"'Ras! Over here, Vaziri!"

Arastoo turned to the waving hand, accompanied by a British accent, amid the teeming cafe, and gratefully headed to the table where his friend was seated.

"Hello, Vincent." He slid into his seat.

"Mornin', 'Ras." Vincent looked terrifyingly awake, a fact attested to by the two empty coffee cups already in front of him. He shoved another, black, into Arastoo's waiting hands.

He took a sip and felt the familiar jolt of this particular establishment's extremely strong coffee.

"They've made it even stronger today? I didn't even know that was possible."

"I know, mate. I've only had two and I'm already buzzed," Vincent replied. "Usually it takes at least four."

Arastoo eyed his coffee cup. It looked innocent, but...

He carefully took another sip, coughed, and set it down. He flagged a waitress, asking for a cinnamon roll, and returned his gaze to the slim British man in front of him.

"Four cups of coffee. You're British. What's wrong with this picture?"

Rolling his eyes, Vincent replied, "Dreadful stereotype, that. While a bit heavy, there's really nothing for waking up like good American coffee. And...'what's wrong with this picture'? Who are you, and what have you done with Arastoo Vaziri?"

He could feel his ears getting hot, thinking of exactly where he'd gotten the expression.

"You're over there. I'm over here. What's wrong with this picture?"

She'd promptly scooted across the couch, curled up under his left arm, and returned to sipping her Sprite like nothing had happened.

Needless to say, his attention hadn't been exclusively focused on Michael Keaton that night.

"'Ras?"

He blinked from his reverie. "Why do you call me that?"

Vincent looked slightly perplexed at the change of subject. "Call you what?"

"No one calls me 'Ras, except you."

His friend shrugged. "I don't know. 'Arastoo' seems a little formal, I suppose. And it's a little hard to enunciate 't's after the third or fourth whiskey," he finished, half-dryly, half-embarrassedly. "Did you know that the first written record of whiskey appears describing the death of a chieftain at Christmas from "taking a surfeit of aqua vitae"?"

"Vincent, it's eight o'clock in the morning." He nodded to the waitress as she set his cinnamon roll in front of him and inhaled the warm icing-smell.

Vincent looked perplexed. "And?" he asked, doing his curious bob of the head common when he was confused.

"Why are we talking about whiskey at eight in the morning?" It reminded him uncomfortably of the whiskey breath he'd endured picking Vincent up, the stains on the carpet of his car he'd had to get cleaned, and the perpetual smell that had surrounded his good friend after his trip around the world. That smell had eased as Vincent had entered a twelve-step program, but sometimes even the memory would burn his nose.

He snatched his coffee and took a deep breath of the strong, but somehow clean-smelling, fumes.

Perhaps chagrined at Arastoo's forced tone, Vincent muttered, "Sorry, mate."

"It's all right." He took a sip of his coffee.

Maggie will never smell like that.

And it was true. Maggie had never smelled of anything stronger than mocha coffee, which she claimed as her weakness. He didn't mind—the chocolate smell somehow mixed perfectly with her own citrus scent.

He took another sip.

"'Ras!"

He started. "What?"

Vincent frowned. "That's twice in less than a minute. What's on your mind, mate?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Vince."

"…"

"All right, now you're doing it. What?"

"You never call me Vince."

Arastoo sighed, frustrated. "I'm sorry. I just can't…can't seem to concentrate."

Vincent frowned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I just…there's this girl."

His friend's eyes lit up. "A girl? She pretty?"

"Yeah." He flushed. "Beautiful."

Leaning forward, Vincent murmured, "You've got it bad, mate. You're blushing." Ignoring Arastoo's razor-sharp glare, he continued, "So what's her name? Where'd you meet her? Not too many skeletons in the closet?"

"Maggie, in the lab after hours, and no. She doesn't drink, knows the terms for the five prayers, and loves comic books. She has two sisters and a brother, isn't freaked out by the fact that I spend my day with dead people and am fascinated by bone distortion, and is…completely…beyond beautiful!" He shoved his hair from his eyes. "She's perfect, Vincent, perfect for me. She loves the things I love, doesn't care that I pray five times a day to a God that she doesn't believe in. She's wonderful. Too wonderful."

Vincent stared. "So let me clarify for you, 'Ras. You've met a girl you really like, who's pretty and funny, and likes Batman, and you're bothered by this."

He rubbed his forehead. "But no one is that perfect, Vincent. I can't be that lucky. No one is." Rubbing harder, he continued, "She won't talk about her family. Nothing important, anyway. And she seems almost too accepting of the fact that I'm Muslim. I can't help feeling like she's hiding something."

"Maybe she is."

Arastoo closed his eyes, kept rubbing. "Aren't you supposed to be reassuring me?"

"'Ras, you've known the girl all of a two months. No matter how great she is, aren't you moving a little fast?"

His eyes opened again. "Vincent, with anyone else, I would agree with you. I would say I was crazy for even thinking about her family. But with Maggie, I don't. I want to meet her family, I want her to meet mine, I want to spend all of my time with her. I want to talk about culture and psychology and religion and superheroes. I've never felt this way about anyone."

Shaking his head, Vincent leaned over and clapped Arastoo on the shoulder. "What you just told me, 'Ras, is that you're in love. And according to my mother, who assures me she is an expert on the subject, love will work itself out." He stood and set some money on the table. "Come on. I've got to get to the lab and you've got the major-switching paperwork to fill out."

Arastoo shook his head as he stood, avoiding Vincent's eyes.

The British man touched his shoulder again, forcing eye contact. "Talk to her, mate. Could be she's got a reason for everything."

"Aaaaaaarrrgggh!"

"Afternoon, Maggie," he smiled, as he fell into step beside her.

She held up a hand, not stopping. "Do not talk to me right now. I need to talk to my supervisor, who has either lost his mind or I have. And I refuse to calm down, so don't even try."

"…all right."

He followed her across the Jeffersonian campus—for such a small woman, she moved amazingly fast when riled. He'd been lucky to catch her on the way to the lab as he'd exited the Cultural Anthropology department, and had planned to take her to dinner. It looked as if those plans would have to be put on hold.

Even as he fell behind her slightly, he couldn't help but admire how beautiful she was. She was wearing a green shirt today, with puffed sleeves and buttons down the front. It brought out the golden freckles sprinkled across her nose and matched her toenails, poking out from strappy sandals on her feet. The shoes added at least three inches to her five-two frame, bringing the top of her head even with his chin. He couldn't help admiring what the shoes did to her legs—themselves clothed in high-waisted black slacks—as he walked behind her.

Also, she's just beautiful when she's angry.

"May I ask what Dr. Sweets-"

"No."

More worried now, he watched as she used a gait that on a woman any larger would be called stomping into the Forensic Anthropology lab.

"Dr. Sweets. If I could see you for a moment? Alone?"

He felt sorry for the other man as he followed Maggie, slightly bewildered, into Dr. Saroyan's office.

After greeting the other lab techs, including Vincent (ignoring the latter's raised eyebrows), he sidled closer to the glass door dividing Dr. Saroyan's office from the larger lab. Feeling slightly guilty, but not enough to stop, he leaned next to the door, close enough to hear his girlfriend's not-particularly-lowered voice.

"And you didn't think to tell me that Dr. Addy was innocent?"

"Maggie, I didn't mean for that file to go home with you."

"He's innocent, Dr. Sweets, and yet he's locked up in that prison with the genuinely criminally insane!"

"Dr. Addy is a special case."

"He's not insane, Dr. Sweets. He is in complete control of his faculties. He is also innocent."

What?

Arastoo could feel the blood draining from his ears.

Zack Addy is innocent?

He'd heard the abridged version of Dr. Addy's sabotage, and subsequent arrest, as well as the rumors of his being involved with the Gormogon serial killer, and he'd known in some ephemeral way that Dr. Sweets was the troubled man's attending psychologist, but he hadn't even considered—nor, he was sure, had anyone—the possibility of the former associate's innocence.

"…agreed to a plea deal. He is, in fact, innocent of murder, but has certain issues with narcissism and an inability to make connections except through logical reasoning. He is not a killer, Miss Dakkars, but he is an excellent candidate for schizoid personality disorder."

"That's what I thought…I put it in my notes. But Doctor Sweets, why lie? SPD isn't a criminal offense in court. He knew what he was doing. Why did he plead guilty?"

"Maggie, the situation with Zack is….complicated. If you feel that you would be better served by a different thesis advisor, I would be happy to oblige you. I understand you may feel that this is an unacceptable state of affairs."

There was a pregnant silence, and Arastoo could almost hear the gears in his significant other's head turning.

"No, Dr. Sweets….thank you for being honest with me. I apologize for my outburst, I should have trusted your judgment. Forgive me? I just…he told me, so earnestly, that he was innocent, so if I tried to write my thesis about him my conclusions would either be erroneous or make no sense. He seemed so…detached. I'm sorry, Dr. Sweets."

"That's all right. I understand. Did you, by any chance, choose a candidate?"

"Yes. Jacob Winters. I've decided to see if his parents' over-reaction to his high-functioning autism could have contributed to his narcissistic tendencies."

"Ah, yes. I agree, it seems the most viable of your topics."

"…thank you, Dr. Sweets."

He tried to look nonchalant as the psychologist exited the office, but touched Maggie's arm as she followed behind, looking as if she'd been clubbed over the head.

She turned dull eyes to him. "You heard?"

"I did."

She lowered her head to his chest. Ignoring speculative looks from the other techs, he carefully led her outside and over to a stone bench. She didn't look up, still resting her head on his chest. He stroked her hair and they stayed silent for several minutes, the quiet broken only by the fountain a few feet away and the sounds of nature.

"I feel so stupid."

He said nothing, continuing to stroke her hair.

"I jumped to conclusions. I was so ready to assume that Dr. Sweets had committed malpractice. God, what does that make me, Arastoo?"

He murmured, "You didn't know, Maggie. With the information you had, you drew a logical conclusion. The fact that it wasn't the correct one isn't your fault."

"Dr. Sweets would have been within his rights to dismiss me as a grad student. I challenged him, I yelled at his colleague…I'm a mess."

"Maybe." He resumed stroking her hair. "But you're my mess."

She huffed out her nose and snuggled closer, hand snaking up to fist in his jacket. "What would I do without you, Arastoo?"

"I don't know. I just don't know."

They stayed like that for a long time, listening to the rustle of the wind, the movement of the water, and the fluttering of insects around them. They said nothing, with only the occasional shift in movement to even show wakefulness, and simply basked in the presence of each other.

It could have been fifteen minutes, thirty, or an hour before Maggie finally stirred. Arastoo's leg had nearly fallen asleep, but he wasn't complaining—her hair had remained beneath his nose the whole time, and her reassuring scent of soap and grapefruit had lulled him into a nearly meditative state.

However, the setting sun lanced at his closed eyes, and he sighed. "Maggie, I need—"

She shifted off him, leaving a distinct feeling of lacking behind her, and nodded. "Go pray. I have to go get something from the office anyway. Ten minutes?"

He nodded.

She stood, began to turn, then faced him again. "Arastoo?"

"Yes?"

Looking down, she murmured, "Thanks."

He swore softly and closed the distance between them again, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Of course. I love you, Eden Margaret." He loosened his grip just enough to kiss her softly and bury his face in her hair. "I love you so much."

He felt her stiffen against him.

Oh, you idiot what have you done you'll scare her away

"I love you too," she replied, relaxing again. "So, so much."

He released her again. "Go. Ten minutes."

She smiled, turned, and moved away, as he re-entered the lab.

"I'm an idiot. A total idiot."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Okay, you are."

"Hey!"

"I never disagree with a lady." He took a bite of his curry. They'd gone to his favorite place off Main, a small Indian restaurant that was quiet, homey, and met dhabiha standards. The fact that Maggie had loved it when he'd taken her there on their third date made it an after-work standard for them. "There was no reasonable way to respond to that situation, Maggie. It's like a soap opera. The way you responded made complete sense given your personality, education, background, and information."

"…'Ras?"

"Yes?"

"You're showing your Cultural Anthropology leanings."

He rubbed his face. "I did spend a year among them. Some of it was bound to stick."

"It looks good on you," she murmured, reaching across the table to take his hand.

Studying her, he replied, "I don't think that's what's bothering you, though."

"He's innocent, Arastoo. He's an innocent man locked up in a facility meant for the criminally insane. They're treated humanely, but he doesn't deserve the necessary restrictions on life that go with that." She paused. "He's mentally ill, but not deranged. He's extremely high-functioning and can tell right from wrong. The worst he could be accused of is accomplice to murder—a felony, buteligible for parole as well as a good chance he'd win an appeal. Especially coupled with his disorder," she finished, taking a sip of her drink. "I don't understand why this elaborate charade was deemed necessary. He said 'he wouldn't do well in prison.' She made a helpless gesture with her hands. "Of course he wouldn't! Who does? That's not the point of prison!" She finished, smacking the table and burying her face in her elbow.

"Maggie, I don't know him, I don't know his situation, but I do know Dr. Sweets. He gave me some of the best advice I ever received, and I trust him. If he believes this is best for Dr. Addy, then I believe him."

She raised her head slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." He wasn't. Dr. Sweets was a good man, but he was ultimately bound by Addy's choices; however, his need to comfort his girlfriend was rather stronger than the need for absolute truth at this moment in time.

He rubbed the back of her hand, still in his, with his thumb.

She straightened. "Let's get out of here."

He smiled as he motioned to a waitress.

"What advice did Dr. Sweets give you?"

"Hmm?" He replied, looking down at her hair. Her head was on his chest as they watched a rerun of Criminal Minds, as was their wont on most Thursday nights.

"You said he'd given you some good advice. What was it?"

He shifted. "You know how I told you I put on an accent for the first few months of my internship at the Jeffersonian?"

"Yes, you did. I still find that hard to believe," she snickered.

"Well, I did. But I let it slip one day when Dr. Saroyan was making a fuss about me touching pig bones. I snapped at her in my good-old-American Chicago accent," he smiled. "Dr. Sweets called me to his office after that, and we talked. He told me that I didn't need a scientist to tell me who or what I am, and I try to remember that every day."

She turned over, placing her chin on folded hands on his chest, and looked him in the eye. "He is right. You are one of the most self-assured men I have ever met. Your commitment to your religion is admirable and the fact that you don't see it as conflicting with your job is even more admirable. It's one of the things I love about you." She wriggled up his body and kissed him softly.

Or at least, he was sure that was what it had been intended as, but he snaked his hand through her hair and held her there, encouraging her to deepen the kiss.

She was a storm of sensations, from the curry they'd had for dinner on her lips to the softness of her hair beneath his hands to the delicate perfume wafting from her skin. He was acutely aware of the dark room, punctuated only by actors on the TV screen, and the very empty bed through the door to his left.

Her hand stroked down his button-down shirt, unbuttoning the top button. His own, without any seeming order from his brain, moved from her jaw to her hip, squeezing and tugging her shirt from her waistband.

If he'd died that very minute, he would have died happy.

She pulled away from him with a gasp, scrabbling off his chest. "I—I'm sorry."

His chest felt cold and empty without her on it, and his hands felt strangely rough without her hair between his fingers. "Why?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbed them with closed fists; this didn't help her already-smeared makeup, which coupled with her rumpled hair made her look well and truly ravished. He was suddenly intensely proud of that.

"Arastoo, I'm Christian. Like, Bible-thumper Christian. I was raised, almost literally from birth, with the idea that sex is something you only do within the bounds of marriage. I was hoping that I could break that," she murmured, "seeing as it's also taught that women aren't exactly meant to enjoy it—" she blushed even harder—"but I can't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if that's a deal breaker for you, or—"

"Hey." He shifted across the couch and closed his hands around her wrists, pulling them away from her face. "I love you. I love all of you, Maggie Dakkars. That means your high-functioning autistic sociopath papers, your verbal explosions all over both your and my bosses, your Icee obsession, your brain…your heart." He paused. "I was raised Orthodox Muslim. Pre-marital sex is also relatively taboo for us. I also was willing to change that if I had a partner for whom that was an issue. But if you are uncomfortable with us…doing that before we get married, that's all right. I love you. I want you to be happy. More than anything."

Her eyes shone in the light from the TV. He swallowed. "I didn't mean to make you cry, Maggie—" He gathered her to his chest.

Muffled against his chest, she replied, "I'm not crying, I'm…amazed," she finished after a pause. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"I ask myself that same question—about you—every day," he murmured, and kissed her forehead.

Heyla, guys! Sorry for the wait, though I wish I could say it wasn't typical-my inspiration strikes when it strikes, and while I have a basic plan for this story any sort of dialogue or meaningful development has to happen when I'm "in the mood", so to speak. To continue with mildly suggestive topics, what you just read is the absolute peak of any steaminess that will go on between these two, due to the conclusions reached about three paragraphs ago-and also because I have neither the experience or the inclination to write a good lemon. If this bothers you, please see the AN at the end of Chapter One.

This chapter is unbeta'd, though heavily proofread and edited by yours truly, simply because my beta is in Wyoming. However, my beta also has a real job now, hence cutting down on her free time. With that in mind, I'm in the market for a beta-not just for this story but my X-men multichapter fic (which is rather cheesier than this one, if less 'heavy') and any random oneshots I may come up with. If you're interested, please PM me.

Finally: Since, then, I'm not of the citrusy bent, the following doesn't affect me but it does many of my fellow writers; the Great M-Rated Fanfiction Purge. Many of my favorite stories have been deleted, no questions or warnings given, with absolutely no backup, off . This is intensely frustrating to me, as a reader, and painful for writers who have often wracked up tens of thousands of words. Since the mods' response to the outcry is that the stories in question do not fit the "M" rating, please join me and my fellow writers in our attempt to have an MA, or essentially 'lemon-inclusive', rating on our beloved site. You can do that here: www(dot)ipetitions(dot) com/petition/lemons-for-fanfiction

As always, of course, thank you for reading. You guys keep me sane through my crazy days, and your reviews feed my narcissistic tendencies (not really, of course, but the sentiment is there). Anyway, you guys are awesome and I hope to post another chapter of "Accordance" soon! Auf Wiedersehn,

-stargirl