rillalicious: (Colby shades)
[personal profile] rillalicious
Happy Birthday, [ profile] mustangcandi!!!! I hope you have an absolutely fantabulous day. I am so, so glad that I started watching Numb3rs, and that I found the fandom, because it led me to meeting YOU. And that is awesome.

So, I come bearing fic, and I hope you enjoy it! (And I also hope that you're able to take a breather today and ONLY do the things you want to do.) Unfortunately, I don't have an icon for this pairing, so you'll have to make due with Colby's neck.

Fandom: Numb3rs
Title: Present Imperfect
Pairing: David/Liz
Rating: PG13
Word Count: ~900
Summary: It's David's birthday, and Liz has made a bit of a mess of things.
A/N: Written for [ profile] mustangcandi's birthday. Thanks to [ profile] ellensmithee for the read through. Just a little bit of semi-smutty fluff. With frosting.

Liz has baked cakes before. It's not like this is the first time she's ever tried it. The last time she baked a cake, for a friend's bridal shower, it was perfect in every way: mocha cake, maple buttercream frosting edged with pale violet roses. Everyone was impressed.

This... travesty lying sunken and lopsided on the counter is an insult to bakers everywhere. No matter how much frosting she tries to pile into that sinkhole in the middle of it, the damn thing just grows wider and wider. In the back of her head, she can hear her mother asking why she didn't just use a box of Betty Crocker. And maybe she should have.

But D.C. is a hell of a long way from L.A. when the FBI gets first dibs on both their lives, and David getting out here for his birthday is a big deal. It's not like he can stick around tomorrow so she can pick up some fancy bakery job to make up for this.

She doesn't really even know why it's important. As if David cares whether or not there's cake.

But Liz does.

She hears his cab pull up out front and a swift storm of panic rises up inside her. Dinner is ready, each dish so artfully arranged in the tableau that it could be a glossy photo in some upscale cookbook (the take-out containers from whence all this food came have been dutifully discarded in the dumpster out back). But all she can think about is the cake.

And then, inspiration.

Liz unbuttons her blouse, fingers fumbling a bit at the last buttonhole, and she swears she hears David's footsteps on the stairs outside. She takes the cakeplate and hurries to the table, shoving bowls of well-garnished Thai food aside. The door. A short string of colorful curses later, she's flicking the lock open before rushing back to the table like some kind of crazed waitress, the cake still hoisted in one hand. The glass-top table is cool and a little slippery on her knees as she climbs astride it, the sorry cake set down in front of her.

David knocks.

She reaches down, scoops out the middle of that blasted thing with one hand, and dips in the fingers of the other, spreading sticky chocolate cake and frosting over the lacy edge of her black bra, smearing it across the swell of her breasts. He knocks again, just as she takes a swipe at her stomach, coating herself in crumbly bits of cake. She adds a scoop of frosting to the base of her throat, straightens her shoulders, and calls out, "It's open! Come on in!"

The door opens, David steps inside.

When his jaw goes slack in the middle of his greeting, the night's frustration turns to gratitude just like that.

"I thought we could start with dessert," she says, and the confident purr of her voice is a surprise, even to Liz. Her heart is pumping the blood through her veins with such ferocity that it's making her a little dizzy.

David recovers, starts to walk toward her, eyes lighting up as his gaze rakes over her.

"Happy birthday to me," he says, and he reaches out, dips two fingers into the mess of frosting between her breasts, runs them up against her skin, up to the tip of her chin. Then he sucks them into his mouth.

Liz wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulls herself closer across the table.

"I was beginning to think Granger wasn't going to give you up tonight," she says, though she's certainly glad for that extra ten minutes.

David's mouth is at the soft hollow at the base of her throat, and his tongue recedes for a moment so he can speak. She shivers.

"You know Colby. Separation anxiety since I left."

She slides one hand up the back of his head, nails spreading out over his scalp, and when he shudders in response, it feels like a reward.

"Isn't that common in toddlers?"

David snorts. "Maybe now's not the best time to talk about Colby."

He's mouthing his way up her throat, and his shirt is getting covered in frosting, but she pulls herself in closer still, because she can't get enough of this.

"Right," she says. She wriggles around on the table, fists her hands in his shirt for leverage and wraps her legs around his waist. David staggers backward, catches himself on the wall, then turns, slamming her back against the drywall with a thud.

"Sorry." His mouth grazes over her ear.

Liz grins. "Don't apologize," she murmurs, and she rakes her nails down the back of his neck, harder now, nearly breaking skin. "Birthday boy wants it rough, that's what he gets."

David growls just below her ear and his hands are everywhere. "I hope that food's going to keep," he says, and now they're making their way down the hall, toward the bedroom.

Liz isn't even thinking about the trail of cake and sugar mapping their path along the wall. She's not thinking about her wasted plans for a perfect dinner, or about the cake that went all wrong and then turned into something else entirely. David's breath is hot over her skin, his tongue teasing every one of her most sensitive spots as he licks her clean of his birthday dessert, and she drags him down to the bed, reveling in the best disaster she's ever created.



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January 2012

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