TITLE: All About the Fairytale
AUTHOR: Sugah Sugah
SUMMARY: Wishes do come true.
SPOILERS: I don't think there are any.
PAIRING: Danny/Lindsay
RATING: T – It's more suggestive than anything.
DISCLAIMER: Seriously, I don't own them. Please don't sue. I have no money.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the final fic in my Elvis series. I think it's a fitting end, and I hope you all agree. Please reserve any judgments until after you've read it, and afterwards, if you still feel the need to yell at me for stopping, then I can't stop you. But I can ignore you. :evil laughter:

Oh, but I'm not done with Danny and Lindsay. Not by a long shot. Just this series.

I tried to keep up the humor, but it just wasn't happening. This fic is a cheesy, sappy pile of corn. Enjoy.

Many thanks and M&Ms go to Whatsername007, Lily, Madeleina, marialisa, chili-peppers, theheathen42, Alyssa, Mountie, pinkdangles8, sarramaks, Ashley, saturn567, Mackensi, all the glitters, Trixie7, meadow567, Mrs. Fitzgerald, The Little Corinthian, Calie1, wolfmyjic, dddynamite, devil'strix, Pepite, christina jean, DistractedlyHere, princessg, Moriel21, kasmith101, unearthlyangel89, artigiano, Elainhe, soswimmer13, debip, AkimaDoll, ladyerudite, RenLissa, and Princess of Peas. If I forgot anyone, I'm sorry. But you guys have spurred me on to write this entire series in a week when I wanted to stop at one.

Special thanks go to Boleyn for once again beta-ing this for me.


All About the Fairytale

She was everything he wanted. Everything he needed.

She was beautiful. Stunning. She had soft brown curls that felt silky under his fingers and chocolate brown eyes that melted even his worst moods. She had curves to die for – curves he loved to trace with his hands, even when they were in DNA. Especially when they were in DNA. She had a smile that lit up the whole damn city – a smile that made the sun seem pale, made the snow seem gray.

And she looked damn good in a bikini.

She was smart – brilliant, even. She was witty and funny. She could hold her own in an argument. She could take shots, and she could give back with just as much fire. She knew about chemistry and physics and football. She knew how to make him salivate. She knew just what to do to have him moaning her name – her given name, not the nickname he knew she secretly loved.

She was a spitfire. She didn't take crap. She could chase down a suspect and give him what for. And she looked so unbelievably sexy holding that gun of hers.

She challenged him. She respected him. She teased him. She admired him. She made him see him the way that she did. She made him the man he wanted to be.

She was graceful. She moved with a confidence that couldn't be shaken, not even in those early days when he'd teased her mercilessly. She could dance like an angel. She could make walking in those stilettos look so easy that he'd tried it once and sprained his ankle.

She laughed at him when he made an ass of himself. She giggled and made him chase her when he got angry that she laughed at him. She always let him catch her.

She never let him win. She was competitive. She could play air hockey with the best of them. She had the high score at pinball. She had a better mile time than him.

She had a great sense of humor. She would randomly quote movies like Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Anchorman. She didn't even notice the odd looks she got when she did that. She did it to cheer him up. She always managed to cheer him up.

She was great with kids.

She had her faults, but so did he. She had her dark spots, but so did he. She was stubborn and pig-headed, but so was he. To him, she was perfect.

She loved him. Inexplicably. Undeniably. She loved him. And that was all he needed.


He was everything she wanted. Everything she needed.

He was handsome. So attractive that she had drooled on more than one occasion. He had dark blonde hair that he spent hours getting it to spike just right, when all he had to do was get out of bed. He had brilliant blue eyes that darkened to that smoldering cobalt color when he was aroused. He was sculpted and muscular, and she felt his power every time he moved and she loved it. He was strong and he was possessive, but he was gentle and tender. He made her ache.

And he looked damn good in a wife beater.

He was smart – street smart and book smart. He was funny and sarcastic. He stood his ground in an argument. He could think fast on his feet. He knew his way around a crime scene and a ball field. He knew how to make her shiver. He knew where to put his hands to make her whimper out his name. He knew how to make her shatter and break and come undone in his arms.

He was a softie at heart. He teared up when they watched Terms of Endearment. He tried to hide his sniffles at Casablanca by saying that he must be coming down with a cold.

He was confident. He moved with an ease and grace that very few people could pull off. He even managed to pull off her stilettos until he sprained his ankle. He wasn't afraid of anything. He wasn't afraid to make an ass of himself. He made her not be afraid, too. He made her feel safe.

He challenged her. He respected her. He admired her. He tortured her.

He had a great sense of humor. He did impressions of people in the lab and came up with creative pranks to pull on their coworkers. He randomly quoted The 40-Year-Old Virgin and The Goonies to cheer her up. He always cheered her up.

He never let her win. He was competitive. He could play pool like nobody's business. He always beat her bowling score. He was a better aim.

He was a closet romantic. He held her when she cried. He told her everything would be all right. He acted like she was the only woman on the planet.

He had his faults, but she had them, too. He had a dark past, but she had one, too. He was stubborn and pig-headed, but she was, too. To her, he was perfect.

He loved her. Fanatically. Unconditionally. And that was all she needed.


It was everything he'd ever wanted it to be.

It was big and romantic. It took him ages to plan it.

He took her ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. She'd never been ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. Neither had he. At least she could skate. He fell on his ass a hundred thousand times. She laughed at him and told him that in Montana kids learned to ice skate before they learned how to walk. He didn't doubt it.

She "oohed" and "ahhed" over the giant Christmas tree. She told him that when she was a kid, she'd always wanted to come to New York and see this Christmas tree. She thanked him for making one of her dreams come true.

"Well," she said with a smile, "maybe more than one."

He led her out to the center of the ice. He got down on one knee. He pulled out the sapphire diamond he'd only found after dragging Stella to a hundred stores. Blue was Lindsay's favorite color.

She gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth. "Danny," she said, but he stopped her. Everyone around them was watching intently.

"Lindsay," he said. "I love you. More and more each day. I love you so much it hurts. And you deserve more than I can give you. But I want to be the guy that gives it to you. You deserve a real proposal, and a real wedding. You deserve to have a romantic story to tell our children and our grandchildren. You deserve better than me. But I'm yours, for as long as you'll have me."

She started crying, and instead of answering him with words she answered him with a long lingering kiss that left his insides churning and his knees turning to butter.

"I love you, Danny Messer," she said when she pulled away. She whispered it in his ear so that he would hear it over the applause from the spectators. "I have always loved you. You're mine, and I'm not going to let you go."


It was everything she'd ever wanted it to be.

It was simple and elegant. It was beautiful and romantic.

The church was decorated with flowers – lilies, her favorite. It was small, but they didn't need a big wedding. All the important people were there: her father, her aunts and uncles and cousins, his parents, his grandparents, his cousins, their friends. Only a few of the pews were filled, but they were filled by loved ones.

Her dress was silk and satin with a poufy skirt. There was no train. Stella, the maid of honor, and the other bridesmaids – Lindsay's cousins – wore dark blue dresses and carried bouquets of white roses. Flack, the best man, and the other ushers – Mac and Hawkes – looked amazing in their tuxedos with dark blue cummerbunds.

Danny always did look good in a tux.

A string quartet – friends of Mac's – played "Canon in D". Her father walked her down the aisle. She couldn't stop smiling. She also couldn't stop the tears that spilled out of her eyes as the priest – a real priest – began the ceremony.

Danny lightly squeezed her hand halfway through I Corinthians. She squeezed it back.

She could barely make it through the vows, she was crying so much. Danny sniffled a couple of times and could only continue after Flack gave him his handkerchief.

The priest pronounced them husband and wife – again. Everyone in the church cheered as Danny kissed her. The kiss was anything but chaste, but it was hardly inappropriate. They were in church, after all.

When Danny pulled away, he said, "I wanted to give you the fairytale."

She shook her head, smiling. "Oh, Danny. You already did."