A/N: I know modern day technology wouldn't allow for this to happen in real life, but give this old broad a break: when I began my TV watching days I had to get up and turn a dial knob to change the channel and there were only FOUR channels to choose from! So bear with me in this throwback to the golden era of black-outs without emergency generators kicking in to save the day (and ruin the mood).
Xxx XXX xxX
If there was something Don Flack Jr. hated, it was getting dirty. Even when it was work related dirt. ESPECIALLY when it was work related dirt. He was known for being a lot less nicer to suspects who were directly responsible for him getting dirty somehow.
Stella Bonasera didn't mind getting dirty. Much. She was well aware that it came with the professional territory, and she didn't mind getting dirty every now and then. Much. But Stella Bonasera drew a line at her hair. She absolutely DESPISED getting her hair dirty. It was a huge no-no, perhaps the first of the unwritten lab rules that new techies learned on their first week at work. You wanted to see a seething Stella? Aid her in a lab test that ended up getting her hair dirty. Paint ball testing? Flour explosion? Dumpster diving? If you wanted to avoid permanent maiming, you called in anyone else, Mac included. But you didn't ask Stella.
So it didn't really surprise anyone that after the delivery boy mishap, both Flack and Stella had virtually run to the locker room to clean up. Don's tie, which in all honesty wasn't as hideous as his usual repertoire, had taken most of the damage, but the fate of his dress shirt was still undecided: if Mr. Fong could work his dry cleaning magic, the shirt might live to see another case. If not, well… the trash can was a good a choice as any.
Stella's wardrobe barely registered the mishap, but her curls… even the security guard by the elevator cringed when he saw the mess her curls were. Coffee, ketchup, coleslaw, gravy… every single ingredient in 5 different take-out orders seemed to be tangled one way or another into her curls.
Nobody on the floor was really amazed by the fact that Stella beat Flack to the elevator… even when he had a good 12 feet lead on her. And as pissed as he was about his own clothing, Flack knew better than get in the way between Stella and the showers. He wisely chose to wait for the next car up; even if that meant that the possibilities of his tie dripping on his brightly polished shoes grew exponentially. He'd rather take his chance with those odds than ride 8 floors in the same lift as a seething, dripping, smelly Stella.
By the time Flack reached the locker room, the sound of the shower running was perfectly audible. He ripped off the tie and aimed for the trash can. On second thought, he shoved it in an empty plastic evidence bag and stashed it in the duffel bag where he kept his gym clothes. As expensive as the cleaner's bill was going to be for THAT mess, it was still cheaper than replacing the silk garment. Served him right for wearing his "formal" tie to work. That would hopefully teach him that, no matter how tired he was after shooting some hoops with the guys, Monday nights were THE nights to pick up his clothes from Mr. Fong. The shirt, on the other hand, had seen better days, so he balled it up and threw it towards the bin in the corner. He missed by several inches.
He cursed under his breath. The fuck with it, he'd get it on the way out. Right then, he was more concerned deciding whether he should change his undershirt or not. He opted to go for a clean slate and took it off, letting it fall to the ground. He fleetingly considered showering, but the rumble in his stomach reminded him that his lunch hour was up and running and he nixed the idea.
An in-depth exploration of his locker revealed that: a) he didn't have a clean undershirt available, b) the only dress shirt in there was going to clash horribly with the suit he was wearing (Note to self: buy only solids from now on), and c) the only tie to be found was wider than a bib and older than his grandma…
He quickly regarded to discarded wife beater on the floor. Just as quickly he decided that he'd go sans undershirt for the rest of the day. Grabbing a spray-on deodorant, he quickly covered his chest with the product, perhaps in a heavier quantity that he'd normally used, but his paranoid sense of smell could swear he still smelled of chicken broth and garlic.
Don grabbed the shirt and was sliding up the second sleeve when the lights went out. He tensed a bit, counting the seconds before the emergency generator kicked in. After a couple of minutes had gone by, he accepted rationally what his gut had been telling him for what seemed like eons: the generator was not going to kick in. He felt his way around his locker shelf until he found a tiny maglite and turned it on. The batteries were not new, and it showed, but at least it worked.
"Goddamn motherfucker! Shit! Shit, shit… shit!"
Don looked up when he heard the string of obscenities. He quickly realized that they came from the showers. Stella! She was still in there, trying to find her way in the dark…
Mr. Nice, Don's head-strong southern "friend", beat him to the punch line: a WET and NAKED Stella Bonasera was trying to find her way back to the locker room… and into his arms.
Xxx XXX xxX
A/N: I know. Short. And weird. And a cliffhanger to boot. It wouldn't be me if I wrote a fluff-n-smut that didn't end too soon AND involved a cliffhanger now, would it? Promise to update ASAP!