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Date Night

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They had planned on going on a real date at some point. They really had. Someplace kind of nice, maybe a restaurant (because it’s well known that Dana loves to eat), or maybe stroll through a museum holding hands. Something quiet, relaxed, comfortable. They’d planned on making a day of it, planned on saving up a bit for the endeavor.

Instead Dana’s leaning on the client’s side of the bar, her chin propped up on a fist, listening to Jill relay a story she read on the news that morning.

It’s after hours-- Gil’s already went home, early at that (something about having to meet somebody about some odd thing), so it’s just the two of them. Dana’s locked the bar up and was helping Jill with her closing chores, up until she was shooed from the sink for making too many explosion noises with the sponge. Banished to the other side of the counter for accidentally spraying Jill with the retractable nozzle.

“--apparently lost it to his own grandmother.” Jill finishes with a shake of her head; she sets a dish down on the towel they have set out to air dry before dunking her hands back into the soapy water. “I’m still not entirely sure how that could have happened, honestly.”

Dana hums her agreement, eyes focusing in on a stray thread on Jill’s skirt. Distantly, she’s still listening but at the same time, that thread is stealing all of her attention. It’s clinging to the static of Jill’s pantyhose, which hides a pale, shapely thigh, which is warm and soft and touchable. Dana remembers the last time she had her hands on those thighs. It was last night, around the same time, but instead of in their dimly lit Va-11 Hall-A, it was back at Jill’s apartment. Still dimly lit, but much more comfortable. Jill was sprawled out on her bed, fingers tightly wound in the blankets as Dana’s kneaded and caressed the soft skin of her inner thighs, getting closer to where Jill needed her most, coaxing out the prettiest noises--

“What are you doing.”

It wasn’t a question, more like a dry statement; Dana had reached over the edge of the bar to put her fleshier hand on the back of Jill’s thigh, where the thread was. But instead of actually removing the problem, she had taken to just gently rubbing Jill’s leg with her thumb, lost in last night’s adventures. Damn leg. “... You had a thread loose.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, it’s--” Dana yanks the thread off with a quick jerk of her hand, “taken care of.”

“Thanks,” Jill says, and when Dana looks up to her face, a soft smile and a coyly raised eyebrow greets her, “So kind of you.”

Dana has the good grace to feel a bit bashful. “No problem, my pleasure.”

Jill laughs and turns the water back on to rinse the sinkful of glasses. “I’m sure.”

A comfortable silence settles over them as Jill finishes up the dishes, the only sound being the water from the spout and the rumbling of the refrigerators. After setting the last glass down to dry, Jill dries her own hands with a separate towel. She then throws it at Dana. “Ready to go home? You do the rest of your paperwork?”

Dana catches it easily and drops it on the counter in a damp heap. “Of course, it’s been done.” She stands up and stretches obnoxiously, content noises included. Jill just looks on in quiet amusement.

They begin the process of turning everything off: bartending stations, back lights, office lights, all the lights… And eventually they’re outside in the February cold, locking the door, cursing the winds. They briefly argue about who’s apartment they’ll be staying at, before Jill just yanks Dana in the direction of her own, reminding her she has a Fore to feed.

They all but rush home, huddled close-- half of Dana’s face is completely covered by the large scarf she wears, her figure marshmallow-esque with the amount of layers. Jill wears a scarf herself, but her nose peeks out above the fabric, glowing a bright pink. Squinting against the wind, they finally burst through the doors of Jill’s apartment building and run up the stairs (as the damn elevator is still broken). Dana makes it to the top first, bouncing from one foot to the next, babbling about how she’s “so fucking cold, open this damn door before my other arm freezes off.” (“That how you lost your arm, Boss?” “Pshh, I’ll never tell.”)

As soon as they cross the threshold, Dana is dropping her bag and sliding under the kotatsu, feet first. All Jill can see when she sheds all her winter layers is the top of Dana’s head, still shivering despite the kotatsu’s heat.

Rolling her eyes, Jill grabs a couple of beers from her stash, plunks one down in front of Dana’s face, and slides in next to her. Fore “brrps” his greeting, but doesn’t move from his very comfortable spot on the edge of the table. Damn cat.

By the time Dana finally sits up, Jill’s already halfway through her can and a conspiracy video about how Donovan D. Dawson is actually a robot lizard trying to take over all the media outlets (Jill’d believe it). Dana scoots closer, burrowing her head under Jill’s arm so that it rests along her shoulders; she sets her can of beer on the table and opens it one-handed, eyes trained on the video Jill has playing on her tablet. An intrigued look furrows her brows and twists a strained smile, as if she were suppressing laughter. “Shit, I'd believe that.”

“Me, too,” Jill hums, taking another sip of her beer. She shakes it to check how much is left before drinking the rest of it, “If it weren’t for the fact that he’s a complete jackass, I’d agree he has some good points, though.”

“It’s like the dog that barks at everything, but eventually alerts you to the intruder,” Dana agrees, bringing her own can to her lips in a complex way because of the headlock she’s put herself in.

They watch a few more videos of the non-conspiracy kind as Dana finishes off her beer, and even some after, until they’re droopy eyed and yawning. When it gets to the point where Jill’s nodding off, Dana takes it upon herself to put them both to bed.

She reluctantly crawls out from beneath the kotatsu, immediately shivering at the crisp air of the apartment; she bends and sticks her arm beneath the cloth of the table, hooking her arm in the crook of Jill’s bent legs and lifts her effortlessly. Fore opens an eye and yawns before trotting sleepily after Dana as she carries Jill to her room (their room at this point).

Dana takes great care in tucking Jill in, turning off the lights quietly, tiptoeing out of the room to brush her teeth. When she comes back, Fore is loafed up in her spot, eyes closed. She whisper argues with him before just scooting him to the end of the bed, and slides in next to a completely out Jill. “Wish you were awake so you could argue for Fore,” Dana chuckles, and bundles Jill up into her arms. She presses her nose into the top of Jill’s head and inhales deeply, comfortable.

---

The next morning brings a groggy, grumpy Jill clinging bodily to Dana as she tries to get up and make breakfast. “You can’t fucking cook, Dana, just lay here a little longer.”

Dana makes a face at the accusation, but eventually complies; she really can’t cook so why not cuddle for just a little longer? She squeezes Jill against her chest, much to Jill’s grumbling. “How can I say no when you say such sweet things to me?”

“Can it.”

---

They had planned on going on a real date at some point. They really had. Someplace kind of nice, maybe a restaurant (because it’s well known that Dana loves to eat), or maybe stroll through a museum holding hands. Something quiet, relaxed, comfortable. They’d planned on making a day of it, planned on saving up a bit for the endeavor.

… Instead they lay in bed for most of the morning, well into the day, watching movies, getting up only to feed themselves and a loudly complaining Fore. They never let go of each other, always snuggled up, laying deep underneath the blankets. Occasionally, Dana presses kisses to the side of Jill’s face, which Jill responds in kind.

For now, this is enough.