He poked tarantulas with chopsticks.

No, not poked. "Poked" felt distinctively like the completely wrong word choice. He manipulated, prodded, moved,
adjusted, influenced, toyed with -

Oh, who was he kidding? Sitting at the desk in trace evidence, head bowed low and brow furrowed, Bug was busily poking spiders with chopsticks. Every few moments, after moving a leg here or a thorax there, he set down the chopsticks just long enough to scribble down a series of notes on the pad upon his desk. The notes never lasted longer than a few brief seconds before he was at it again, chopsticks poised and spiders quivering in their tank.

Nigel stood in the doorway to trace evidence, his hip against the doorjamb and his lips pursed into a small, amused, and admittedly cocky smile. The news of Bug's two new toys - bird-eating spiders, from the sounds of it - had run in circles around the office for most the morning, accompanied by the prerequisite amount of squealing from the women-folk and eye rolls from those who knew the entomologist well. For Bug, the arrival of a pair of South American spiders was far from a casual addition to his collection of creepy critters.

It was his science, his art, his passion. From his vintage point in the doorway, watching his friend, Nigel could not help but admire the dedication Bug showed. There was, after all, something to be said for the admiration and appreciation of things outside oneself, however many legs they had.

Forcing himself to grimace despite the natural smirk across his lips, the tall man strode into the room, hugging his case files to his chest as he did so. "And what have we here?" he questioned archly, wrinkling his nose as he got his first good glimpse at the two enormous tarantulas in the empty aquarium. The grimace segued from a forced pretense to reality as Bug's head snapped up, chopsticks still poised. The insect-lover frowned noticeably at the uninvited visitor. "Two new friends to your crawling collection, I see. Have you named them yet?"

"Oh, shut up and go bother someone else," groused the Indian man, causing Nigel to smirk. He bent close to the glass, his forehead nearly pressed up against the aquarium as Nigel pulled up a stool. "I'm busy."

Nigel, too, leaned in close, studying the spiders so intently that his nose butted up against the glass. He smirked as his companion's brow furrowed slightly in annoyance. "Ugh, and they're hairy little creepy-crawlies this time, too." He pulled away, leaving a smudge where his nose had been. Bug heaved a sigh and wiped at it with his sleeve. "What are you doing with those...things...anyway?" he questioned after a moment's pause, fiddling with the chopsticks as Bug set them down. "Macy was starting to think you tripped, fell, and got locked in a cold storage drawer."

Dark eyes refused to budge from the legal pad as the other man added a handful of scribblings to the page. "If you must know," he sighed, "I'm studying the mating habits of Avicularia avicularia, and Doctor Macy knows exactly where I am." He set down his pen, glancing up just long enough to see slender fingers spinning one of the chopsticks in a circle across the desk. He nabbed it from Nigel, their hands brushing briefly. "Anything else?"

"Feeling particularly surly today, I see." Relinquishing the chopstick, Nigel sighed, pausing for a long moment before he set the file onto the desk top and slid it slowly to his companion. Bug eyed it suspiciously, an eyebrow arching. "Oh, it's not going to bite you," he chided. The other man rolled his eyes as he opened the file and began to skim through the contents. "It's from that homicide we got in yesterday. Seems there was some sort of a mite in her stomach, and Jordan wants a rush to see what it is and where it came from. Our boys in blue have yet to get a hit from missing persons, so sadly, our lovely victim's still a Jane Doe." He watched as Bug flipped the folder closed. "Think you can handle it?"

"Of course." Pushing the file back away, Bug resumed harassing the spiders with his chopsticks. "Just put it on my desk."

Nigel frowned, staring at the abandoned file for a brief moment, his thin lips pursed. "I can do that," he decided after a long pause, "but I have to wonder what, exactly, has gotten into you. You're being even more unlivable than usual, even for you."

Brown eyes lowered dangerously in the direction of the spiders, and though the smaller man did not look up, his irritation was obvious. "I am not being unlivable," he returned evenly. One of the tarantulas skittered quickly across the bottom of the tank and Nigel fidgeted uncomfortably. "I'm just busy. I know it's a foreign concept to you, but some of us do work around here."

"Touché, Buggles, touché." He picked up the file and rose from his stool slowly. "I just thought you might want to talk about it." He patted his companion on the shoulder softly.

"Well, I don't." Bug's voice reverberated with annoyance as he added a few lines to his notes. "I'm fine."

"Fair enough, then." Nigel stuck his free hand in his back pocket as he shuffled slowly out of the room. Bug kept his head bowed low, close to the aquarium, his arm still raised at an awkward angle to reach in without getting too close to the enormous arachnids.

He'd almost made it completely out of the room when he heard a sigh behind him, as well as the distinct clicking of the chopsticks being set down onto the desktop. "You're not going to badger me?" came Bug's impatient inquiry.

Nigel tossed a passing glance over his shoulder, and his eyes met Bug's evenly. For a moment, silence covered the room, broken only by the noises of other medical examiners or lesser morgue staff bustling around, on their way from one location to another. "No, I wasn't going to badger you," he admitted, turning around more fully. "I would think after being here as long as I have, I would know when to leave you to your stuffiness."

Snorting, the entomologist pulled his gaze away, focusing it instead on the legal pad in front of him. "Do you"
he began uncertainly, and then, clenching his eyes shut, he shook his head. "Oh, never mind. It's a stupid question, and I'm not in the mood for your abuse today."

"No, what is it?" Before he realized it, Nigel found himself dragging the stool back to his friend's side, and he scooted in close enough that their legs brushed. "Contrary to popular belief, I can repress my sarcasm when requested."

Bug rolled his eyes. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Try me, then."

The air prickled with tension as Bug glanced up, meeting Nigel's intent stare. He pursed his lips for a moment, his tongue darting out just long enough to wet his dry lips. Then, he picked up his pen and focused back on his notes. "Do you ever worry you'll never find anyone?" he questioned after a long pause, tracing a small squiggle in the margin of his pad. "I mean, look at us. We're both in our early thirties, single with no prospects - "

"Hey!" protested Nigel, raising a hand. "Speak solely for yourself! I can woo any young creature who catches my passing fancy with just a wave of my hand and a charming smile." He demonstrated, flashing his bright white teeth.

The dubious expression on his companion's face was unmistakable, and a shaggy eyebrow arched in his direction. "Then why don't you have a girlfriend?"

The question caused the white teeth to grit together, and the smile faded into a small grimace. "Perhaps," he replied defensively, crossing his arms over his chest, "I have yet to find a young creature that catches my passing fancy, hmm?"

Bug smiled slightly, but remained intent on the doodle forming in the margin of his notepad, dark eyes unmoving and plump lips pursed together. "I just wonder if people ever find their perfect matches." He set down his pen with a decisive thump. "We spend all our time here, trying to figure out the measure of someone's life based on bits and pieces of evidence." He gestured to the rest of the vacant, quiet, sterile room with a distracted wave of his hand. "We spend all our time studying other people's lives, and none of us really have lives of our own. You're single, I'm single, Trey's not doing much better, and Jordan..." He shook his head. "Maybe there's no such thing as a perfect romance, or a perfect match. Maybe we just all tell ourselves we'll find this perfect person to prevent feeling utterly pathetic."

The room plunged into silence as he finished his statement, and neither man made eye contact with the other as they sat, awkward and uncomfortable. Nigel's mind reeled through every response in his mental rolodex - sympathy, agreement, sarcasm, bitterness, disdain, indignation, surprise, annoyance, amusement - and then skidded to a stop, abruptly reaching the end of his list. His fingers drummed softly against the desktop as he raised his eyes from the spiders and to Bug's face, studying the contours of his dark skin, dark eyes, pursed lips, and slightly unkempt hair with careful consideration.

Then, he reached for the chopsticks and held them out to his friend. "Everyone spends most their days outside, looking in on other people's lives," he decided. Bug glanced up at him, and then to the chopsticks. He smiled softly. "And maybe, mate, you're right. Maybe there is no perfect somebody for each and every one of us, but we come into one another's lives for a reason. And, oftentimes, we meet someone who is right for us for a while. Maybe not forever, but for a bit."

Bug accepted the chopsticks gingerly and Nigel smiled, rising to his full height. "Don't give up on finding that perfect someone, Buggles," he encouraged. His hand reached out on its own accord and rubbed his companion's shoulder for an unexpectedly long moment, giving and discovering comfort in the same moment. Bright brown eyes gazed up at him, and he smiled more widely as he pulled away. "I'm sure you'll find her, and when you do, the world will make sense again."

"And what about you?" The question caused Nigel to pause mid-step in the vast expanse of free space between the desk and the door, one foot halfway off the ground already.

He paused for a moment, smiling sadly as he clung to the file folder and pressed it against his chest, holding it as a protective shield until it pressed the buttons on his shirt hard against his skin. "I believe in finding perfection in the most unlikely of places," he answered, peppering his comment with the slightest of shrugs. He found his gaze wandering over the closed door and the motion of others through the frosted windows; his body refused to turn back around and study his companion, an action (or lack thereof) born of simple self-preservation. "Mayhap I've already found my perfect match, somewhere, and just haven't realized it yet. Stranger things have happened in the world."

The man behind him remained silent for a beat and, shaking his head, Nigel slipped out of the double doors and took an immediate right, settling against the wall. His mind raced, dizzying him slightly until he closed his eyes and tried to force the vertigo away.

"Hey, Nige!" A voice and a hand on his arm rooted him back in reality, and he glanced down to see Jordan staring up at him, wearing her familiar blue scrubs and armed with a hair elastic. She was pulling back her unruly hair as she spoke. "I need you to assist me on this autopsy, if you don't mind," she told him, and he smiled weakly in response. "Can you scrub up and meet me in Autopsy 1?"

"Of course, love," he replied, nodding dumbly. "I'll be right with you." He waved idly at her retreating back as she mingled through the normal hallway traffic and disappeared around a corner. His muscles protested as he pushed himself away from the wall and worked to regain his composure.

He managed all of two steps down the hallway towards his work station when his brown eyes caught the vision of Bug,
still sitting in the Trace Evidence room and bent low over his tarantula aquarium, chopsticks still clutched in his hand.

Nigel touched his forehead to the glass, mimicking his friend's slight, intent frown, and sighed miserably. "I have found my perfect match, mate," he breathed, his voice hollow against the glass, "and it was in the most unlikely of places: the Boston County Morgue."

The man in the room, ever clueless to his observer, paused to scribble down notes on his legal pad, absolutely perfect.

No, the tall Brit told himself firmly, shaking his head. "Perfect" was completely the wrong word. Bug was stuffy. Closeted. Obsessive. Surly. Defensive. Cynical. Idealistic. Neurotic. Elitist. Cranky. Pompous. Pi -

Oh, who was he kidding? Nigel pulled his face away from the door, wiped the smudge of his forehead away with a balled-up tissue from within his pocket, and then straightened his spine and smoothed his hair. All the self-editing in the universe could not change the simplicity of one simple fact:

Bug was bloody perfect.

And then, shaking his head, Nigel headed off to do his job, leaving the entomologist, his arachnids, and all the adoration and devotion he'd ever known behind in Trace Evidence.

Fin.

Standard Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan and all related characters belong to NBC and Tailwind Productions. I am simply borrowing them with no intent to, you know, make money. Friends, perhaps, but not money.

Author's Notes: Just some Nigel-lusts-after-Bug goodness for y'all. This serves to set up another fic I am working on, and beyond that, it's nice and sweet. Bug the idealist finally asks the big questions, but to the wrong person.

I love this couple.

March 2, 2005
1:38 a.m.