Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own "Ugly Betty" or any of the characters and/or brand names mentioned in this story. If I did, Betty and Daniel would be married with kids by now. Oh, and I slide in snippets of lines from the show every now and then for nostalgia purposes. Nothing major.

A/N: First and foremost, I want to thank all my wonderful reviewers, a few of which requested a sequel to "The Fetal Position." I seriously ADORE all you guys. That being said, I recommend that everybody read that fic first because otherwise the plot might not make much sense…that, and I'm trying to pimp my fic ;) Anyways, hope you enjoy. Here goes nothing…

Betty lay with her head on Daniel's shoulder, one of his legs thrown over both of hers. She, Daniel, and Jose Cuervo made for a quite satisfying threesome, she'd discovered. Well, a threesome plus one if you counted the ice cream cake. No, there was nothing kinky going on. And to her lack of surprise, Ignacio didn't think so either; when she'd called to let her family know where she was, Ignacio had just expressed his regrets over the loss of Henry in his gentle, quiet way and asked her to say "hi" to Daniel.

It had long since stopped surprising her that her father actually liked Daniel—loved him, in fact; her father was always kind to everyone, of course, but when it came to his baby girls, he was as protective as an old mother grizzly. For a while, he was amusedly resigned to Walter, tolerated Henry politely (if a bit stiffly), outright despised Santos, and made no secret of the fact—Santos was a full-on outlaw, Hilda's man, not hers, as she'd told her father over and over. That still didn't keep Ignacio from welding an extra padlock or two on Betty's chastity belt when Hilda came home from the prom preggers. And yet there was Daniel, who by Justin's own fond, wry observation reminded him of his dead father. Betty knew Ignacio didn't exactly Tivo Fashion TV and therefore wouldn't have heard all the down and dirty on her best friend and boss, but anyone could determine at least two things within two seconds of meeting Daniel Meade: 1) he was a shameless horn dog and 2) he had a fabulous heart—the biggest and best on the planet, in fact. And her father had seen him for the first time in person—hung-over and barfing and unshaven—and had embraced him as a son. And Daniel had eagerly reciprocated, having been love-starved from the absence of his mother, the formal rigidness of his father, and the cool aloofness of his brother-turned-sister, Alexis. Yeah, her sweet guy had some issues.

Betty knew full well that she was in a position that most women would commit outright murder to be in—she was in bed with Daniel Meade. It registered vaguely in her brain that he was mind-blowingly hot and he smelled divine, but they were too close, too good of friends for it to dissolve into outright horniness. For now, all she could think was "Ooh… comfy pillow."

She must've said it out loud, because Daniel snorted with laughter—she swore she was a constant source of amusement to that man—and said, "Yeah, all these months of busting my ass at the gym, working this rock-hard bod, all in hopes of hearing that I'm 'comfy.'"

Betty lifted her head to kiss him on the cheek. This chore completed, she resumed her previous position—one eye was squished closed against his shoulder and the other was drowsily open, aimed at the television, watching Russell Crowe rip the thousandth guy that hour a new one. Daniel sort of wished he could do the same to Henry. In all fairness, he knew Henry had been your token "nice guy," albeit not the white knight in shining tweed Betty had initially fallen for. But Daniel was in one of those tigerish protective moods, one that caused him to go straight for the jugular, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200, fairness be damned. This mood always fell upon him when it came to his Betty and boys. All big, oversexed, horny beasts with man-parts, the lot of them (he knew, because he himself was one such fine specimen) and trying to impress this concept on Betty had caused no end of squabbles between them. It usually went something like this:

Betty: I have no idea what you're so tweaked about. It's a business dinner, for crap's sake. I was wooing the client, turning the charm on…you know.

Daniel: He's been talking directly at two of your charms all night long.

Betty: He has not! And like you haven't been face-down in his wife's cleavage.

Daniel: Several times, in fact, but that's not the point…

Betty: Answer me this, Daniel, and then we have to leave this restroom and go back out there and land this account, cleavage-ogling included, I guess…why is it that you insist on treating me like this little, innocent…THING…it's like you think I'm some sort of Vestal Virgin, or something! Well, let me tell you, my virginity got lost somewhere in the back of Walter's truck a LONG time ago…I told him to let me know if he ever found it, but I guess he didn't, so…"

Daniel: No need to get snippy, I'm just looking out for you. Most guys are big bags o' douche, anyways. Trust me, I know about these things.

Betty: I have no doubt that you do. At any rate, I can take care of myself. Now, I'm going back to our table…God only knows what they think we've been doing in here. You can join me when you've managed to pull you head out of your ass. That's right, I said 'ass.'

Daniel: I heard you.

And around and around they went, especially about a specific boy in particular. Truth be told, Daniel was more sorry than grateful that the little dork was finally out of everyone's (and he included himself in 'everyone's') hair, and it wasn't just because Betty was in a universe of pain. For a while now, Betty and Daniel had both been preparing for Henry's absence in their own unique ways. While Betty was valiantly trying to steel her own heart against the upcoming blow, Daniel was steeling himself for the possibility of Betty dating someone new.

At least Daniel had known where he stood with the standard, vanilla Henry, and Henry had sure as hell known where he stood with Daniel-- that is, at least after Daniel had effectively scared the piss out of him with tales of Bradford's most accomplished hit men, now at Daniel's disposal for the day when Henry hurt Betty in any way, shape or form—"Ok, Henry, look. If anything happens to her, and I mean anything at all, it will be your fault. Canceled date? Your fault. PMS? Your fault. Paper cut? Your. Fault."

Daniel had also been comforted in the relative sureness that Henry was about as sexually aggressive and/or adventurous as Barney the Dinosaur. But what if Betty met some kind of kinky closet S and M freak? Disturbed, Daniel looked down at Betty, her sweet cherub's face lit by the flickering TV's glow, the light catching the gloss on her full pout.

"Hey, Betty?"

"Hmm?"

"I know this is kind of early to ask, but…do you, you know, have an interest in anyone in particular?"

"What, you mean for dating?"

"No, for lawn croquet. Yes, I mean for dating."

"Not even going there yet," she murmured, shifting to a more comfortable position. But he could tell she was thinking now. Pensive!Betty was in the house. She laughed a little. "Well, there is this guy…he's kind of an entrepreneur, owns his own sandwich shop. Drives me absolutely up the wall. His name's Gio."

"Gio? The hell? Wasn't that the ass-clown I fired for being a dick to you?"

"The very same," she said wryly, with a smack to his stomach. It's like hitting concrete, why do I even bother?

"Betty, I've met this guy…he does make a killer hero…but that's not the point here! He's smarmy, he's rude, he's crass, he's…"

"You, when we first met?" Betty said innocently.

"Nothing like," Daniel protested, genuinely appalled. At least he had been more low-key about being a smarmy twit and hadn't gone around advertising.

"People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Or walk around naked," she declared, mock-self-righteously, in her way that was both adorable and annoying. "And say what you will about Gio, at least he never made me wear red spandex hot pants."

"You never know…that might be his particular fetish. And you just love rubbing salt in old wounds, don't you? Old…misdeeds…of mine."

He looked so sad all of a sudden. It wasn't even his mock-sad look, which came with big soulful baby-blue-eyes-chock-full-of-tragic-yet-endearing-flaws-and-Daddy-issues. Betty had to make it better, had to see him smile again. So she tried a maneuver she had often used on a squalling baby Justin. She tickled him.

"Okay, that was a cheap shot," he gasped.

"Works every time," she said with satisfaction.

"Just…do me one favor, okay?" he said.

"Name it."

"When…IF…you ever decide to date this Gio guy…or anyone else, give me a heads up, alright? Just so I can keep an eye out."

High-handed and slightly chauvinistic? Check. Flattering and comforting? Double-check. She smoothed a forelock of his hair, usually so fastidiously messy with gel, and savored the feeling of it sifting through her fingers for a moment. She looked up into those electric blue eyes, like bottled lighting and twice as volatile. He was staring at her in a way that he only had once before, at least as far as she knew, bringing the memory of a night on a bridge on the "wrong" side of the tracks, but so much more beautiful for it, washing back.

Realizing what they were doing, not really surprised at the non-awkwardness of a moment that should've been rife with it between any other two best friends on the planet, Daniel sat back Indian-style on the bed; his trademark mischievous smirk was now in place, and he began to talk in a high, horrendous, valley-girl-on-speed voice--

"So, now that we've talked about boys, I was thinking we could braid each other's hair, and paint each other's toenails, and watch "Steel Magnolias," and have a pillow fight…"

There's Classic!Daniel for you, Betty thought, with an eye-roll and an answering smirk. Deflecting intimacy with sarcasm. God, I sound like that company therapist Daniel always makes fun of. But no worries. Someday I'll get you, my pretty.

With that, she hit him with a pillow.

Soooo…love it or hate it, I adore feedback of any and all kinds. Pleeease?