Page 17 of Crocodile Tears
“That’s for chemical exposure emergencies, not vanity emergencies.”
“Dr.L, you are literally covered in unknown chemical compounds.This qualifies as a chemical exposure emergency.”
She has a point.I grab the dress I brought this morning for tonight’s date, hanging with the clothes from my emergency wardrobe (kept in the lab for exactly these situations) and head for the chemical wash station.The emergency shower is designed to remove hazardous materials from skin and clothing, not to prepare someone for a romantic dinner, but desperate times call for creative solutions.
The water is cold, the soap is industrial-strength, and the entire process feels like being decontaminated after a nuclear incident, but it works.Ten minutes later, I emerge clean, if slightly abraded by the aggressive cleaning process.I’d planned to go home and prepare carefully for this date, maybe even do something with my hair that doesn’t involve laboratory chemicals.Instead, I’m getting ready in a lab bathroom using supplies designed for hazmat situations.
“Dr.L, you look great,” she says as I attempt to tame my hair using the mirror above the emergency wash station.“Very professional scientist meets attractive woman about town.”
“I smell like industrial soap and sulfur compounds.”
“You smell like someone who’s dedicated to her work.Calvin will probably find that attractive.”
The drive to Scales and Tails takes longer than expected thanks to traffic and my complete inability to remember where I put my car keys after the…incident.By the time I arrive, I’m fifteen minutes late and still flustered from the afternoon’s disasters.
The restaurant’s exterior suggests someone who understands shifter psychology—tinted windows for privacy, wide entrance doors to accommodate unexpected size changes, and what appears to be reinforced construction.A discreet sign by the door indicates “Shifter Accommodations Available,” which is both reassuring and slightly ominous.
Inside, the lighting is warm but not harsh, the tables are spaced far enough apart for private conversations, and the floor has drain systems that suggest they’re prepared for unexpected shifting incidents.A hostess with distinctly feline features guides me toward a corner table, where Calvin is already waiting.
He stands as I approach, moving with the kind of controlled grace that suggests military training, and I notice he’s positioned himself at a table with clear sight lines to all entrances.The tactical awareness should probably be concerning, but instead, it’s oddly comforting.Here’s someone who pays attention to his environment and plans for contingencies.
“Dr.Lawson, you look lovely.”His smile seems genuine rather than polite.“I was starting to worry you’d changed your mind.”
“Rebecca, please, and I’m sorry I’m late.I had a minor laboratory incident involving chemicals and emergency decontamination procedures.”
Calvin’s expression shifts to something that might be concern.“Are you injured?”
“Only my dignity—and possibly some irreplaceable tissue samples that are now decorating the lab floor.”I settle into my chair, grateful for furniture that feels solid enough to handle unexpected shifter biology.“How long have you been waiting?”
“About forty-five minutes.I arrived early to… assess the situation.”
The careful way he phrases this suggests there’s more to the story, but I appreciate his honesty about being early rather than making excuses about traffic.
The menu offers an impressive variety of options designed for shifter dietary needs—high-protein selections, raw preparations, and dishes that can be eaten with claws if necessary.It’s exactly the kind of practical consideration that makes shifter-friendly establishments worth the extra effort.
“So,” I say, studying the offerings, “Red mentioned you do security consulting.That sounds fascinating and slightly mysterious.”
His expression becomes carefully neutral.“I spent eight years in Special Forces and then transitioned to private security work.I’m currently trying to figure out how to apply those skills in less… explosive situations.”
“Less explosive how?”
“Fewer guns, fewer hostile governments, and fewer situations where success is measured by who’s still breathing at the end.”He meets my gaze directly, clearly watching for my reaction.“It’s a significant career transition.”
Most people would probably be alarmed by such casual mentions of violence, but I nod thoughtfully.“That sounds like moving from defensive research to constructive research.There’s something satisfying about creation that destruction can’t match.”
Calvin’s surprise is obvious.“You’re not concerned about my background?”
“Should I be?You’re not currently pointing weapons at anyone, and you seem committed to building rather than destroying.”I shrug.“Besides, my research focuses on healing and regeneration.I appreciate the value of people who’ve dedicated their lives to protecting others.”
The tension in his shoulders visibly relaxes.“Most people find my work history… concerning.”
“Most people haven’t spent their careers studying violence at the cellular level.Controlled violence in service of protection is different from violence for its own sake.”I lean forward, genuinely curious.“What’s driving the career change?”
“I want to build something lasting instead of just solving immediate problems.I’m tired of measuring my value by my capacity for violence.”
The honesty in his voice is refreshing after months of men who dance around their actual motivations.“What kind of something?”
He hesitates before shrugging.“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.Maybe something that uses my tactical skills for environmental protection or humanitarian work.Maybe something completely different.”
