“You’re kidding me, right?” Patty yells and covers her eyes, almost knocking herself in the face with their order of Thai food, so she no longer has to see Holtzman, wearing what looks like some kind of battery powered dildo, power-fucking a pumpkin in the middle of their offices. “You’re kidding me!”
“Indeed I am not, my good friend,” Holtzman calls cheerfully, eyes obscured by her safety goggles, though Patty already knows from the size of her grin that they’re likely to be filled with unholy glee at her latest… whatever the hell this is. “As you three requested at our last liaison, I am conducting field tests before bringing my particular expertise to the bedroom.”
“On a pumpkin?” Patty flails at the same time as Abby calmly walks by and says, “not your only expertise, my friend” and holds up a hand that Holtzman immediately high-fives.
“It’s better this way,” Erin calls out, and Patty gingerly steps further into the office to see Erin at one of the other desks, also wearing safety goggles for some reason, as she types away on her laptop.
Erin looks up and smiles wryly. “The first melon blew up,” which, now that she mentions it, Patty can smell a slight singe in the air. Though really, it’s normal now to come in and expect this; if someone could invent a degree for setting shit on fire, Holtzman would own the place.
“She didn’t blow up the second melon,” Abby points out from where she’s cataloguing the EMP readings on their last case.
Erin grins at her and plays along, so much more relaxed that the uptight white lady Patty first met here. “No, she did not.”
Patty raises an eyebrow and Holtzman grins at her, hips still pumping away with a dull metallic whirr underlying everything. “I may have cored the melon.”
“She’s a fucking melon baller,” Abby cackles as Patty facepalms.
“And this is why we switched to pumpkins,” Erin concludes.
“Because they don’t core as easy?” Patty checks.
“Because they’re cheaper,” Holtzman calls out.
Which is just so— “Couldn’t we just get a regular dildo at like, a shop. A regular sex shop?” Patty checks. “You know, not risk our privates being melon-balled?” It seems like so little to ask.
“But we’re scientists!” Holtzman announces. “We’re discovering an amazing future. And, if you let me hook you up to a couple of leads during our next sexual episode”— Patty has never met anyone who says this shit the way Holtzman does, like it’s totally normal—“I could probably tailor this bad boy to you.”
“Pass,” Patty concludes.
“Abby and Erin did it,” Holtzman offers, sweat beginning to dampen the ends of her hair, grin still as wide as ever, hips still working like she’s battery powered herself.
(Actually Patty should probably check on that later; she would put nothing past these guys.)
“For science!” Abby fist-pumps.
“For orgasms! And because data is always relevant,” Erin chimes in.
“Why can’t you guys be normal and just get off?” Patty groans.
“Because science,” Holtzman yells, waiting for Patty to look over so she can do jazz-hands. “Also, patents. This baby is gonna make us rich and pay for that fancy firestation office.”
Patty thinks that one over.
“Okay,” she says, dropping the Thai off on a desk. “Screw it. I’m in.”