Fic: Against His Better Judgment (Criminal Minds, Rossi/Prentiss, FRAO)

[omgmetoo]

Title: Against His Better Judgment
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi, Criminal Minds
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Summary: "It has to be Prentiss because she's damn good, and reliable, and there's no one else he'd rather send. Which is both the truth and the biggest lie he's ever told."

Notes: smittywing started it. And then she was gracious enough to let me write the other side. And to totally ignore all the arbitrary wordcount rules I'd set for her. You can read Emily's side of the story here: Against Her Better Judgment. Now it's Rossi's turn.

"That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment."
-Dorothy Parker, 'But the One on the Right,' in New Yorker, 1929



Rossi checks the wire - double-checks it. Behind him, Hotch sits in a chair, watching. Reid and Morgan are with Prentiss; she'll be behind him by a good forty-five minutes. You can kill a lot of scotch in forty-five minutes. Rossi wishes he dared.

Hotch says nothing. Rossi wishes he'd spit it out.

He smooths his beard and eyes his Springfield. They've had this conversation a million times, and he's been convinced - strangers, dark alleys, firearms, et cetera - but it doesn't make him like it.

He frowns at the mirror and knows Hotch hasn't missed a thing. He turns for the door.

"Dave," his one-time protege says, and Rossi stops. The fact he wants to put his hand through drywall is not Hotch's fault. If he can't lock this down, it's not just his own hide at risk - which is part of the problem.

"Aaron," he answers, hand on the doorknob. "I can do this."

"I was only going to say," comes the response, "that when this is over, I'll buy you an actual drink."

"When this is over," Rossi finally says, thankful that they're going to leave this - all of this - unspoken, "you'll buy me a goddamn bottle. A good one. I might even share it." It's not a good joke, but it gets him a laugh. When he walks through the door, at least he knows there's one other person who wishes they'd come up with a better solution.

Forty-five minutes later, he's sick of cheap cigarette smoke and thankful he's not required to drink the stuff in his glass. Whatever it is, it isn't scotch. Paint thinner, maybe. He bares his teeth in what passes for a grin, winking at a pretty young thing that meets his stare. She's not really young and pretty is generous, but the guy Rossi's playing wouldn't look hard enough to notice.

Frankly, the guy he's supposed to be is getting bored. There's not much here to interest him. A bartender jiggles over, the top she's wearing concealing nothing, least of all the absence of her bra. He leers, which has the desired result: she gives him the stinkeye and leaves him alone.

He's not sure, he admits, one eye on the door, why he's so particularly on edge this time around. This unsub rubs Rossi exactly the wrong way, which is saying something, given that unsubs are the BAU's stock in trade.

Prentiss seems fine, although she's been giving him unreadable looks for the better part of the afternoon. She's treating it as just another part of the job, and Rossi supposes that's exactly the problem. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Prentiss is a Spencer Reid-level genius at handling compartmentalization. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Rossi thinks he'd give her a run for her money, but this time is well within the other one percent.

This White Knight is swooping in on physical fights. Pimps beating prostitutes. Johns expressing dissatisfaction with the quality of the service. Dave's going to have to get physical with Emily at some point - and he's the best option. Hotch is too damn tony - would be even in sweats and a gym shirt. Morgan's too much of a threat - Rossi wouldn't take him on in a dark alley and he'd bet the unsub wouldn't either. No one'd mentioned Reid, and it's not because he's ninety pounds dripping wet. It has to be Rossi.

It has to be Prentiss. She's tall, dark, and slender, just like five women before her, but that's not the reason. It has to be Prentiss because she's damn good, and reliable, and there's no one else he'd rather send. Which is both the truth and the biggest lie he's ever told.

The mic crackles in his ear, breaking his reverie. Hotch says, "Prentiss is down the street. She'll be there in five."

"Ten," says JJ over the channel. "Clearly you've never walked down a cracked sidewalk at night in stilettos."

"Clearly," Hotch responds, and Morgan and Reid laugh. They're whistling in the dark, and Rossi spares a moment to be grateful. Then it's time to settle the mask into place.

He'd have seen her the moment she walked in even if he hadn't been watching the door. Even in fishnets and the lowest-cut top he's ever seen, she's still classier than anything else in the bar. She yells for a beer and he lets himself catch her eye long enough to establish the scene. He sees a flash of something he can't read, and then she's flirting with a bartender and working it like hell - which is his cue.

He's the alpha in this joint and she's his - even if she doesn't know it yet. The bartender's handed over the bottle and is leaning over to chat when Dave slaps his cash down. "I'll be paying for the lady's drinks tonight," he says, turning his back on the bar, looking out over the room and watching Emily sidelong. Dave feels the bartender hesitate and says mildly, "Keep the change." The kid vanishes.

Satisfied, he turns to his company for the evening, who's canting her hip his direction and smiling out from under her lashes. He takes his time looking her over, letting his eyes warm with unfeigned appreciation. That much, at least, is honest. "What's your name?" he asks, and they're off and running.

Twice other men appear; twice Dave warns them off with little more than a look and a very possessive hand on Emily's shoulder. It's easier to think of her - of himself - in terms of first names. He lets his body language grow domineering. He's got one eye on the clock, and all he can offer her are quick taps on the knee when the clock hits their best guess at the right time.

She rubs against him and Dave sets his glass down hard. "Come on," he orders. "We're getting out of here." His hand's on her arm, daring her to argue - which she does.

"Hold on a sec," she says, and he leans in, warning off anyone who might decide the conversation's open to the public. "Come on, you little tease," he growls, and turns without giving her warning, hand wrapped hard around her arm, giving no quarter when those damn stilettos make her stumble.

Rossi brushes his thumb against her arm as he lets go - apology and reassurance and a reminder to himself that this is not really them. If he's going to hate someone for this in the cold light of morning, it'll damn well be the unsub. "You okay?" he murmurs, taking her by the shoulder.

"Shh," Prentiss hisses. She'd be within her rights to give him hell. He expects she will. Then Emily's squalling, voice frightened and annoyed as he manhandles her down the block. ""Where are we going? Where are you taking me?"

Dave shoves her down the alley, just far enough that the streetlights don't cut through the shadows, and muscles her up against the wall. She's squirming against him and she feel good, so he leans in harder - which is when she spits in his eye.

Dave swears and pulls back, making a fist, just like he's supposed to, but then he looks at her, and it may be Emily there in fishnets and a too-tight top, but it's also Prentiss, flushed and determined. Sometimes he hates the BAU for the choices he has to make. Sometimes. Now, for instance.

Her eyes go wide and he knows she's caught him out. "Do it," she whispers. "Dave. Now." Which is when Rossi realizes that even if this is the one percent of the time Prentiss has him beat for compartmentalization, she's still wrong about this. So he hardens his face and steels himself and brings his fist down.

Into the wall.

He pulls it, but it still hurts like fuck all.

It's worth it.

Emily's face is white and her scream is strangled - he's surprised her. He's still got his good hand on her shoulder; when she screams again he brings the battered one up to her mouth as if to cover it.

He's just brushed her cheek, leaving a smudge of blood, when someone clocks him in the jaw hard and he lets himself go down. He really hates method acting, he thinks.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he hears - a light tenor, but the guy's got enough resonance that he's well into adulthood.

"You - you saved me," Emily quavers. Rossi remembers just in time not to grit his teeth. That's Emily. Not Prentiss.

"I'm going to take good care of you," the unsub says, and all Rossi can do is stay down and pretend he doesn't know what happens next - like they haven't heard it from five other scumbags who heard this guy rescue the women they'd been beating. "Come on," the unsub says. "Let's get you out of here."

It's not till Hotch gives the all-clear that Rossi moves, but then he's down the alley and into the back of an unmarked car as fast as he can manage.

JJ's riding shotgun. Yarrow, their liaison and a pretty decent detective, is driving - he's a good five or six minutes behind the surveillance van, and Rossi's grateful to have somebody local at the wheel. Tailing an unsub at night's bad enough when you know the turf.

He tips his head back against the seat and lets himself close his eyes, just briefly. Reid's passing along anything pertinent from Prentiss's wire, but right now she's - the unsub's - still on the move. She's still talking to them, and Reid says she sounds fine. He scrubs his good hand over the part of his face that doesn't hurt and tells himself to focus.

They don't know much about this guy - scratch that. They know practically nothing about this guy. Even the profile has more leeway than usual. That's why they've had to resort to this plan in the first place. They all know it's important for Prentiss to take this as far as possible. As far as is safely possible, he recalls Hotch stressing. He'd been grateful, at the time, not to be the one offering the reminder.

Something lands in his lap and he jerks upright. JJ's turned around and is watching him. The offending object's a first-aid kit. "This a hint?" he asks, trying hard not to growl.

"You look like shit," she says bluntly. "Sir."

He's always liked JJ.

Still, he doesn't need coddling, even from the school of tough love. "I'm fine," he grits, but JJ's not only blunt, she's sneaky, and apparently she's had her mic live, because Hotch's voice comes in loud and clear.

"Wrap the hand, Dave," Hotch says. "We all heard that punch."

"Jesus Christ," he swears, but he knows when he's lost and he fumbles the latch on the first-aid kit. He's pulled out the Ace bandage and made a hash of things one-handed in about thirty seconds. "Jesus Christ," he says again, because it's cathartic and he's pretty sure Yarrow'd be laughing at him if they weren't all worrying about what was going to happen next.

JJ turns around again and he glares at her. Wisely, she says nothing, but she unhooks her belt and kneels up on the seat, leaning over and grabbing the bandage and - more gently - his hand. He hisses and her eyes flick up to his face, but he just nods and she finishes the job, wrapping his hand so damn tight he'd worry about the circulation if it weren't for the fact that it actually seems to have helped. He flexes his fingers gently. JJ offers him a smile that he thinks has nothing to do with the kit and settles back into her seat.

Dave wonders if the whole fucking Bureau knows what he's thinking these days.

"Thanks," he says quietly. "Where the hell'd you learn that?"

"High school soccer is a deadly sport," JJ answers.

He'd twit her about it, but Hotch is back on the radio and his voice is tight. "They're stopping," he says. "Old abandoned church. I'm circling the block."

"Emily's inside," Reid reports immediately. "She's trying not to push him." The kid's voice is a little strained. He's not a kid, Rossi thinks, and realizes his jaw hurts because he's trying to grind his teeth.

"We're about four blocks behind you," Morgan says. "We're gonna pull over here and walk up. Officer Matthews is staying with the van."

Garcia pulls the location from Hotch's cell in a matter of moments and passes it on.

"Got it," Yarrow says, taking a hard left when JJ relays the information. "We're five minutes out."

Five minutes takes forever. He listens to Hotch send Morgan and Reid off to reconnoiter. Garcia's been digging since they got the asshole's plates. By the time they pull up, joining Hotch in the weedy remains of a parking lot, she's rattling off the unsub's entire personal history.

Rossi's not really listening - he'll get the Cliff Notes later. Right now, there's just the faintest suggestion of light in one of the windows and it seems to be taking up all of his attention. "Any movement?" he asks.

"Nothing," Hotch answers, equally focused, which is kind of a relief.

Then Morgan and Reid circle back up and things start moving very quickly. Again.

"Two entrances from the outside, one from inside the church somewhere," Morgan says. "Visibility's bad once we're in position - no good view. They're in a social hall outside the sanctuary. Big. Open. Empty. If we don't go in fast, he'll hear us or see us coming."

"What's happening?" Yarrow demands.

"They're eating dinner," Reid answers. "Acting out his fantasy."

"There's no weapon immediately visible," says Morgan. "Plain old dinner knives on the table. Can't tell if Prentiss still has her bag, but she's calm. Not eating." Smart cookie, Dave thinks, and tries to relax a fraction. She knows what she's doing, he reminds himself.

Hotch has been thinking hard. "Morgan, JJ, Yarrow - back entrance. Rossi, Reid, we're front. Prentiss isn't in distress," and he makes sure he's got everyone's attention before he continues. "We wait till we hear a reason to go in. It's her call. Do not jump the gun on this one."

They split up and move in - and then they wait. Again. The air's thick with damp - it's probably around three in the morning now. The door's solid. Rossi doesn't know how they're going to hear a fucking thing. He's uncomfortably aware that he can't actually handle the gun he's got strapped to his ankle because he had to go and punch a goddamn wall. So much for chivalry, he thinks, but then he sees Prentiss's face again, wide-eyed in the gloom, and he knows it'd work out this way every time.

Hotch sends Reid off to check the window and report. Rossi isn't fooled.

"Say your piece, Aaron," he says. He's tired and he hurts and he's known Aaron Hotchner a long time. Rossi feels old.

Beside him in the dark, Hotch doesn't answer for a few moments - not till they can make out Reid, loping back toward them over the parking lot. Reid's almost within earshot when Hotch grins, teeth flashing white in the gloom. "Next time," Hotch says, "pick a softer patch of wall."

They're waiting, hardly breathing, when there's a distant thud - and shortly thereafter, a horrible, horrible scream that is, he's almost sure, absolutely not Prentiss. "Now," Hotch snaps, and they're in the door, and it all pans out just exactly the way it's supposed to.

For the most part, Rossi amends, because he's caught sight of the table and the dinner and the fucking pointed steel pipe. That's when he has to stop and step back, because Morgan has the unsub well in hand and JJ's checking on Emily, and if Rossi takes another step forward, he's going to pound that sonofabitch into a bloody pulp.

Yarrow's on the radio calling for a bus. Hotch and Reid are already scouring the place for any scraps of proof it might have to offer. Morgan's got a knee in the unsub's back and the guy's arm pulled up behind. The bastard's bleeding hard but not fatally, though Rossi can't figure out why till he lets himself move a few steps closer and sees the shoe on the ground.

Morgan's following the same train of thought, apparently. ""Damn, woman. What did you do to this guy?"

"There's a reason they call them stilettos," JJ quips, and helps Prentiss up. Rossi lets himself run an eye over her; steps just close enough to see, but keeps JJ between them. Prentiss is shivering, but it could just be the chill in the air. Still. Best give her space.

He can offer his jacket, at least, and passes it off to JJ without a word.

Only then JJ leaves, and it's him and Prentiss in a tiny pocket of quiet while the rest of the team gets on with business. He looks at her, and he can't figure out what's in his own head. Satisfaction. Pride. Anger. Frustration. Guilt. Relief. He can't really keep track.

"Is it broken?" she asks, nodding at his hand. He'd like to wipe the smear of blood off her cheek, but he's not sure he trusts himself to touch her. She watches him, and slips her arms into his jacket.

He looks away. "The consensus is that it's fractured." What consensus, he doesn't know, but it's something to say. "Hurts like a bitch, though."

"That was stupid," she answers. When he glances over, she's got a funny little half-smile on her face.

"Also the consensus," he admits, and okay, he's pretty sure he can count the votes for that one.

She shakes her head and crosses her arms, and he has to laugh, because he's seen that irritation a million times before. "Why aren't you at the hospital?" she demands.

"He will be," Hotch says to Prentiss, coming up out of nowhere. They both jump. "And so will you."

Amen to that, Rossi thinks.

---

The only good thing about the course of recent events, Rossi thinks as the plane touches down at Quantico, is that he missed all the paperwork. He flexes his hand and tries not to wince. The fracture isn't bad, which means they've put him on painkillers the size of horse pills instead of the little ones that actually work.

These don't do much more than dull the ache and make him tired enough that he doesn't give Hotch shit for bundling him into a cab with Prentiss. She gives the driver his address before he gets his mouth open, which is a surprise. She hasn't said much else since they headed to the hospital. Rossi figures she needs space - figures the best he can do is let her call the shots - but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So he doesn't argue, just like he doesn't argue when she says she's tired and heads upstairs. To his room. When he walks in, she's sitting on the bed, a very familiar glint in her eye, and he realizes that she's decided it's time to talk. He looks at her, at the strain at the corner of her eyes, and he knows he's not ready for this conversation tonight.

"I'll be back in a second," he says before she speaks. "I need either a shower or a drink, and painkillers and alcohol don't mix." He isn't really lying - not that Prentiss hasn't seen through him, considering the arch of her eyebrow as he closes the door.

The hot water is a godsend - Dave's tired but feeling human again when he gets out. He's scrubbing at his hair with a towel when he opens the door, only to stop, stock still.

Emily Prentiss is asleep wrong-way round on his bed. She's toed off her shoes and socks; her head's on her arms. Her lashes are dark against her cheeks, her lips are mashed sideways, and her hair is a crazy tangle. She's asleep, in his bed, and she looks like she belongs there.

Maybe not right there, Dave amends, smiling slightly. He slings the towel around his waist and walks over. "Prentiss," he says, smoothing a hand down her back. She mutters something unintelligible. "Emily."

"Rossi?" She opens her eyes. He's pretty sure she's not really awake.

"Hey," he says, "how about getting comfortable?" She blinks at him and he smothers a laugh. "C'mon," he coaxes, shifting her till she's sitting. He yanks at the covers, shoving them over, then settles her down right-way-round before flipping the sheet back over her. She curls her hand around the pillow - Dave's pretty sure she won't remember this tomorrow, given how fast her breathing evens out.

He reaches out to smooth the blanket over her shoulder, but it's with his bandaged hand. He pauses then, abruptly aware he's exhausted. He's pulled back the covers on his side of the bed and is sitting on the edge, considering pajamas, when Prentiss's hand brushes his wrist. He turns to look at her - he'd thought she was asleep - and in fact, her eyes are barely open.

"Bed," she mumbles into the corner of the pillow.

Mumbled or no, there's no mistaking the command and Dave doesn't really want to argue. "Bed," he agrees, tossing the towel on the chair. Her eyes are closed when he curls toward her; the last thing he remembers is wrapping an arm around her waist.

Much later, and yet somehow obscenely early, he's aware of her shifting next to him. He tightens his arm, which works for a bit, but eventually she pulls away. He cracks an eye and rolls onto his back; she brushes a kiss against his forehead and says, "Just showering. Go back to sleep."

He tries, but he's caught sight of the bruise that dips under her collar. Eventually he groans and shoves himself to a sitting position, back against the headboard, considering his taped hand. He looks up when Emily reappears; he knows he's in for it when her lips thin into a determined line.

"So," she says, marching over and dragging a chair with her. He figures suspects feel much the same when she comes into an interrogation room. "Agent Rossi doesn't hit girls, does he?"

He grimaces. "Nonna'd have my hide," he answers, knowing it's not her point. He looks back at his hand and thinks about hitting a wall, and the first time he's really hated his job in a long time.

Emily isn't interested in navel-gazing, apparently, and is fully capable of calling his bluff. "I call bullshit," she says, propping her feet on the bed.

"You don't believe my grandmother told me not to hit girls?"

"I don't believe you made it twenty years in the FBI without being able to fake beating a hooker," she retorts. "Is it because we're sleeping together?"

Yeah, he thinks, she's got his number. He doesn't have an easy answer to that. Emily doesn't seem to care - she just waits.

He looks up, eventually. She's watching him calmly. He has no idea what she's looking for him to say, but all he has to offer is the truth. "Wouldn't matter. I wouldn't do a thing differently. Let's just say I don't like hitting girls named Emily of whom I happen to think very highly."

She blushes and smiles, but the compliment makes her look away. "You liked the outfit that much?"

He tries not to sigh in relief at the change in topic. "The fishnets were a nice touch," he answers, knowing he sounds hopeful - but, he rationalizes, it's very important to be honest and the fishnets were an excellent choice. He brushes a finger against her knee, acutely aware that certain key body parts are awake and paying very close attention.

Emily unfastens her robe and it would take a far better man than he not to look - or lust. "Lie back," she murmurs, standing up.

Dave spares a moment to give thanks that he never made it into pajamas last night, because Prentiss is sitting next to him, tugging the covers down, looking at him with open want. He closes his eyes briefly as she runs a hand up his thigh, hauling in a breath as she palms his cock. Her hair brushes against his legs and he opens his eyes, just in time to watch her take him in her mouth.

Jesus, he thinks. "Emily," he says, because it's amazing and it's unexpected and he's rapidly losing his ability to think. He hasn't asked for this - not that she's objected, but he figures it's her call and he can think of lots of other ways to have a lot of fun. Although, he thinks as she sighs gently and takes him deeper, this is a whole lot of fantastic. He reaches out to run a hand through her hair. The only flaw is that he can't see her.

She must get the message, because she rearranges, straddling his leg and looking up at him briefly. She touches her tongue to the tip of his cock as he stares at her, and all he can think is that he's the luckiest sonofabitch in the whole fucking world.

Emily's blushing when she looks away, but then she begins in earnest. "God, Emily," he groans, fumbling for words, because it feels that good. Her mouth is hot and her hands are clever and it would be perfect, he thinks, if he had more of her to touch. He tries not to thrust, touches her hair again instead. "You are beautiful," he says, wishing he knew how to say it better. "So fucking beautiful."

He's so turned on he's fizzing with it. He and Emily have done this enough that he knows the flush under her skin is arousal, not embarrassment, and that just makes him crazier. He bends his knee, giving her a little pressure where she wants it, and his hips stutter up when he realizes exactly how wet she is.

When she starts rubbing off against his leg, he nearly bites his lip trying to hold back, it's that hot. He doesn't know if he groans, but she draws off and sits back. Her lips are red and her hair's wild and if he doesn't get his hands on her now, he might actually go insane. "Em," he says, grateful it's not too choked, "c'mere."

She obliges, leaning forward, and he takes advantage, kissing her hard and dirty, tasting himself on her and counting himself one fortunate bastard.

Emily pulls away and he tries to follow, but she's just grabbing a condom. "Lie down," she says, straddling his legs, but Dave is nothing if not a quick learner and opts for settling back against the headboard.

"If you're about to do what I think you're about to do," he says, hoping like hell he's right, "I want a good view."

It makes her laugh, which was the goal, after all. "You're crazy," she teases, and he has a retort, but she's tearing open the condom packet and taking her sweet damn time rolling it over his dick. He's holding onto control by his fingertips as she settles herself over him and guides him in.

She starts to move, biting her lip as she does, and Dave needs to touch her desperately. He shifts slightly, reaching out to hold her, but his damn right hand won't take that. He'd curse, but then she twists her hips somehow and gets his full attention. He runs his left hand up to her breast, brushing her nipple and hauling in a breath as she tenses.

So good, he thinks, but speech seems to be deserting him. Instead, he shifts his hand farther down, circling her clit, avoiding direct pressure. She moans and shifts forward, curling into him. Her hands grab at his shoulders, then wrap around his neck as she leans in and kisses him.

He's drowning in her, willingly, happily, listening to her gasp, feeling her breasts soft and hot against his chest. She does something complicated with her hips and her whole body tightens - Dave knows she's close. He does his best to copy it and it must work, because she turns frantic. She's riding him hard, hot and clinging and gorgeous, and then she makes a tight, high noise and comes apart in his arms.

That's his limit, apparently, because Dave can't hold out any longer, thrusting up, his hand tight against her knee and around her waist. Then he's coming, blind and deaf to anything but the way she feels and sounds around him, his head against her shoulder.

He never wants to move again, Dave thinks, feeling her shiver and settle. Emily rubs gently at the back of his neck as he drops a lazy kiss on her collarbone. Eventually he leans back against the headboard, studying her face, liking what he sees.

Emily traces the lines at the corner of his eyes, meeting his scrutiny. "Better?" she asks at last.

He sighs, looking away. There isn't a good answer here, he thinks, rubbing his hand against her leg for reassurance. There isn't a good answer, but he owes her an answer. "This is the job," he says at length, looking up. "This is going to keep happening. It might not be me hitting you but - " He finds he can't finish the sentence. Doesn't want to. It had taken six weeks for her bruises from Texas to fade completely.

"I can take it. You have to trust that I can take it," she says steadily, and yes, he knows she can. That's not the problem.

"They won't be pulling their punches," he answers, trying to explain. "Or hitting a wall."

Her hand curls around his arm - he hadn't realized he'd lifted his hand. "Do we need to stop this?" she asks.

Yes, he thinks. It's what he should say - it's the right thing to say - it's the one thing he can't say, for all they haven't been doing this long. "God, I hope not," he says, and lets himself haul her in for a kiss. "This is way the hell too much fun."

She kisses him back, grinning, but he hasn't distracted her. "Dave," she insists, "are you going to be okay with this?"

He will be, he thinks. "I'm not going to be more okay if we stop," he says, trying for light and easy, chucking her gently under the chin. Then, because she deserves a serious answer, he says, "We're a team. You followed me to Indiana. It's never going to be easy for me. I-" he pauses, shaking his head in memory. "I've never had to do something like that. I wasn't ready for it. Next time, I will be."

She watches him a moment, tilting her head. "Will you?"

He rephrases. "Next time I'll know better than to say yes." Next time he'll look harder for some other solution.

Prentiss is quiet, considering his answer. He's dreading the next question slightly, but then her stomach growls and he stomps down hard on his grin.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"Thank god," Emily answers. "I thought we were going to have to have a deep conversation."

"Come on," he says, guiltily glad that she sounds as relieved as he feels. "I'll make pancakes."

"And eggs?" Prentiss demands, reaching for the bathrobe. He's going to have to get a new one, he thinks, because she seems to have appropriated his. Not that he minds. "And bacon."

"Anything you want," Dave promises. Anything, he thinks, but a hungry Prentiss takes priority, and that's the last thought he has on the subject for the day.