45 : In Hallways
Stark made her way through the main lobby of the Hoover Building. It was pretty much the only time she saw the main part of FBI headquarters; she'd be down in the basement for much of the rest of the day.
"Hey, Stark, how's the face?" someone called from behind her and she stopped and turned. The voice belonged to Paul Grassi, the 29-year-old Gang Task Force agent who had pulled her off that suspect just two days earlier. "You doin' okay?" he asked with his New York accent.
"Still a little sore, but better," she replied. "My hand's loosening up and I'm not popping Aleve like candy anymore." The bruising on her knuckles was starting to fade, and everything else was healing. The only reminder of what had happened to her was the scab forming on her lip and some faint bruising round her cheekbone. "Look, Paul, I gotta say thank you. You got me out of there before it got any worse."
He shrugged. "Hey. Nobody beats up on an FBI agent. Not gonna let that happen," he said easily. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."
She chuckled at that. The two of them didn't even know each other that well. They'd probably talked maybe three or four times, passing in the hall or when a case at CID had required some help from the GTF. But they didn't know each other. He had no real reason to go and help her. But he'd been right in the melee, throwing his arms around her and pulling her out of harm's way. And he had actually looked honestly pissed off about what happened. As in, leave and go punch something pissed off. That had touched her. She couldn't articulate how much that had boosted her ego.
Instead, as she thumbed the button for the elevator and he checked his cell phone for messages, she said, "Can I buy you a drink sometime? I don't really get out much, but it's the least I can do for you. Probably should call up Lambrecht and Kelley while we're at it."
He laughed at that, tucking his phone back into his jacket. "Sure, anytime," he said. "Though I don't get out much either. Just playin' poker on Wednesdays and paintball on the weekends. Not with a two-year-old at home."
She grinned. "You play paintball, Paul? I had no idea. I play with a league team. You should look into it. After all we know you've got a mean grip and some confidence," she teased.
He snorted. "Yeah, and my wife tells me I don't know when to shut up," he added, stepping into the elevator with her. "Sure. I'll give you a call. But hey, you don't need to thank me. It's just part of the job. Not that I'd stop you..."
"Of course not," she said, laughing. Maybe she had more friends left than she thought. Or, if not friends, at least people whom she could trust to do the right thing. Maybe things would work out after all.
"Hey, Stark, how's the face?" someone called from behind her and she stopped and turned. The voice belonged to Paul Grassi, the 29-year-old Gang Task Force agent who had pulled her off that suspect just two days earlier. "You doin' okay?" he asked with his New York accent.
"Still a little sore, but better," she replied. "My hand's loosening up and I'm not popping Aleve like candy anymore." The bruising on her knuckles was starting to fade, and everything else was healing. The only reminder of what had happened to her was the scab forming on her lip and some faint bruising round her cheekbone. "Look, Paul, I gotta say thank you. You got me out of there before it got any worse."
He shrugged. "Hey. Nobody beats up on an FBI agent. Not gonna let that happen," he said easily. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."
She chuckled at that. The two of them didn't even know each other that well. They'd probably talked maybe three or four times, passing in the hall or when a case at CID had required some help from the GTF. But they didn't know each other. He had no real reason to go and help her. But he'd been right in the melee, throwing his arms around her and pulling her out of harm's way. And he had actually looked honestly pissed off about what happened. As in, leave and go punch something pissed off. That had touched her. She couldn't articulate how much that had boosted her ego.
Instead, as she thumbed the button for the elevator and he checked his cell phone for messages, she said, "Can I buy you a drink sometime? I don't really get out much, but it's the least I can do for you. Probably should call up Lambrecht and Kelley while we're at it."
He laughed at that, tucking his phone back into his jacket. "Sure, anytime," he said. "Though I don't get out much either. Just playin' poker on Wednesdays and paintball on the weekends. Not with a two-year-old at home."
She grinned. "You play paintball, Paul? I had no idea. I play with a league team. You should look into it. After all we know you've got a mean grip and some confidence," she teased.
He snorted. "Yeah, and my wife tells me I don't know when to shut up," he added, stepping into the elevator with her. "Sure. I'll give you a call. But hey, you don't need to thank me. It's just part of the job. Not that I'd stop you..."
"Of course not," she said, laughing. Maybe she had more friends left than she thought. Or, if not friends, at least people whom she could trust to do the right thing. Maybe things would work out after all.