve the background on Crane's insane legal game, and Gil-
Gil deserves some kind of apology.
He leans on the doorbell for a couple of seconds then takes a step back, moves the folder from under one arm to under the other. God, he thinks as the seconds stretch by without an answering patter of feet on the other side of the door, what if they're - what if they're busy, he thinks. What if he's interrupting something and Gil's going to show up at the door half-naked and reeking of sex-
The door opens.
Jim and Greg eye each other carefully.
Greg is fully clothed but for his bare feet, and the state of his hair would be telling if it were anyone other than Greg.
Jim tries a smile on for size. "Hey," he says, shifting from foot to foot. "This a bad time?"
"No," Greg says guardedly. "You, uh, you want to come in?"
They eye each other again and Greg takes a step back, leaving the doorway wide and unobstructed. Jim steps in and they keep a respectable distance between them.
Wow, Jim thinks, when did Greg learn to give the hairy eyeball so well?
There's a synthetic drone of music coming from the living room, and then he hears Nick holler, "Greg man, if you don't get your ass back in here in fifteen seconds, you forfeit the game."
Greg rolls his eyes at Jim, and calls out, "Fine, I forfeit."
"You what?" The music stops, and about three seconds later Nick appears in the archway into the living room. His mouth opens in silence for a moment before he realises it and pulls it closed again, and leans against the wall with his arms crossed on his chest.
Jim tries his smile out on him, too. "Is, uh, is Gil around?" he asks.
"He's upstairs," Nick says. "I'll get him."
"No no," Greg says suddenly, and launches himself at the stairs, "I'll go."
Jim watches him thunder up out of sight, and feels a pang of regret that he's not that young anymore. Then he turns his attention back to Nick, whose jaw is so tightly clenched it's a wonder he hasn't burst a molar.
He holds out the folder. "This is for you," he says.
Nick narrows his eyes but takes the file from his outstretched hand. "What is it?" he asks.
"The Crane case file," Jim says, "at least, as much of it as Robin could give me, legally." He shrugs. "I don't really know what's in it, but I thought you'd want to see it-"
"Yeah," Nick says, and his voice is suddenly a lot more raw than it was a few seconds ago. He swallows. "Thanks. Uh, you want a drink or something?"
"Sure," Jim says, and follows him into the living room.
Nick pushes the PlayStation under the coffee table with his foot as he passes it, and Jim takes a look around the room. He hasn't had much occasion to be in here lately, and the last time he had - heh. He's not going to think about that right now.
There are small touches, here and there, that he knows he should have picked up on immediately. Things that are definitely un-Gil Grissom: there's a trophy of some kind on a bookshelf between a row of paperbacks and a display case of moths. There are two squash rackets leaning against the wall behind an easy chair. There's a guitar on the couch.
He stops next to the couch - because where else is he going to sit? - and picks the guitar up by its neck. "Who plays?" he asks, because he knows he should be making some kind of polite conversation.
Nick turns towards him from the liquor cabinet with a bottle of something amber in one hand. "Huh?" he asks, and looks at the instrument. "Oh. Greg. Well, he tries to play anyway - he swears he's getting better."
"I am getting better," Greg says behind Jim, and he whirls around to see Greg leaning against one support of the archway, and Gil leaning against the other.
Gil is smiling warily. "Didn't hear you come in, Jim," he says by way of hello. "Sorry. Guess I had the music on too loud."
"It's okay," Gil says. "I, uh - just got here."
"I see."
Jim hears someone moving behind him and he turns to see Nick standing next to him, holding a glass out to him. Jesus. When did Nick get so stealth? "Thanks," he says, looking around for a place to put the guitar and hoping to hell that whatever it is in that glass, it's strong.
Nick takes the guitar. "No problem," he says, laying it on the coffee table and dropping into the easy chair across from the couch.
"What brings you around?" Gil asks, and Jim is ready to get defensive but he recognises Gil trying to be sociable in an awkward situation and failing.
"Brought that file over for Nick," Jim says, lowering himself into the couch and trying to look comfortable. "Thought I'd, you know, shoot the breeze for a bit."
Gil smiles at him, a real smile this time, and comes into the room. He takes the other end of the sofa, and Jim watches Greg scurry to the liquor cabinet. Nick has the file open on his knees, flipping listlessly through what Jim can only assume are really boring legal briefs.
Jim looks around again, and decides this is not as bad as he thought it was going to be. "I, uh... hell Gil, I'm - I'm old-fashioned, you know?"
There's nothing but kindness in Gil's eyes. "I know," he says, and he says it in such a way that Jim knows he doesn't need to finish the rest of it. "I understand. And I'm - sorry that I shocked you."
"Shocked me?" Jim asks, trying for brazen and probably missing the mark by a wide margin. "I don't shock all that easily, you know. Been around the block a couple times."
More kindness in Gil's eyes, and a thin wedge of amusement, too. "I'll have to try harder next time," he says gently. "How are you, Jim?"
"I'm good," he says, and this is familiar ground even though Nick and Greg are listening in, because this is how they always start out when they sit down to have a drink and catch up. He licks his lips. "I, uh, I had a date the other night."
Gil's eyebrows raise slightly. "Oh yeah?" he says. "Anyone I know?"
Jim nods at the file that Nick is halfway through already. "Robin," he says, "actually."
"Ah," Gil says with a knowing smile, "the venerable Ms Childs."
"Yeah," Jim says, looks down at his drink.
"How'd that go?"
"I took her out for dinner," he says. "It was nice. Civilised, you know? Like there's more to life than the latest dead body."
"That's a good sentiment to keep in mind," Gil says. "I'm glad that you had fun. You going to take her out again?"
"Yeah," Jim says, "Friday. Dinner again. I really don't want to fuck this up."
"You won't," Gil says with calm certainty. "I know you, Jim. I doubt you could seriously fuck it up if you tried."
"Nice of you to say so," Jim says, "but I don't know. It's just... it's been so long since I've done this, you know? I'm making it up as I go along. I can't remember the rules."
"There are no rules," Gil tells him. "Do whatever feels right. I'm sure she'll let you know if she hates it."
"But-" Jim shifts in his seat, brings one foot up to cross over his knee, balances his glass against his thigh. "I honestly mean I can't remember it, Gil. I mean, other than dinner and sex, what is there?"
Gil is giving him an incredulous look.
He rolls his eyes. "Let me rephrase that," he says with good-natured grump. "What do we do to fill the time between dinner and sex? What do you on a date?"
"Go to a movie," Gil suggests, "take in a show - go to a museum. Or an art gallery - what's that exhibition downtown, Nick?"
It's a sudden intrusion on Jim's thought processes to be reminded that it's not just Jim and Gil talking here. That they're not alone.
"The photography one?" Nick asks, letting the file fall shut. "Or the sculptures?"
"The photography," Gil says.
"That's pretty racy stuff, Gil," Nick says solemnly in a mock-serious voice.
Gil laughs. "I'm willing to bet," he says, "that neither Jim nor Robin will be shocked by the female form."
"You could always go dancing," Greg says, still playing the wallflower next to the liquor cabinet with a glass in one hand and a brave face.
Nick laughs. "Yeah, right," he says, "I can just see Jim shaking it up at one of those leather clubs you like-"
"I didn't say 'clubbing'," Greg counters, "I said 'dancing'. There are nice places you can go in Vegas. A little waltzing, a little samba, maybe a tango or two..."
Jim thinks about it for a second, then realises that he's contemplating taking dating advice from Greg Sanders. Greg who buys tee-shirts because of their slogans. Greg who chooses his music by the parental advisory stickers on the cd cases. Greg who-
Hang on, he thinks. Greg who's dating Gil, so he can't be all punk.
"Dancing, huh?" he asks.
"Yeah," Greg says. "I've got a friend who teaches ballroom dancing, I can ask her where's a good place to go. If anyone'll know, she will."
Nick is looking at Greg strangely. "You know how to dance?" he asks.
"Yeah," Greg says with a shrug. "Laurie taught me. It's not hard."
"You," Nick reiterates, "dance? As in, not flailing your arms around and jumping up and down. You actually - dance?"
Greg sticks his tongue out at Nick. "See if I ever dance with you," he snipes, and drains his glass.
"You could always bring her over here," Gil says.
Jim turns to him and blinks. "Say what?"
"I meant," Gil says, "we could have another dinner. Like we did for Al's birthday, like we did for Greg's: Catherine, Al, you, me, Nick and Greg, and Robin."
"That was fun," Greg says from across the room.
"You were shit-faced," Nick reminds him.
"It was my birthday," Greg points out, "and a certain coroner who shall remain nameless kept pushing drinks into my hands. I think I had fun, anyway."
"You did," Gil assures him with a smile, and turns back to Jim. "So? What do you say?"
"What," Jim asks, "this Friday?"
Gil shrugs. "Why not? Late enough that Robin is done for the night, early enough that we haven't started yet. And we won't have to worry about Al breaking into opera again, because he'll have to be sober enough to work at midnight." He grins. "It'll be fun," he says.
Jim looks at Gil, and then at Greg and at Nick, and he thinks, Yeah, that would be kind of fun. "I'll ask her," he says carefully.
Greg does an excited little half-dance. "Sweet," he says with a wicked grin.
Gil frowns at him. "You all right, Greg?" he asks.
Greg softens his grin a bit. "I just like dinner parties," he says. "So sue me."
"You're a strange guy," Nick observes.
Greg sighs. "I grew up with dinner parties, okay?" he says. "My parents were crazy about them, so every other weekend we had a dozen people over and it was fun."
"They let you sit at the grown-up table?" Nick asks.
"When I turned fourteen," Greg tells him, "yes. And when I turned sixteen, I got to invite a couple of my friends, too."
"That must have made you super-cool at school, dude," Nick says with a poorly-suppressed snigger.
"Cool is for losers," Greg says with long-suffering disdain. "Geek is chic."
Nick actually laughs, and so does Gil, and Jim finds himself half-chuckling, too. He finishes his drink and stands up.
"I should get going," he says.
Gil rises with him. "I'll walk you out to your car."
"Drive safe," Greg says, at the same time that Nick says, "Later."
He smiles at them. "Night."
It's vaguely reminiscent of the last time they stood next to Jim's car at the bottom of the driveway, but Jim pushes the thought from his mind. "Are we going to be okay?" he asks, leaning against the frame of his open door.
Gil smiles at him again, that smile that makes Jim believe that the world is maybe a better place than he knows it is. "Of course," he says.
"Good," Jim says. "I know it was only a couple days, but... I missed this."
"So did I," Gil says. "I'm sorry - It's been too long since we've really sat down together, Jim. That's mostly my fault, and I apologise. I got - caught up in things here. It won't happen again."
"Yeah," Jim says, "about that..."
Gil watches him calmly, hands in his pockets and that endlessly patient look on his face.
Jim clears his throat. "Look, I'm still an old-fashioned guy. I can - deal with this thing in the abstract, you know? I just - I don't want to have to deal with it in the real, okay?"
Gil smiles at him. "We're not particularly big on public displays of affection, Jim," he promises, "and I can guarantee you that neither Greg nor Nick has any desire to be caught in a compromising situation by you."
"Good," Jim says firmly. "I mean, I'm happy for you - I guess - but just... I don't want to see it. You know?"
"I know," Gil says, "and I understand."
"Okay, then," Jim says.
Gil nods, then hesitates.
"What?" Jim asks.
"I, uh - I can't promise that Al's going to be particularly discreet in your company," he says carefully.
Jim rolls his eyes. "I can deal with Al," he says, because he can. He and Al go way back, and although Al may spend a lot of his spare time trying to rattle Jim's nerves, Jim has a few tricks up his sleeve, too.
"Good," Gil says. "See you tonight?"
"You know it," Jim says, and slides in behind the wheel.
Gil leans into the passenger window, and Jim powers it down as soon as the key is in the ignition. "I'm really happy for you, Jim," he says, "for you and Robin, both. I think you'll be good for each other."
"We'll see," Jim says, "if she's still talking to me after dinner on Friday."
Gil laughs again. "Drive carefully," he says, and steps back from the door.
Jim waves goodbye to him, and pulls out into traffic. He's not really worried about dinner at Gil's on Friday, because they're a good group, the four of them - well, the six of them now, he thinks, and then, No, seven. Robin gets to be counted now, too.
And that's not a bad feeling to have when he's headed home to bed.