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The longer he took to contact Chel, the worse he felt. Most days ended with Dawson being too exhausted to do anything except fall on his bed and groan; he loved being busy and away from the basement, make no mistake, but the aches and sores made anything he thought had been challenging back home look like child's play. God, he didn't want to know what it would be like in the summer...Well, assuming he survived for that long.

But finally, finally a Sunday came when Dawson's duties were relatively light: just a beach patrol after some shadowing in the infirmary (which he had yet to take to; seeing how bad some people had it just made his heart twist and his hands shake). So shortly before lunch, he fired off a text and prayed she was forgiving.

Okay, at least she didn't sound mad. Though who really knew with a "kk"? It was better than a no at least...

With something to look forward to, infirmary duty went by faster. Or maybe the hunter he was shadowing got fed up with how queasy his charge was; the sight of blood made Dawson antsy even before the Amazon Trip Disaster. Either way beach duty came rather quickly, and Dawson used the opportunity to scout out where a good place would be for them. The weather was mild for November, and luckily it stayed sunny through the end of his shift. After saying bye to his patrol partner, he texted Chel where to find him in about forty-five minutes and scurried to get his things.

With two shiny checks for two thankfully uneventful months to cash in, Dawson gave the Denny's he went to a run for their money. He wasn't buying for just two: leftovers were also his aim. After nearly buying half the menu for take out, he rushed back to the spot, plaid blanket under his arm, and began to set up. The spot he chose was a small rise by the beach proper, more grass than sand, which let them have some shade as the sun dipped down.

He was humming as Chel approached, and it abruptly stopped as he hastened to get to his feet to greet her in the equally romantic camo hat (lifted in greeting Like A Gentleman) and old FLYING SOLO shirt (complete with a winged red solo cup to boot). "Suuuup. Wait, I-I was?" he asked, mystified until he realized it was a joke and laughed. "I'll getcha yer own pony fer Christmas."

Dawson gestured to the spread, which had everything from chocolate pancakes to country fried steak and potatoes, Belgian waffles to omelette stuffed with spice and bell peppers, hot hash browns to fresh hush puppies, and exactly one metric ******** of crispy bacon. "Gotta nice spread, yeah?" he said, looking mildly proud of himself and his obvious procuring skills. "Help yerself. Oh, uh." He dug out the plastic plates, utensils, and napkins out of his duffle bag. "There we go. Y'said y'liked chocolate pancakes, right?"

Then he saw the beer and broke into a big smile. "Awwww yeah!"

With a soft "d'oh" as his hat was taken again, he sheepishly smoothed his hair down (as always failing with the cowlick) and plopped down as gestured. "Aww, well, thanks...Ain't nothin'." Dawson in contrast made a great heaping pile of food on his plate to down together, all but coated in bacon; then a whole cup of syrup was drizzled on top. His mouth watered before he started to really dig into the mixed monstrosity, the burst of flavor soothing him.

"So, how'd yer day go, darlin'?" he asked to start things off. "I, uh, I know I already said it, but sawry fer taken so long again. Town work really tuckers a guy out..." Even lifting his hands to hold the plate and stab his fork hurt a little.

"Sun run...Uhhh, that the one with all them shadows?" he asked with a spooky wiggle of his fingers. "I need ta train, but man...idea've a room full've 'em gives me the jinkies, dunno 'bout you..." Embarrassing for a hunter, he knew, but Chel gave him the vibe that she wouldn't really judge him for it, which was really nice; most of his time was spent in anxiety, mild to supreme, over how he was holding up in comparison to the others. Even now he was a little antsy at somehow ruining their little date, despite having no evidence that he had screwed up yet. The "yet" part was important.

Ladies keepin' ya up, though, that was a good one. Dawson gave a weak laugh and wiped his chin with a napkin. "Naw, nothin' like that, hun," he assured her with a shake of his head. "Normally just stuff like checkin' out buildin's that ain't got a soul inside fer a while, clearin' it a'shadows, uh, doin' a sweep fer different stuff f'it's more intact, haulin' tarp n' plywood fer temp reconstruction 'til someone gets the big guns, runnin' more supplies fer them, gettin' coffee, tools...uh...Or f'it's in the dorms, s'usually like checkin' plumbin', fixin' windows, sometimes gettin' called ta clean up a mess here or there—oh, one time I got ta shadow someone doin' a project fer a friend in their dorm fer 'spansion...then there's, uh, stuff in the hospital," he made a face, "which I ain't got a handle on yet. Last time I tried ta help prep someone fer operation, I almost gotta tooth knocked out 'cause the guy was real out've it, musta been the meds, 'cause he thought I was a monster or somethin'—"

His speech was as languidly placed and earnest as ever, meandering this way and that as he accidentally went into a tangent about the rigors of his schedule, not at all to boast but to make plain that he really, really did get busy sometimes, sorry.

Somewhere in the middle of it, her phone went off.

He tilted his head and considered it. "Guess that makes sense," Dawson agreed after a moment of imagining crushing the things--naturally as a buffer version of himself to boot, and also with explosions of the rest of them in the background. He gave a smile of chagrin. "Maybe's s'more've me just, uh, bein' m'usual scardey Scoob self. I don' wanna go in n' like make m'self a fool, y'know? Already feel like m'a freshman here again, 'cept everyone's a jock..."

But enough whining. Bacon was the solution to his woes.

Dawson made motions at her when she brought up phone calls to substitute for talking while his mouth was chock full of sausage and bacon, something along the lines of no problem. When he swallowed and sighed in content, he added, "Right, yeah, unless y'gotta go be somewhere? 'Cause I understand if duty calls." God forbid he stop Chel from being Important.

Belatedly he realized what had been forgotten in his haste to eat, and he quickly wiped his mouth and surrounding facial hair (which thank to a lazy razor and Too Much Work, was starting to thicken around his jaw) and scooted closer himself. Anxious and hopeful, he combed his hair back down in what he thought was something more presentable, threw an arm around her shoulders, and kissed her cheek.

"Right, uh--Welcome t'our date, m'lday!" Dawson announced with gusto, like this was the true beginning of their meeting; with his hunger dealt with, he felt renewed. "Shoulda said that first. First yer gonna eat t'yer heart's content, food from the finest chefs've Denny's. Then we gonna pack up n' walk the beach since ya said you like those, n' it's real nice out, n' I already did m'knightly duty n' checked fer wild beasties so we good!" He stole his cap back for an official sounding salute. "N' then if the lady wants, we could go squash some shadows in town or somethin'! Y'know, t'work off our meal n' have some fun."

If and when Chel checked her phone, there would be a text dated five minutes after the attempted call.

He was mildly concerned when it looked like she was choking and then greatly relieved when she proved she wasn't. He did not know the Heimlich maneuver: she would have gotten an uncomfortable squeeze and/or possibly an accidental grope and/or accidentally dry humped instead. But Chel did look like something was stuck in her throat for a moment, the way she frowned at her phone--or had he imagined that? He wasn't sure if it was polite to ask.

Dawson reached for a can and popped it open, beaming and blushing as his hat was taken back and paid for with a kiss. "Aww~ Y'like it, huh? I know what else t'getcha fer Christmas," he said with a wink. "But take yer time, hun, we ain't in no hurry. S'a Sunday, yeah? Yer supposed t'rest n' all." He gulped down some Pabst. "Saaaay, y'do somethin' to yer hair? Looks different. Y'got it cut, didn'tcha?"