It was obvious from the moment Brady and Daphne walked through the swinging door that they had been bickering since Baltimore. They were still doing it as they walked past his desk, but Chaz--who had been alone in the bullpen until then--didn't even bother lifting his head.
Brady said patiently, "Gray."
Daphne slung her satchel on the desk, dropped into her chair, and replied with infinite forbearance, "Blue."
Brady propped a hip on the corner of his desk. It creaked alarmingly. "Gray."
"Blue," Daphne explained, while Chaz rested his left hand across his mouth and concentrated very hard on the statistical breakdown of major crimes in the Northeast for 2004.
But Brady shook his head and, in the tone of someone dealing with a four-year-old's fit of the Whys, said, "Gray."
Daphne spun her chair around, crossed her arms, and leaned forward. "Totally blue. Blue like a blue thing! Blue. Chaz, tell him Sol's eyes are blue."
Yup. Hand across the mouth was one of his better ideas, because he managed to bite down on the knuckles until his giggles passed, and with every air of obliviousness, reply: "Gunmetal."
A startled second later, Daphne crowed out loud, rocking back in her chair hard enough to rattle the casters against the floor.
Disgustedly, behind her, Brady said, "Sheeit. Even his eyes can't keep their story straight."
