Genre: Genderbent, HumanAU
Warning: Strippers, Jerks
Summary: The story of how Arthur and Amelia got married is a very long and complicated one - and neither agree on it.
Notes: Blame Carrie.
Alas my love
The first time Arthur Kirkland meets Amelia Jones, he's not even aware she is Amelia Jones. He thinks she's Roxanna, the sexy stripper-waitress-needs-more-clothing-
He'd've been happy with just the beer, but they insisted, and since they were paying for his very many, piss poor beers....
Either way he sees one stripper, tall and blond with those honey-brown eyes and feels his jaw drop. She's wearing what wouldn't even pass for a bikini back home on the most adventurous of women, and is sauntering casually around with a tray full of drinks. He hadn't been very fond of his new co-workers before, but suddenly at the way they get around her, he really doesn't like them.
He pleads exhaustion, and goes home.
Three weeks later, he's boarding the bus in the rain, when a familiar looking blond comes charging up yelling for him to hold the bus. Except this blond has blue eyes and glasses, but she's still wearing clothes that has to breaking decency laws (but this is Vegas so it's not really.) He coughs and before she can light into him the way he can tell she wants to from the look on her face, he offers her his coat. It's cold out, it's a warm coat, it's long and it'll cover all that very lovely, tanned, did he mention lovely? skin currently on display.
Plus it's raining.
And he's a gentleman.
And that's a lot of very tanned, pretty skin on display.
She stares at him for a moment then accepts, eyes narrowed at him, before warning him that she's not that kind of girl thank you very much.
And that is how Arthur Kirkland considers to be his first meeting with Amelia Jones. Her version is a bit different.
The first time Amelia Jones meets Arthur Kirkland is not the seedy, smoky interior of a strip club. Instead, it's the clean, sterile environment of the Las Vegas Crime Lab where she's just been told that they aren't going to be accepting any interns for the upcoming term. The money that would normally have been set aside for the internships had been appropriated to fund the Officer Exchange program this year.
No one has to actually spell it out for her, but it's pretty damn obvious to her that the Police Commissioner is a bit peeved that she didn't do more then just merely strip for his brother in law a few months ago. Catherine is one of the nicest CSI's she's ever met and pulls her aside after she finds out that, no she'll not be interning next year at Las Vegas, to tell her that the night crew is working on a way to get an intern anyway. And given that she's the darling of the Vice squad, and She-Who-Brings-Coffee for the night CSIs and the patrol officers, there's a very little chance she won't get when they do managed to scrounge up the funds.
Never let it be said Amelia Jones doesn't know how to do what she can to make sure she's got the job. But as she walks (and not stalks thank you!) she passes by the front desk where a blond man is standing, arguing with the front desk. Amelia slows down just a bit so she can overhear the conversation.
“What do you mean, I'm not on the list!”
Poor Merle looks like he's about to cry. The blond man is English from the sound of it, and that's a yummy accent. Amelia likes the English – they tip well. “I'm, I'm sorry sir. But your name isn't on my immediate list!”
The blond leans over, bracing both arms against the top of the counter. “Check. Again.”
Now as Amelia knows, Merle Jessup is a well trained officer. He's on the front desk because his partner's off at a Feel-Good-Love-All-People-Be-One-With-
Merle jerks up and sends her a look of muted gratitude. “How'd it go?” The Englishman frowns at her and starts to open his mouth. She cheerfully interrupts him. Merle's one of Her People, after all, the Englishman is bullying one of Her People, and she has no problem stomping all over his posh accent.
“Ah, well, you know. Budget constraints,” she gestures with a free hand in a lackadaisical pattern. “Next year, ya know?”