Title: The Sixth-Date Rule
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. Unless you feel like giving it to me, Mr. Zuiker. No? Okay then.
Summary: Marisol knew that there were a few things she was entitled to...One of Horatio and Marisol's dates, in chapter form. Straight-up H/M sugar. Consider yourself warned.
A/N: I've gotten this question a couple of times, so I figure I should put it up here. The title refers to the "Third-Date Rule" that gets cited fairly often in teens' and women's magazines. Supposedly, you and your significant other are supposed to have sex no sooner and no later than the third date. The title, and the fic, mildly skew that (offensive and stupid) rule.
Oh, get back here. It's PG, see? Smutless.
Enjoy.
Marisol Delko knew that there were a few things in life that she was entitled to. One of those was to have at least been kissed by her sixth date.
Not that she was complaining. After all, most of the other men she'd gone out with had been demanding sex by Date Number Three. But the trouble was, Horatio Caine wasn't demanding anything. The most he'd ever done was touch her on the hand. Once. And she suspected even that was an accident.
It wasn't that he didn't want to; she could tell that he was attracted to her. She saw it in the way he smiled at her when he thought she wasn't looking. But the man seemed to have an allergy to making the first move.
In retrospect, she should have seen this coming when she had to browbeat him into going to her house for dinner.
And by this point, she could probably initiate something herself without worrying too much about whether or not he was ready for it.
But that wasn't the point. The point was, there were certain things she expected a man to do for her by the sixth date, and one of them was give a kiss before he received one.
And Horatio was going to do that tonight. Whether he wanted to or not.
Horatio Caine adjusted his suit for the twentieth time and looked in the mirror.
He looked just like he had the nineteenth time he'd adjusted it.
Maybe he shouldn't be wearing a tie. He never wore them anyway. Maybe that was the problem.
Of course. His nerves were completely shot and it was the tie's fault.
He sighed, collapsed back onto his couch and started to loosen the knot, staring up at his ceiling as he did. He hadn't been able to think of a good reason for his nervousness. He'd been on plenty of dates before (fine, maybe "plenty" was being a bit generous), but up until Marisol Delko asked him to dinner he'd never felt flustered or uneasy about it. He wasn't used to feeling flustered or uneasy. He decided he didn't like it.
You were supposed to leave this kind of thing behind in high school.
The puzzling thing was, it wasn't Marisol herself putting him on edge. He felt comfortable around her; he could talk to her; he could make extended eye contact with her without feeling like he was staring. Her energy and liveliness was infectious. She had a beautiful smile and an easy laugh, and she made him laugh along with her.
So what was the problem?
His cell phone rang, loudly derailing his train of thought. He pulled the tie all the way off and flipped the phone open.
It was Marisol.
"Hey." He could tell that she was smiling, just from her voice.
"Hey. You ready?"
"When you are."
"I'll be there soon."
"Don't be late." She teased before hanging up.
He clicked the phone shut, slipped it into his pocket, and stood up, fixing his suit one last time.
As he walked out to his car something occurred to him.
Maybe it wasn't nerves.
Maybe it was anticipation.