Only the Beginning - Part One, for severity_softly, Prentiss/Rossi, FRT/PG13
Title: Only the Beginning - Part One
Author: mingsmommy
Recipient: severity_softly
Pairing: Prentiss/Rossi
Rating: FRT/PG13 (a few naughty words)
Word Count: 19,000
Warnings/spoilers: Spoilers up to current season, to be safe.
Summary/prompt: Rossi/Prentiss - AU. Emily, still in her waitressing days, is working in a diner. Dave, in his early days at the BAU, comes in and is instantly attracted to her. She has never heard of him. He tries to sweep her off her feet. She resists, so he starts frequenting the diner, trying to wear her down. Eventually it works. I would actually prefer no outright smut here, but a few steamy kisses would be lovely. :)
I hope this is close to what you wanted and that you enjoy it.
A/N: Even though this is AU there are spoilers for 4x17, Demonology. Actually, some of the dialogue was completely ripped off from that episode.
The author would like to thank her beta who is a saint and a goddess and a rock star. And thanks to the mods for all the work they put into this exchange.
"A little young for you, doncha think?" Max's voice is dry, but his eyes are sparkling.
"I'm just looking." Dave holds his hands up defensively just as the bell over the diner's door tinkles indicating the arrival or departure of another customer. Calling it a diner might really be pushing it. He tends to think of diners as greasy spoons, but Rocky's is more a vision of a diner, a fantasy of the perfect diner. The black and white tile floors are polished to a shine, spotless red booths line the walls and black topped tables dot the floor and everything is set off by gleaming chrome accents. The prices are certainly not greasy spoon prices, though to be fair, they're not outrageous either. Everything about the place says class, including the leggy waitress dressed in black pants, white tuxedo shirt and red tie. "Nothing wrong with looking, right?"
Max answers with a chuckle, Gideon never looks up from his fierce concentration on the menu and Hotch (Dave is making a real effort to stop thinking of him as "The Kid") cracks a small smile without ever having seen the young woman in question. Dave supposes the small knowing smile is a product of his reputation for being the office Lothario; a title which he isn’t sure he deserves. Despite one ill-considered fling with a field agent and another even more ill-considered romp with the assistant to the deputy director (even if the romp happened in said deputy director's office during a Christmas party a couple of years ago), he fails to see why he still carries the moniker. He's a healthy male for God's sake, and thirty-eight isn't anywhere near dead. He's been single for going on three years now, and it's not like the job ever gives him the opportunity to do more than have a date or two before the object of his interest gets tired of him breaking dates and being gone for weeks at a time. All the same things that broke up this last marriage, the same things that made him decide maybe long term relationships just aren't his style.
So, he looks. Maybe sometimes he does more than look, when the object of his perusal is willing and understands the score. But he wonders how he got to be this guy, the one all the guys want to catch a ball game and a beer with but wouldn't dream of introducing to their sister. It doesn't hurt and he sure as Hell understands, but sometimes when he's staring at the bottom of a glass deciding if he's going to take the barmaid up on her invitation at closing time, he wonders.
His thoughts scatter as the waitress approaches their table with four waters and the view is even better up close. She is young, but not quite as young as he'd first thought; early to mid-twenties, which was still too young for him, but he’s just looking he reminds himself. Her hair is dark, sleek and smooth, held back with a tortoise shell clip and he wishes for a moment it was free so he could see how it falls across her shoulders, down her back. Then she turns her head and he catches sight of the line of her neck, and he's glad that isn't covered up at all. He wishes he could say the same for her legs, which, no thanks to the view provided from the innocuous black trousers that make up half of her uniform, appear to go on for miles. Her skin is fair and her eyes are dark, though, he thinks, she should maybe use a lighter hand with the eyeliner.
The water glasses make it to the table with a little bit of sloshing, but nobody gets hit. The waitress catches his eye and smiles, obviously a little embarrassed as she blots at the small puddle with a napkin. Very pretty, Rossi thinks, and wonders if he's approaching dirty old man territory as the young woman glances around the table. She stops blotting abruptly, eyes going wide, mouth rounding in surprise.
"Agent Hotchner?"
The Kid starts and looks up, blinking. Rossi sees him scrambling for a name, watches him catch the mental thread and hang on. "Emily. Hi."
"Wow. I never thought I'd actually see anyone I know here." Her voice is husky and light at the same time, as though she might be permanently on the edge of a giggle. Then her face and her voice change. "Oh, God, my mother didn't send you to check up on me, did she?"
Hotch shakes his head and manages a smile. "No. No, I don't even do security details anymore." He quirks an eyebrow. "And the last I heard, you were at Brown."
The waitress, Emily, Dave's brain whispers, tilts her head and gives Hotch a polite smile. "Yale, actually. I'm in grad school at Georgetown now."
Gideon, Dave notices, has lowered his menu and is studying the interaction between The Kid, Hotch, Rossi corrects himself, and the Yale graduate, Georgetown grad student, waitress named Emily. "What are you studying?" Jason asks.
Dark eyes turn to look at Gideon. "Psychology."
He nods. "It's a good program."
"I'm sorry," Hotch says and begins introductions. "Emily Prentiss." His hand moves around the table, an indicator to associate names with a face. "Jason Gideon. David Rossi. Max Ryan."
Emily's eyes get the wide, round look again and she breathes out. "The Max Ryan? The agent that started the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico?”
Max's eyebrows go up and Rossi swears he sees Gideon bite down on a smile. Usually it's Rossi's name that brings about the rockstar reaction.
Max waves a hand. "I was one of them. Dave there had more to do with it than I did."
Emily gives him a quick, polite smile and shifts her gaze back to Max. "I read your paper on Dahmer at Yale. I was really impressed with your interviews with him."
Max slides a grin Rossi's way, then looks back at the eager Emily. "That stuff is a little heavy on logistics for a psych class."
She shakes her head. "My degree is in Criminal Justice." Blushing a little she looks down, then back up. "You did a guest lecture my sophomore year. I've actually been thinking about the Bureau since."
Dave realizes he is not only a dirty old man, but also a sore loser when he crosses his arms over his chest, but the knowledge doesn't stop him from asking, "Can we have the Max Ryan fan club meeting some other time? I'd like to eat tonight."
Her light blush goes to a full on flush and she stammers. "I...I'm sorry."
"Yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Well, I'm hungry."
Max looks like he's just short of quietly busting a gut and Gideon gives Rossi a look of reproach. Dave had been on the verge of feeling like a heel, but Gideon's look makes him tighten his jaw. Hotch, thank God, jumps in right away. "What do you recommend, Emily?"
After a few exchanges debating the merits of meatloaf and mash potatoes versus pork tenderloin Hotch gets the meatloaf, Max gets the tenderloin, Gideon orders breakfast (two eggs over-easy, corned beef hash, whole wheat toast) and Dave gets a burger and fries. The waitress manages to write it all down quickly with a minimum of questions, and seems very deliberate in not making eye contact with him again.
She scoots away from the table, but is back in just a few minutes with their drinks: hot tea for Gideon and coffee for the other three. Then, she slips away again to take the order of a table of high school students who have come through the door shedding coats and chattering about the sightseeing they've done today.
When Emily is busy with the high school kids, Max turns to Hotch. "From your early days of vetting security details? Whose daughter?"
Hotch nods, blows across the top of his coffee and supplies, "Ambassador Prentiss." Then blows again and takes a sip.
Max whistles. "That's a pretty high powered politician for their kid to be working at a diner."
Putting his cup down, Hotch opens his hands in a gesture that's somewhere between Hell if I know and considering the skeletons, it's not a surprise. "Emily was always rather independent. If I'm remembering the right file, she was rather adept at ditching her security detail."
This appears to delight Max who lets out a bark of laughter, and despite his slightly bruised ego, it makes Rossi snort out a small laugh, as well. Even Gideon is wearing a small smile as Hotch continues. "It was long before the Ambassador's security was my responsibility. By the time I got the assignment Emily was on her way back to the States and security, for her at least, was cursory. Not sure how well I would have handled a wayward teenager."
Max laughs, "If Haley has anything to say about it, you'll be handling a few."
Hotch doesn't flush but still manages to look both slightly embarrassed and a little lovesick at the mention of his fiancée.
"I doubt any children Hotch has will be wayward at any time," Gideon says dryly.
Rossi can imagine it, babies born with neatly knotted ties already in place. He worries about The Kid being a little uptight. He's good at the job, but he's so serious Dave's afraid doing this job for any length of time is going to turn him into someone who never smiles. It's one of the reason's he always tries to get Hotch to go with them when they go out after a case, whether it's to a bar to blow off steam after a rough case or out for a bite after too much paperwork, like tonight. He likes to see The Kid loosen up a little, smile, look forward to the future, talk about his girl or football or the wayward daughters of Ambassadors.
Dave tries to recall the Ambassador's face from the last time he'd seen her on 60 Minutes. There is definitely a resemblance...fair skin, dark hair, dark eyes, good bone structure. Yale and Georgetown. Well, Emily the Ambassador's daughter is obviously no slouch in the brains department. But why is she waiting tables? He’s willing to bet there’s a trust fund or two with her name on it. He does admit to a certain reverse snobbery that makes him like Emily Prentiss beyond her looks if she's not living on family money.
"Get over it, Dave," Max says good-naturedly, bringing him back to the discussion. "You can't be the superstar every time."
That earns a snicker from Gideon and a glare from Rossi. The choice to put Dave front and center as the face of the BAU had been Max's, and they both know it. Rossi has never denied he has an ego, but it gets its care and feeding in plenty of places. "There's nothing to get over," he says and even to his ears it sounds like he's snapping. So, he modulates his tone and repeats, "There's nothing to get over."
"Really?" Max asks dubiously.
"Maybe you should tell your expression." Gideon appears to be concentrating on the color of his Earl Grey as he dunks his teabag (dunk, pause, raise, pause, dunk, pause, raise) into the cup of hot water Emily had delivered to the table. "You keep glowering at the young lady."
Dave likes Gideon, he does. At the very least he admires his mind, his ethics and his commitment to the victims. But all of that doesn't stop Dave from wanting to pop him in the mouth sometimes. Self-righteous son-of-a-bitch, Rossi thinks. "I wasn't glowering," he growls. "I was just wondering why the daughter of such a prestigious and wealthy family would be waiting tables."
Hotch shrugs. "Like I said, she's independent. I walked in on the tail end of a fight between her and her mother one time. Something about her mother getting the Secretary of State to write a recommendation for Emily without Emily's knowledge." He gives a smile that Dave is sure is a suppression of a laugh. "Let's just say, it's a good thing the Ambassador never had to negotiate a peace deal with her daughter."
Max shudders. "God, why do you think I told Dave it was a good idea to start the BAU and do all of the traveling? It's the only thing that got me through Maggie's teenage years. I'm still surprised Carol didn't kill her."
Emily approaches then with a food laden tray, and places everyone's order in front of them. She smiles, but doesn't meet Dave's eyes, though she doesn't seem to have that problem with anyone else. He sighs inwardly. He really needs to learn not to be such a dick. Big tip, he tells himself and asks for some spicy mustard.
The food is surprisingly good and the conversation moves from their waitress to the case that came across this afternoon. They debate the merits of phone consults versus a trip to Manhattan, Kansas, and if the trip is warranted, how many of them should go and who it should be.
Dave slips a twenty under his plate before they leave and doesn't think too much more about it.
Until Monday morning anyway, when the first thing Max says to him is, "Hey, Rossi. Terrorize any more young waitresses over the weekend?"
Dave glares. "I wasn't that bad."
"You were pretty rough on her," Gideon says, not looking up from the file he's studying.
Making a dismissive snorting sound, Dave heads for the coffee pot. "I left her a big tip."
"Uh-huh." Jason takes a handful of murder scene photos out of the file and fans them across his desk. "Because money is a good substitute for human decency."
Rossi makes a face as he dumps sugar into his coffee. Gideon has shown, on more than one occasion, a complete disregard for civility and socially acceptable behavior, so Dave doesn't really feel he has much room to judge. Plus he suspects Jason is just needling him; it's one of his favorite activities lately.
But when Dave sees The Kid looking at him with a solemn, evaluating expression, he decides maybe he shouldn't have let his ego out on Friday night. One of the requirements of starting and being a part of this unit is a relentless commitment to self-awareness, so when he sits at his desk and opens the file on top of the stack, his attention to it is cursory at best.
Yes, he'd found the young woman attractive. Extremely. And, yeah, maybe if things had been different he would have been charming and maybe he would have stayed after the others left and been extra charming. Maybe he would have walked away with her number, maybe he would have walked away with her. And, yeah, the cooing over Max was a little aggravating. If she'd flirted with Hotch he would probably have understood, but her reaction to Max without even knowing who Rossi was, yeah, okay, that tweaked his pride. And, damnit, Okay, he was an ass.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath.
"Something wrong?" Gideon looks across at him, eyes at half mast, half smile on his face.
Smug bastard, Dave thinks. But all he says is, "Picked up the wrong file."
The other man doesn't answer, just raises his eyebrows and goes back to his own file.
It's dark when they leave for the day; three phone conferences with the locals in Kansas have made it a long day, but they think they're a little closer to some answers. Max speeds out the door, almost late for his mother-in-law's birthday dinner. Hotch isn't far behind, trying to make the appointment he and Haley have with yet another caterer for their wedding. Slowly, Dave puts on his jacket and eyes Gideon. "Staying late?"
Gideon looks up, the same photos from the morning in a different configuration. "Stephen's class is on an overnight field trip. Rachel went along as a chaperone. Thought I'd review some cases."
Dave nods. He suspects Rachel and Stephen are on more than an overnight field trip since Gideon's nights at the office have been occurring with increasing frequency, but it's not his business. He also understands how the ghosts from some files get in your head and stay there, how the voices in your head can drown out the voices in your home until the real voices don't care to compete any more. But all he says is, "Good idea."
Then he heads for the door.
He's not aware of it as a conscious decision, but when he ends up in the diner's parking lot it's with a mild sense of resignation. Only a few tables are occupied, and he seats himself at the same booth he and the others had occupied Friday night. This time the server isn't Emily the Ambassador's daughter but a young man who introduces himself as Hector. Dave politely listens to the evening’s specials then orders a BLT with a side of the homemade vegetable soup instead of fries. He watches the patrons and staff as he waits on his food; there's another server, a friendly older woman with over-processed hair and a teenage boy with a severe case of acne acting as a busboy. Other than the kitchen staff, that appears to be the extent of the people working at the diner.
As Hector refills his coffee, Dave clears his throat. "I was in here Friday night and there was a waitress named Emily. Is she here tonight?" He's pretty sure he already knows the answer, but maybe she's in the back somewhere.
"Nah," Hector says, pulling back the coffee carafe. "She only works the weekends." He looks at Dave assessingly. "You a friend of hers?"
Dave lifts his coffee cup. "A friend of a friend, actually."
"Try back on Friday."
A BLT is hard to fuck up so he's not surprised it's good, but the vegetable soup is nothing short of amazing, could rival his Nonna's, though he'd never say that out loud. The broth is rich and savory; the vegetables are crisp and remain distinct while still carrying the flavor of the soup. So, when he decides to go back on Friday, it's not just because he needs to apologize to a pretty girl for being an arrogant asshole. You can't find soup that good just anywhere.
He accepts a menu from the cashier and sits in the same booth as on his previous two visits. Perusing the menu, he tries to decide what the chances of the lasagna being decent are. Soup is one thing, but lasagna...
A cup rattles in the saucer as it hits the table. "David Anthony Rossi," Emily says, pouring coffee into the cup. "The Bureau recruited you out of the Marines where you were a decorated sharpshooter." She pulls back the carafe and continues. "You've been commended several times. You were at Ruby Ridge and consulted at Waco. There's a good deal of speculation that if they'd taken your advice life loss would have been minimal. You started the Behavioral Analysis Unit, but they made Max Ryan unit chief because he has seniority and more credentials." The carafe meets the table surface.
He blinks up at her. "You've done your homework."
"Why do homework when you've done it all for me? You were at the same talk at Yale as Agent Ryan. Actually, you were the featured speaker; he seemed to be along to help with the questions."
It's likely true. Part of their funding depends on doing the dog and pony show at college campuses, in Criminal Justice and Poli-Sci classes, trying to get the best and brightest to consider the Bureau as a career. There's no set talk. Two of them always go; one of them takes point and the other supports (and usually makes fun of the other one on the way back to the bunker).
His smile is slow but wide. "You were playing him."
She has the grace to look down and he notices the flush high on her cheeks. "I wasn't playing him. I was concentrating on him."
"So, what, you want a job in the BAU when you graduate?" He raises a challenging eyebrow.
She snorts. "I'm not an idiot. Somebody would have to be a certified genius, with half a dozen PhDs for a rookie to be taken straight into the BAU."
He likes this girl. "So, what's your game?"
"No game." She shrugs. "I was hoping to get his card. One of my thesis readers is writing a book on Dahmer." Now, she gives him an eyebrow of her own. "And yes, I'm confident my thesis is going to be good without doing favors for my readers, but I like Dr. Baron and politics aside, talking to Agent Ryan would help him out."
Rossi reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card and scratches Max's extension number on the back. "I was rude last week." He holds the card out to her scissored between two fingers, and deliberately makes his tone and words more formal. "Please accept this as a token of my sincere regret."
Smiling, Emily accepts the card and he blinks again. She has a beauty queen smile, bright, wide and dazzling. "I wasn't doing my job and you were right to call me on it. You don't really have to apologize, but---" She waves the card before slipping it into her pocket. "---I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth." Tilting her head, her expression sobers slightly. "Thank you."
He smiles in return. "You're welcome."
Clearing her throat, she pulls out a pad and pen. "What would you like?"
He orders the soup and they have a brief discussion about the lasagna. "It's good if all you're used to is Stouffer's. But if you're looking for more authentic, I'd go with the eggplant parm, but I haven't had it since the middle of summer, so I don't know about the quality of the eggplant."
"How do you know authentic?" he challenges.
"Two years in Rome." She purses her lips in a way that makes her look both smug and a little bit naughty.
He raises his hands in surrender. "All right. You know authentic." He doesn't want to risk off season eggplant either, so he looks back up at her. "What do you recommend?"
"Healthy or good?" she asks with a grin.
He grins back. "I eat for my health weekdays, and am a hedonist on the weekends."
Her eyebrow arches along with her tone. "Is that so?"
It's been a long time since he's found himself tripped up by his own tongue and he actually thinks he might be blushing a little. Thanks be to God neither Gideon nor Max is here to see it. He counters his slight embarrassment with a severe look, but Emily, obviously unmoved and equally unrepentant, just grins at him again, though she does have the grace to move forward. "Burgers are always good, but you had that last week." She pauses for a moment, shifting from her right foot to her left, her hip cocking slightly towards his table. "The beef stroganoff is probably the best I've had in the states and the chicken pie is good."
Dave closes his menu decisively. "I'll have the stroganoff."
This time when she smiles it's without cheek. "What dressing do you want on your salad?"
Handing the menu to her, he shakes his head. "Just the soup."
"Coming right up." Emily turns smartly on her heel and walks toward the kitchen.
There's a rush of customers shortly after she places his soup in front of him so their exchanges are brief. Still, he finds himself lingering over coffee long after he's finished his really excellent beef stroganoff. The other customers have mostly cleared out, except for one couple lingering over their own coffee, when Emily appears beside his table with the coffee carafe in one hand and a dessert plate with a cannoli in the other. There's a fresh coffee cup hooked on her pinkie and she looks at him expectantly. "Do you mind if I join you?"
Oh, hell no, he thinks, hoping his eagerness doesn’t show through too much as he says, "Sure. Have a seat.”
Sliding into the booth, she hands him the cannoli.
He frowns at the pastry. "I didn't order this."
"My treat." She gives him the same grin from earlier. "Consider it a hedonistic bribe."
Glaring mildly, he pulls the dessert plate towards him. "I'd like to know what I'm being bribed for before accepting payment."
Producing a clean fork from somewhere she hands it across the table. "I'd like to pick your brain about the Bureau."
Eating cannoli while maintaining both the integrity of the pastry and one's dignity is a fine art, one Dave has learned in his thirty-eight years. He might normally eat one with his fingers, but with the cheese to pastry ratio here, he thinks the fork is a good idea and accepts it willingly. "So what do you want to know?" The fork touches the pastry and as he cuts, the cream and sweetened cheese oozes from both ends. He slides the bite into his mouth.
"My undergrad is in Criminal Justice...I think I said that the other night? I also have a minor in Poli-Sci." She angles her body so she's leaning against the side of the booth and her legs are draped across the seat. "That was my mother's doing; she hasn't given up hope of me following in her footsteps." Her tone is mostly exasperated, but he hears a bit of fondness in there as well. "My advisor at Yale suggested psychology for my masters or law school if I was serious about the Bureau."
"And are you?" He wiped his napkin across his lips. "Serious about the Bureau?"
"Yeah." She takes a sip of coffee and stares into the cup for a minute before looking up at him. "Yeah, I am."
He cuts another piece of the pastry and watches as it collapses, flattens, and cream billows out. "Then what's your question?"
Shaking her head, she laughs a little. "Am I on the right track?"
She has a nice laugh. Rich and a little husky, it's sexy as hell, he decides. "Have you decided on your thesis yet?"
"Obsessional Crimes and Sexual Dysfunction. I'm looking at both rapists and serial killers. My reader is urging me to narrow it down, but I haven't been able to find a clear hook."
Dave nods, taking a sip of his own coffee. "Are you looking at arsonists, too?"
Emily pauses with her cup halfway to her mouth, blinks, and puts the cup back on the table. "I hadn't thought of it."
He quirks an eyebrow and gives a half shrug, half nod. "See if looking at all three doesn't force some clarity."
"I will." She smiles at him, a nice, soft smile.
He decides to press his luck. "Now can I ask you a question?"
For just a second he sees a flash of something that looks a lot like alarm before her expression smoothes over. "I did pay for my question with cannoli," she points out evenly.
"Put it on my bill and let me ask you a question." He gives her a smile of his own. "Quid pro quo."
Snorting into her coffee cup, Emily looks a little dubious. "What is this, Silence of the Lambs?"
Dave can't help his grin. "Does that make me Hannibal or Clarice?"
She laughs again, a little snortier, a little less elegant and though it isn't nearly as sexy as the one a few minutes before, he might like it better. "Could I take you out to dinner sometime?"
There's a slight flush high on her cheekbones, if she weren't so fair he wouldn't have noticed, but her expression is a conflict between wary and pleased. "Agent Rossi..."
"Dave," he corrects gently.
"Dave." She inclines her head in acknowledgment. "I'm not dating right now." She holds up a hand, as though he has cried some objection and she wants to forestall him before he gets too far. "Don't get me wrong...you seem to be a really great guy, but I'm not seeing anyone right now. Between classes and the thesis and working here on the weekends...dating is just not on the agenda right now."
He's disappointed...well, a little. He hadn't really expected it to go anywhere and she seems sincere in her reasons for turning him down.
Still.
"All work and no play makes Emily a dull girl."
Again, her snorty laugh makes him half smile as she responds. "All work and no play makes sure Emily does well in school, makes progress on her thesis and keeps a roof over her head."
Dave runs a frankly assessing eye over her and nods. "Fair enough. But you have my card...if your schedule should lighten up..."
Grinning, Emily pats her pocket. "You'll be my first call."
Over the next week he finds himself thinking about Emily Prentiss and her snorty laugh and her sexy laugh, and when Hotch asks them if they want to grab a bite when they get in from a case in South Carolina Saturday evening, Dave is happy to suggest Emily's diner. Max's eyebrows climb, but he responds, "Sure. Carol is in California. This will be better than the McDonald's drive-thru." Gideon spreads the pictures from Kansas out on his desk and never answers the invitation.
Emily smiles and raises a hand in greeting when she sees them slide into what Dave is fast coming to think of as his booth. It's only a couple of minutes before she's at their table with three cups and the coffee pot. "Agent Ryan, it's good to see you again." Her voice is formal and her smile is winning, and Dave is secretly delighted to see Max puff up a little as she fills his coffee cup. "Agent Hotchner, my mother said to tell you hello if I saw you again."
"Please give her my best," The Kid says.
She nods and begins pouring Dave's coffee. "You were right about the arson thing, Dave."
He feels the eyes of the other two land on him, but he ignores them and concentrates instead on Emily. "Good. I hoped it would help."
"It did." He gets the wide, beauty queen smile and he hopes it doesn't blow her chances of charming Max, but he feels a tug in the middle of his chest at the sight of it. "I'll be back in a minute to get your order."
Max waits until she's decently far enough away to lean across the table and hiss. "Dave? You've gone from asshole agent to Dave? And you helped her out with something? I guess now I know how one of her advisors got my phone number." Max has a booming and merry laugh and it draws everyone in the diner's attention, but Dave doesn't mind. Dave looks at Emily, smiling at him as she passes with another table's order. No, he doesn't mind at all.
"I need a black skirt," she says out of the blue one Saturday night.
She's draped across the opposite seat of the booth. It's close enough to closing that she's taken her hair down, and he's rather mesmerized by the fall of it over her shoulders. His fingers itch to reach across the table and brush through it from scalp to ends.
Without conscious thought, he's become a regular at the diner every Friday and Saturday night and sometimes Sunday afternoons. He knows Hector is the owner's son and has hopes to open a place of his own in a few years. He knows Dottie, who is about to become a first time grandmother and Jenn, whose husband is in Afghanistan. Sean is the weekend busboy, and Joey and Willie share the kitchen. He knows the beef stew is as good as the vegetable soup, but not to have the beef tips when Willie is cooking. He's well fed, and he realized last week, this is the longest he's gone without having sex since his divorce.
He's not exactly sure why, either. Emily has shown no interest in being more than friends, and it's not exactly like she could hold anything against him if she changed her mind. But, still, he’s stopped looking. And when he's jacking off in the shower it's Emily's face he sees, Emily's body he imagines.
"What?" he asks, partially confused by the complete non-sequitur and partially trying not to imagine her legs if he were to ever see her in a skirt.
She frowns at him. "I need a new black skirt. I don't have class on Wednesday. The first draft of the thesis is with my advisor and I need a new black skirt. My mother is going to be in town next week, and I don't have a suitably sober skirt to show up to Thanksgiving dinner. So, I'm going shopping on Wednesday."
He's still a little confused but he knows she tends to babble when she's working her way up to something. "And?"
"And I don't think it'll take all day, and I wanted to ask you to lunch." Her eyes widen a little, and she flushes slightly and continues, "To, you know, thank you. For all of your help."
He's not sure how much help he's been, but he has talked things out with her, as well as pointed some things out that might send her in a better direction. He's also enjoyed hearing about a childhood spent globe-trotting and telling her about his quick first marriage and the slow, sad breakdown of his second. She's thanked him plenty, even bought him a few meals. So, he decides to needle her a little. "You mean, like a date?"
"No." She narrows her eyes at him. "Like a lunch."
"Hmmm," he says consideringly. "Will you wear the skirt?"
Heaving a sigh, she slides off the bench. "We can meet closer to Quantico if that makes it easier on you."
He shakes his head. "I've actually got a meeting at the Hoover Building on Wednesday. How about 1:30 at that little pub in Georgetown you told me about?"
The mention of the pub was several weeks ago and only in passing, but he's made an effort to pay attention. He's tried not to look at that too closely; he usually doesn't waste energy pursuing someone who isn't interested, and he's not sure why this time is any different. Not that he's actively pursuing Emily. Really, he just enjoys spending time with her. She's quick and smart and has the most sarcastic wit he's ever had the pleasure to experience. He's seen her be serious and passionate, irreverent and blasé, earnest and nerdy.
Right now she's smiling at him fondly, and at the moment he doesn't care why he's paid attention, he's just glad he has.
"So." She bites the corner of her lip a trifle hesitantly before continuing, "I'll see you Wednesday?"
"Yeah, you will." He grins at her and reaches for his wallet as she heads back toward the kitchen.
He's the last one out, as usual, and even though the weekend crew is tolerant of him taking up a table, he doesn't want to delay any of them getting home to their families. Besides, he doesn't have to wait until Friday to see Emily again; he only has to wait until Wednesday. It's a little easier to leave tonight, and he quashes his usual temptation to wait and watch to make sure she gets to her car all right. Hector and Willie have both let him know they all leave as a group so nobody is at risk. Besides, if he watches to make sure she gets to her elderly Civic and then to make sure it starts, how much longer before he's following her to make sure she gets home okay? And how long after that before he’s sitting outside her apartment checking to see when he lights go off or to make sure she's home alone? Nah, he's seen too much obsession, and as tempting as it is, Dave's never been one to meet a slippery slope and not slide. Best to avoid the slope and the slippery all together.
Wednesday will be here soon enough.
Only Wednesday finds him in Manhattan, Kansas, sitting across the table from the parents of another murdered woman. Lori Morrison was a senior majoring in Chemistry at Kansas State University. She was blonde haired and blue eyed, but he can't help the thought She's only a little younger than Emily when he looks at the pictures of her broken body.
Emily still hadn't given him her number; his plan had been to charm it out of her at lunch. He takes the only recourse he has and calls the diner on his way out of town on Monday. He gets Hector, who won't give him Emily's number, but does agree to call her for him and explain the situation. Dave gives him the number of his cell phone (it's supposed to be just for Bureau use, but screw that) and tells him to tell Emily to call. She doesn't, of course, and he's not surprised; he just hopes it's because she knows he's on a case and doesn't want to bother him and not because she's pissed he couldn't make lunch.
So, he sends flowers to the diner on Friday. He doesn't have a lot of time to agonize over just the right thing to say so he settles for simple. I'm sorry. Dave. Saturday night when they break for dinner he goes back to the hotel and sits on the faded bedspread and calls the diner. "Rocky's" says a gruff voice on the other end.
"Hey, Willie. It's Dave. Is Emily around?"
There's no answer into the phone, but in the distance Dave can hear him call. "Hey, Emily, Romeo’s on the phone for you."
Dave tries to imagine her face. Is she flushing or irritated? Is she rolling silverware into napkins or putting waters down in front of customers when Willie calls across the diner? She must be reasonably close though because he hears the phone change hands fairly quickly. There's some exchange between Willie and Emily as she takes up the phone, and it sounds suspiciously like the Ambassador's daughter has just told the 6'6" 400 lb ex-boxer to "bite me."
Dave is grinning at the receiver when Emily says, "Dave?"
"Hi." He's smiling. He's lovesick and ridiculous and probably a dirty old man, but he's smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt. It's bad, because he didn't mean for this to happen again, ever. He'd been having fun and hadn't wanted anything more serious, and she's so young she probably wants kids, and he guesses that would be okay, but hell, she doesn't even want to go out on a date with him. Still, he's smiling.
"Hi." Her voice is a little wobbly and he hears her clear her throat; she sounds a little nervous. "Thank you for the flowers. You didn't have to do that."
"I couldn't possibly stand a lady up without some kind of apology." He is trying to sound both chivalrous and affronted to tease her a little, but he can't do much more than remember to speak when he's concentrating so hard on the sound of her breathing. "Hector gave you the message, right?'
"Yeah." Emily gives a little laugh. "I don't know what you said to him, but I came home Tuesday to a half dozen messages on my machine making sure I knew you'd called."
"He's a good man," Dave says, not really thinking about it, but it's something else to say, another thing to keep her on the phone for another few minutes.
"Yeah." He can almost see her there at the phone behind the counter, back to the dining area, twisting the phone cord absently around her finger. "The flowers...they're really gorgeous. Thank you."
His first instinct is to say she's really gorgeous, but he doesn't voice it. Instead he says lightly, "I didn't want to ruin my chances for a free lunch the next time you go shopping."
She laughs, but he can hear the tension start to creep in to her voice. "I hate to..."
"Yeah," he sighs. "I know, you gotta go."
"You..." She starts, then stops, then picks up again. "How long will you be gone?"
"I hope not long." Then he lets the smile on his face show in his voice. "Do you miss me?"
He expects another laugh, but the response he gets is a little more interesting. "Nothing is the same without you here." In the background he hears someone call for her. "I gotta go. I'll see you when you get back."
"Take care, Emily." His heart is clenched in his chest, and he hates his job, and he hates Manhattan Kansas, and he fucking hates the twisted asshole who is murdering innocent young women.
"Bye, Dave."
He hears the click and the dial tone before he returns the receiver to the cradle.
It takes everything he's got to not call again on Sunday, but he tells himself to stay focused and get this guy so he can get home.
In the end, it's Gideon who sees the pattern in the murders, Hotch who finds the connection between the victims and Dave's the one that sees the person that's unseen: maintenance, delivery, utility...landscaper. Max ends up shooting the guy in the middle of campus. It's a clean shoot, but it means another day before they can fly out. Still they make it home in time for him to repack a bag and head to his parents' house for Thanksgiving.
Mama tries to talk him into staying the weekend, but he's on the road again Friday afternoon, headed back to DC. He's not going another day without seeing Emily.
She's behind the counter when he walks through the door, and the first look on her face when she sees him is...happy. But it quickly changes to something a little bit nervous, a little bit guilty as her gaze shifts to the two men sitting at the counter. They're both about Emily's age and appear to be having some sort of exchange with her. One, dark haired, dressed in an old army jacket, hunched over a cup of coffee, doesn't look up as Dave takes a seat at his usual table. But the other one, he's got a high forehead and a sullen face (Dave wonders, somewhat unkindly, if it's occurred to the punk yet he's going bald) that give him the look of a not quite mature caveman. His eyes follow Dave, flicking back to Emily, then Dave as he slides into his booth.
Emily seems distressed, but he can't do anything from here. If something was really wrong, Willie would have handled it or Hector would have gotten out the Louisville Slugger that rests under the register. Still, he doesn't like the looks of it. Emily's face is too tense, her movements are jerky as she pours Neanderthal boy a cup of coffee and puts the pot down with a plunk. She says something to both of them and starts toward Dave, but caveboy grabs her hand. Emily twists it free and says something sharp before Dave is half way out of his seat, so he settles back down and watches as Emily approaches.
"Hi." She smiles and pushes an invisible lock of hair back behind her ear and her tone is a mix of happy and nervous, but not the good kind of nervous he'd heard on the phone last week.
"Everything all right?" He doesn't want to give her the impression he thinks she can't take care of herself, but he also doesn't want her to think she can't ask him if she needs some help.
"Yeah." Emily looks over her shoulder quickly; dark haired Army jacket is still holding on to his coffee cup, but Neanderthal is turned around on his stool, elbows resting on the counter behind him, openly staring at Emily and Dave.
Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are drawn down and he knows where she's going to get the first lines on her face. It hits him then, the way his giddy thoughts sitting on an ugly bedspread in an average priced hotel in Kansas had hit him. He wants to see that. He wants to be there the first time she notices she's getting lines or wrinkles; he wants to come up behind her in the mirror and kiss the side of her neck and convince her she's beautiful, she'll always be beautiful, she'll always be beautiful to him.
But Army boy and Neanderthal have his gut tightening and his instincts screaming that something's not right, and he's afraid whatever it is doesn't match up with that future in front of the mirror. "You sure? 'Cause if you need my help..."
She shakes her head and turns back to face him fully. "Just a couple of guys I grew up with...well, spent a few years with in Italy. One of them is going through a rough time right now."
The look he gives her must be doubtful, because the smile she gives him is soft and grateful, though her eyes are still troubled. "Really. Everything is fine." She puts her hand on his arm, and without thinking, he reaches out with his other hand to grasp her fingers.
Her eyes widen a little, then soften. "How was your Thanksgiving?" She turns her hand within his grasp and runs her thumb over the ridge of his fingers, and he has to concentrate on answering the question instead of absorbing the feel of skin on skin, no matter how slight.
"Good. It was good." His large and loud family holidays are very different than the quiet elegant ones Emily has described. "Yours?"
"Pretty quiet. I didn't even manage to argue with my mother this year." Her tone is dry.
He snorts a little laugh. "Maybe she's mellowing."
Emily tilts her head and squeezes his hand. "Maybe I'm growing up." With obvious reluctance she withdraws her hand and pulls her pad out of her pocket. "Do you know what you want?"
He barely manages not to answer, "You." Instead he asks who's cooking and when she answers Willie, he says anything but the beef tips. She cracks a smile and then realizes she forgot to bring his coffee. Then there's a steady stream of customers through the door, and Neanderthal and Army boy seem to demand her attention during her free time.
Hector actually brings his food. "Glad you're back, man."
Dave looks at the pork tenderloin and mashed potatoes in front of him with a nod. "Me, too."
Hector inclines his head toward the counter. "I don't have a good feeling about those two."
Eyebrows climbing into his forehead, Dave looks at Hector's frowning face. "Yeah? Why?"
Hector shakes his head, "I dunno. But you shoulda seen her face when they walked in."
Dave nods. "I'll keep an eye out."
Hector nods in return. "Yeah. Me too."
On one hand, Dave is even more concerned knowing Hector is picking up the same feeling from these guys. On the other hand, he's a little bit relieved; he's glad to know the feeling isn't just jealousy. Though there's that, too, he admits, looking at Neanderthal.
Patience is not necessarily something he's known for, but that doesn't mean he's not capable. So, he settles in to wait. Problem is Army boy and Neanderthal seem to be set on waiting, too. About thirty minutes before closing, the three of them are the only customers left and Emily and Hector are having a conversation in the corner. Dave can tell from his expression and body language Hector doesn't like what Emily is saying, but given the look of earnestness and pleading on Emily's face it would take a stronger man than Dave to tell her "no" and evidently, Hector is not that man. Obviously unhappy about it, Hector, jaw clenched, nods at whatever she's saying, and Emily grabs for her coat. Army boy and Neanderthal stand and Neanderthal pays their check.
Emily scurries over to Dave. "I'm so sorry," her voice is breathy and she is wound as tight as he's ever seen her. "Matthew isn't feeling well and John and I are going to take him home." From the pallor and the sweats, Dave is going to guess Army boy is Matthew and that makes Neanderthal John. She gives him a trembling, apologetic smile. "I hate this. I had so much I wanted to talk to you about." She looks surprised for a moment, as if she can't really believe she just said that, then she gives a minute shake of her head and continues. "I have to do this. I'll explain tomorrow." The look she gives him is suddenly stricken, as though something unthinkable just occurred to her. "You will be here tomorrow, won't you?"
"I'll be here," he nods. Nothing in the world would keep him away.
Emily looks over her shoulder, but Hector is wiping down the counter and Neanderthal is escorting Army boy (Matthew Dave corrects himself) out the door. Leaning forward so quickly it leaves him blinking, she presses a kiss far back on his cheek, just in front of his ear. "Good," she whispers, then draws away, heading out the door.
He watches her and sees John watching him. "I'll be here," he repeats though no one can hear him.
Tomorrow comes, but Emily is not there.
Part Two
Author: mingsmommy
Recipient: severity_softly
Pairing: Prentiss/Rossi
Rating: FRT/PG13 (a few naughty words)
Word Count: 19,000
Warnings/spoilers: Spoilers up to current season, to be safe.
Summary/prompt: Rossi/Prentiss - AU. Emily, still in her waitressing days, is working in a diner. Dave, in his early days at the BAU, comes in and is instantly attracted to her. She has never heard of him. He tries to sweep her off her feet. She resists, so he starts frequenting the diner, trying to wear her down. Eventually it works. I would actually prefer no outright smut here, but a few steamy kisses would be lovely. :)
I hope this is close to what you wanted and that you enjoy it.
A/N: Even though this is AU there are spoilers for 4x17, Demonology. Actually, some of the dialogue was completely ripped off from that episode.
The author would like to thank her beta who is a saint and a goddess and a rock star. And thanks to the mods for all the work they put into this exchange.
"A little young for you, doncha think?" Max's voice is dry, but his eyes are sparkling.
"I'm just looking." Dave holds his hands up defensively just as the bell over the diner's door tinkles indicating the arrival or departure of another customer. Calling it a diner might really be pushing it. He tends to think of diners as greasy spoons, but Rocky's is more a vision of a diner, a fantasy of the perfect diner. The black and white tile floors are polished to a shine, spotless red booths line the walls and black topped tables dot the floor and everything is set off by gleaming chrome accents. The prices are certainly not greasy spoon prices, though to be fair, they're not outrageous either. Everything about the place says class, including the leggy waitress dressed in black pants, white tuxedo shirt and red tie. "Nothing wrong with looking, right?"
Max answers with a chuckle, Gideon never looks up from his fierce concentration on the menu and Hotch (Dave is making a real effort to stop thinking of him as "The Kid") cracks a small smile without ever having seen the young woman in question. Dave supposes the small knowing smile is a product of his reputation for being the office Lothario; a title which he isn’t sure he deserves. Despite one ill-considered fling with a field agent and another even more ill-considered romp with the assistant to the deputy director (even if the romp happened in said deputy director's office during a Christmas party a couple of years ago), he fails to see why he still carries the moniker. He's a healthy male for God's sake, and thirty-eight isn't anywhere near dead. He's been single for going on three years now, and it's not like the job ever gives him the opportunity to do more than have a date or two before the object of his interest gets tired of him breaking dates and being gone for weeks at a time. All the same things that broke up this last marriage, the same things that made him decide maybe long term relationships just aren't his style.
So, he looks. Maybe sometimes he does more than look, when the object of his perusal is willing and understands the score. But he wonders how he got to be this guy, the one all the guys want to catch a ball game and a beer with but wouldn't dream of introducing to their sister. It doesn't hurt and he sure as Hell understands, but sometimes when he's staring at the bottom of a glass deciding if he's going to take the barmaid up on her invitation at closing time, he wonders.
His thoughts scatter as the waitress approaches their table with four waters and the view is even better up close. She is young, but not quite as young as he'd first thought; early to mid-twenties, which was still too young for him, but he’s just looking he reminds himself. Her hair is dark, sleek and smooth, held back with a tortoise shell clip and he wishes for a moment it was free so he could see how it falls across her shoulders, down her back. Then she turns her head and he catches sight of the line of her neck, and he's glad that isn't covered up at all. He wishes he could say the same for her legs, which, no thanks to the view provided from the innocuous black trousers that make up half of her uniform, appear to go on for miles. Her skin is fair and her eyes are dark, though, he thinks, she should maybe use a lighter hand with the eyeliner.
The water glasses make it to the table with a little bit of sloshing, but nobody gets hit. The waitress catches his eye and smiles, obviously a little embarrassed as she blots at the small puddle with a napkin. Very pretty, Rossi thinks, and wonders if he's approaching dirty old man territory as the young woman glances around the table. She stops blotting abruptly, eyes going wide, mouth rounding in surprise.
"Agent Hotchner?"
The Kid starts and looks up, blinking. Rossi sees him scrambling for a name, watches him catch the mental thread and hang on. "Emily. Hi."
"Wow. I never thought I'd actually see anyone I know here." Her voice is husky and light at the same time, as though she might be permanently on the edge of a giggle. Then her face and her voice change. "Oh, God, my mother didn't send you to check up on me, did she?"
Hotch shakes his head and manages a smile. "No. No, I don't even do security details anymore." He quirks an eyebrow. "And the last I heard, you were at Brown."
The waitress, Emily, Dave's brain whispers, tilts her head and gives Hotch a polite smile. "Yale, actually. I'm in grad school at Georgetown now."
Gideon, Dave notices, has lowered his menu and is studying the interaction between The Kid, Hotch, Rossi corrects himself, and the Yale graduate, Georgetown grad student, waitress named Emily. "What are you studying?" Jason asks.
Dark eyes turn to look at Gideon. "Psychology."
He nods. "It's a good program."
"I'm sorry," Hotch says and begins introductions. "Emily Prentiss." His hand moves around the table, an indicator to associate names with a face. "Jason Gideon. David Rossi. Max Ryan."
Emily's eyes get the wide, round look again and she breathes out. "The Max Ryan? The agent that started the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico?”
Max's eyebrows go up and Rossi swears he sees Gideon bite down on a smile. Usually it's Rossi's name that brings about the rockstar reaction.
Max waves a hand. "I was one of them. Dave there had more to do with it than I did."
Emily gives him a quick, polite smile and shifts her gaze back to Max. "I read your paper on Dahmer at Yale. I was really impressed with your interviews with him."
Max slides a grin Rossi's way, then looks back at the eager Emily. "That stuff is a little heavy on logistics for a psych class."
She shakes her head. "My degree is in Criminal Justice." Blushing a little she looks down, then back up. "You did a guest lecture my sophomore year. I've actually been thinking about the Bureau since."
Dave realizes he is not only a dirty old man, but also a sore loser when he crosses his arms over his chest, but the knowledge doesn't stop him from asking, "Can we have the Max Ryan fan club meeting some other time? I'd like to eat tonight."
Her light blush goes to a full on flush and she stammers. "I...I'm sorry."
"Yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Well, I'm hungry."
Max looks like he's just short of quietly busting a gut and Gideon gives Rossi a look of reproach. Dave had been on the verge of feeling like a heel, but Gideon's look makes him tighten his jaw. Hotch, thank God, jumps in right away. "What do you recommend, Emily?"
After a few exchanges debating the merits of meatloaf and mash potatoes versus pork tenderloin Hotch gets the meatloaf, Max gets the tenderloin, Gideon orders breakfast (two eggs over-easy, corned beef hash, whole wheat toast) and Dave gets a burger and fries. The waitress manages to write it all down quickly with a minimum of questions, and seems very deliberate in not making eye contact with him again.
She scoots away from the table, but is back in just a few minutes with their drinks: hot tea for Gideon and coffee for the other three. Then, she slips away again to take the order of a table of high school students who have come through the door shedding coats and chattering about the sightseeing they've done today.
When Emily is busy with the high school kids, Max turns to Hotch. "From your early days of vetting security details? Whose daughter?"
Hotch nods, blows across the top of his coffee and supplies, "Ambassador Prentiss." Then blows again and takes a sip.
Max whistles. "That's a pretty high powered politician for their kid to be working at a diner."
Putting his cup down, Hotch opens his hands in a gesture that's somewhere between Hell if I know and considering the skeletons, it's not a surprise. "Emily was always rather independent. If I'm remembering the right file, she was rather adept at ditching her security detail."
This appears to delight Max who lets out a bark of laughter, and despite his slightly bruised ego, it makes Rossi snort out a small laugh, as well. Even Gideon is wearing a small smile as Hotch continues. "It was long before the Ambassador's security was my responsibility. By the time I got the assignment Emily was on her way back to the States and security, for her at least, was cursory. Not sure how well I would have handled a wayward teenager."
Max laughs, "If Haley has anything to say about it, you'll be handling a few."
Hotch doesn't flush but still manages to look both slightly embarrassed and a little lovesick at the mention of his fiancée.
"I doubt any children Hotch has will be wayward at any time," Gideon says dryly.
Rossi can imagine it, babies born with neatly knotted ties already in place. He worries about The Kid being a little uptight. He's good at the job, but he's so serious Dave's afraid doing this job for any length of time is going to turn him into someone who never smiles. It's one of the reason's he always tries to get Hotch to go with them when they go out after a case, whether it's to a bar to blow off steam after a rough case or out for a bite after too much paperwork, like tonight. He likes to see The Kid loosen up a little, smile, look forward to the future, talk about his girl or football or the wayward daughters of Ambassadors.
Dave tries to recall the Ambassador's face from the last time he'd seen her on 60 Minutes. There is definitely a resemblance...fair skin, dark hair, dark eyes, good bone structure. Yale and Georgetown. Well, Emily the Ambassador's daughter is obviously no slouch in the brains department. But why is she waiting tables? He’s willing to bet there’s a trust fund or two with her name on it. He does admit to a certain reverse snobbery that makes him like Emily Prentiss beyond her looks if she's not living on family money.
"Get over it, Dave," Max says good-naturedly, bringing him back to the discussion. "You can't be the superstar every time."
That earns a snicker from Gideon and a glare from Rossi. The choice to put Dave front and center as the face of the BAU had been Max's, and they both know it. Rossi has never denied he has an ego, but it gets its care and feeding in plenty of places. "There's nothing to get over," he says and even to his ears it sounds like he's snapping. So, he modulates his tone and repeats, "There's nothing to get over."
"Really?" Max asks dubiously.
"Maybe you should tell your expression." Gideon appears to be concentrating on the color of his Earl Grey as he dunks his teabag (dunk, pause, raise, pause, dunk, pause, raise) into the cup of hot water Emily had delivered to the table. "You keep glowering at the young lady."
Dave likes Gideon, he does. At the very least he admires his mind, his ethics and his commitment to the victims. But all of that doesn't stop Dave from wanting to pop him in the mouth sometimes. Self-righteous son-of-a-bitch, Rossi thinks. "I wasn't glowering," he growls. "I was just wondering why the daughter of such a prestigious and wealthy family would be waiting tables."
Hotch shrugs. "Like I said, she's independent. I walked in on the tail end of a fight between her and her mother one time. Something about her mother getting the Secretary of State to write a recommendation for Emily without Emily's knowledge." He gives a smile that Dave is sure is a suppression of a laugh. "Let's just say, it's a good thing the Ambassador never had to negotiate a peace deal with her daughter."
Max shudders. "God, why do you think I told Dave it was a good idea to start the BAU and do all of the traveling? It's the only thing that got me through Maggie's teenage years. I'm still surprised Carol didn't kill her."
Emily approaches then with a food laden tray, and places everyone's order in front of them. She smiles, but doesn't meet Dave's eyes, though she doesn't seem to have that problem with anyone else. He sighs inwardly. He really needs to learn not to be such a dick. Big tip, he tells himself and asks for some spicy mustard.
The food is surprisingly good and the conversation moves from their waitress to the case that came across this afternoon. They debate the merits of phone consults versus a trip to Manhattan, Kansas, and if the trip is warranted, how many of them should go and who it should be.
Dave slips a twenty under his plate before they leave and doesn't think too much more about it.
Until Monday morning anyway, when the first thing Max says to him is, "Hey, Rossi. Terrorize any more young waitresses over the weekend?"
Dave glares. "I wasn't that bad."
"You were pretty rough on her," Gideon says, not looking up from the file he's studying.
Making a dismissive snorting sound, Dave heads for the coffee pot. "I left her a big tip."
"Uh-huh." Jason takes a handful of murder scene photos out of the file and fans them across his desk. "Because money is a good substitute for human decency."
Rossi makes a face as he dumps sugar into his coffee. Gideon has shown, on more than one occasion, a complete disregard for civility and socially acceptable behavior, so Dave doesn't really feel he has much room to judge. Plus he suspects Jason is just needling him; it's one of his favorite activities lately.
But when Dave sees The Kid looking at him with a solemn, evaluating expression, he decides maybe he shouldn't have let his ego out on Friday night. One of the requirements of starting and being a part of this unit is a relentless commitment to self-awareness, so when he sits at his desk and opens the file on top of the stack, his attention to it is cursory at best.
Yes, he'd found the young woman attractive. Extremely. And, yeah, maybe if things had been different he would have been charming and maybe he would have stayed after the others left and been extra charming. Maybe he would have walked away with her number, maybe he would have walked away with her. And, yeah, the cooing over Max was a little aggravating. If she'd flirted with Hotch he would probably have understood, but her reaction to Max without even knowing who Rossi was, yeah, okay, that tweaked his pride. And, damnit, Okay, he was an ass.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath.
"Something wrong?" Gideon looks across at him, eyes at half mast, half smile on his face.
Smug bastard, Dave thinks. But all he says is, "Picked up the wrong file."
The other man doesn't answer, just raises his eyebrows and goes back to his own file.
It's dark when they leave for the day; three phone conferences with the locals in Kansas have made it a long day, but they think they're a little closer to some answers. Max speeds out the door, almost late for his mother-in-law's birthday dinner. Hotch isn't far behind, trying to make the appointment he and Haley have with yet another caterer for their wedding. Slowly, Dave puts on his jacket and eyes Gideon. "Staying late?"
Gideon looks up, the same photos from the morning in a different configuration. "Stephen's class is on an overnight field trip. Rachel went along as a chaperone. Thought I'd review some cases."
Dave nods. He suspects Rachel and Stephen are on more than an overnight field trip since Gideon's nights at the office have been occurring with increasing frequency, but it's not his business. He also understands how the ghosts from some files get in your head and stay there, how the voices in your head can drown out the voices in your home until the real voices don't care to compete any more. But all he says is, "Good idea."
Then he heads for the door.
He's not aware of it as a conscious decision, but when he ends up in the diner's parking lot it's with a mild sense of resignation. Only a few tables are occupied, and he seats himself at the same booth he and the others had occupied Friday night. This time the server isn't Emily the Ambassador's daughter but a young man who introduces himself as Hector. Dave politely listens to the evening’s specials then orders a BLT with a side of the homemade vegetable soup instead of fries. He watches the patrons and staff as he waits on his food; there's another server, a friendly older woman with over-processed hair and a teenage boy with a severe case of acne acting as a busboy. Other than the kitchen staff, that appears to be the extent of the people working at the diner.
As Hector refills his coffee, Dave clears his throat. "I was in here Friday night and there was a waitress named Emily. Is she here tonight?" He's pretty sure he already knows the answer, but maybe she's in the back somewhere.
"Nah," Hector says, pulling back the coffee carafe. "She only works the weekends." He looks at Dave assessingly. "You a friend of hers?"
Dave lifts his coffee cup. "A friend of a friend, actually."
"Try back on Friday."
A BLT is hard to fuck up so he's not surprised it's good, but the vegetable soup is nothing short of amazing, could rival his Nonna's, though he'd never say that out loud. The broth is rich and savory; the vegetables are crisp and remain distinct while still carrying the flavor of the soup. So, when he decides to go back on Friday, it's not just because he needs to apologize to a pretty girl for being an arrogant asshole. You can't find soup that good just anywhere.
He accepts a menu from the cashier and sits in the same booth as on his previous two visits. Perusing the menu, he tries to decide what the chances of the lasagna being decent are. Soup is one thing, but lasagna...
A cup rattles in the saucer as it hits the table. "David Anthony Rossi," Emily says, pouring coffee into the cup. "The Bureau recruited you out of the Marines where you were a decorated sharpshooter." She pulls back the carafe and continues. "You've been commended several times. You were at Ruby Ridge and consulted at Waco. There's a good deal of speculation that if they'd taken your advice life loss would have been minimal. You started the Behavioral Analysis Unit, but they made Max Ryan unit chief because he has seniority and more credentials." The carafe meets the table surface.
He blinks up at her. "You've done your homework."
"Why do homework when you've done it all for me? You were at the same talk at Yale as Agent Ryan. Actually, you were the featured speaker; he seemed to be along to help with the questions."
It's likely true. Part of their funding depends on doing the dog and pony show at college campuses, in Criminal Justice and Poli-Sci classes, trying to get the best and brightest to consider the Bureau as a career. There's no set talk. Two of them always go; one of them takes point and the other supports (and usually makes fun of the other one on the way back to the bunker).
His smile is slow but wide. "You were playing him."
She has the grace to look down and he notices the flush high on her cheeks. "I wasn't playing him. I was concentrating on him."
"So, what, you want a job in the BAU when you graduate?" He raises a challenging eyebrow.
She snorts. "I'm not an idiot. Somebody would have to be a certified genius, with half a dozen PhDs for a rookie to be taken straight into the BAU."
He likes this girl. "So, what's your game?"
"No game." She shrugs. "I was hoping to get his card. One of my thesis readers is writing a book on Dahmer." Now, she gives him an eyebrow of her own. "And yes, I'm confident my thesis is going to be good without doing favors for my readers, but I like Dr. Baron and politics aside, talking to Agent Ryan would help him out."
Rossi reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card and scratches Max's extension number on the back. "I was rude last week." He holds the card out to her scissored between two fingers, and deliberately makes his tone and words more formal. "Please accept this as a token of my sincere regret."
Smiling, Emily accepts the card and he blinks again. She has a beauty queen smile, bright, wide and dazzling. "I wasn't doing my job and you were right to call me on it. You don't really have to apologize, but---" She waves the card before slipping it into her pocket. "---I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth." Tilting her head, her expression sobers slightly. "Thank you."
He smiles in return. "You're welcome."
Clearing her throat, she pulls out a pad and pen. "What would you like?"
He orders the soup and they have a brief discussion about the lasagna. "It's good if all you're used to is Stouffer's. But if you're looking for more authentic, I'd go with the eggplant parm, but I haven't had it since the middle of summer, so I don't know about the quality of the eggplant."
"How do you know authentic?" he challenges.
"Two years in Rome." She purses her lips in a way that makes her look both smug and a little bit naughty.
He raises his hands in surrender. "All right. You know authentic." He doesn't want to risk off season eggplant either, so he looks back up at her. "What do you recommend?"
"Healthy or good?" she asks with a grin.
He grins back. "I eat for my health weekdays, and am a hedonist on the weekends."
Her eyebrow arches along with her tone. "Is that so?"
It's been a long time since he's found himself tripped up by his own tongue and he actually thinks he might be blushing a little. Thanks be to God neither Gideon nor Max is here to see it. He counters his slight embarrassment with a severe look, but Emily, obviously unmoved and equally unrepentant, just grins at him again, though she does have the grace to move forward. "Burgers are always good, but you had that last week." She pauses for a moment, shifting from her right foot to her left, her hip cocking slightly towards his table. "The beef stroganoff is probably the best I've had in the states and the chicken pie is good."
Dave closes his menu decisively. "I'll have the stroganoff."
This time when she smiles it's without cheek. "What dressing do you want on your salad?"
Handing the menu to her, he shakes his head. "Just the soup."
"Coming right up." Emily turns smartly on her heel and walks toward the kitchen.
There's a rush of customers shortly after she places his soup in front of him so their exchanges are brief. Still, he finds himself lingering over coffee long after he's finished his really excellent beef stroganoff. The other customers have mostly cleared out, except for one couple lingering over their own coffee, when Emily appears beside his table with the coffee carafe in one hand and a dessert plate with a cannoli in the other. There's a fresh coffee cup hooked on her pinkie and she looks at him expectantly. "Do you mind if I join you?"
Oh, hell no, he thinks, hoping his eagerness doesn’t show through too much as he says, "Sure. Have a seat.”
Sliding into the booth, she hands him the cannoli.
He frowns at the pastry. "I didn't order this."
"My treat." She gives him the same grin from earlier. "Consider it a hedonistic bribe."
Glaring mildly, he pulls the dessert plate towards him. "I'd like to know what I'm being bribed for before accepting payment."
Producing a clean fork from somewhere she hands it across the table. "I'd like to pick your brain about the Bureau."
Eating cannoli while maintaining both the integrity of the pastry and one's dignity is a fine art, one Dave has learned in his thirty-eight years. He might normally eat one with his fingers, but with the cheese to pastry ratio here, he thinks the fork is a good idea and accepts it willingly. "So what do you want to know?" The fork touches the pastry and as he cuts, the cream and sweetened cheese oozes from both ends. He slides the bite into his mouth.
"My undergrad is in Criminal Justice...I think I said that the other night? I also have a minor in Poli-Sci." She angles her body so she's leaning against the side of the booth and her legs are draped across the seat. "That was my mother's doing; she hasn't given up hope of me following in her footsteps." Her tone is mostly exasperated, but he hears a bit of fondness in there as well. "My advisor at Yale suggested psychology for my masters or law school if I was serious about the Bureau."
"And are you?" He wiped his napkin across his lips. "Serious about the Bureau?"
"Yeah." She takes a sip of coffee and stares into the cup for a minute before looking up at him. "Yeah, I am."
He cuts another piece of the pastry and watches as it collapses, flattens, and cream billows out. "Then what's your question?"
Shaking her head, she laughs a little. "Am I on the right track?"
She has a nice laugh. Rich and a little husky, it's sexy as hell, he decides. "Have you decided on your thesis yet?"
"Obsessional Crimes and Sexual Dysfunction. I'm looking at both rapists and serial killers. My reader is urging me to narrow it down, but I haven't been able to find a clear hook."
Dave nods, taking a sip of his own coffee. "Are you looking at arsonists, too?"
Emily pauses with her cup halfway to her mouth, blinks, and puts the cup back on the table. "I hadn't thought of it."
He quirks an eyebrow and gives a half shrug, half nod. "See if looking at all three doesn't force some clarity."
"I will." She smiles at him, a nice, soft smile.
He decides to press his luck. "Now can I ask you a question?"
For just a second he sees a flash of something that looks a lot like alarm before her expression smoothes over. "I did pay for my question with cannoli," she points out evenly.
"Put it on my bill and let me ask you a question." He gives her a smile of his own. "Quid pro quo."
Snorting into her coffee cup, Emily looks a little dubious. "What is this, Silence of the Lambs?"
Dave can't help his grin. "Does that make me Hannibal or Clarice?"
She laughs again, a little snortier, a little less elegant and though it isn't nearly as sexy as the one a few minutes before, he might like it better. "Could I take you out to dinner sometime?"
There's a slight flush high on her cheekbones, if she weren't so fair he wouldn't have noticed, but her expression is a conflict between wary and pleased. "Agent Rossi..."
"Dave," he corrects gently.
"Dave." She inclines her head in acknowledgment. "I'm not dating right now." She holds up a hand, as though he has cried some objection and she wants to forestall him before he gets too far. "Don't get me wrong...you seem to be a really great guy, but I'm not seeing anyone right now. Between classes and the thesis and working here on the weekends...dating is just not on the agenda right now."
He's disappointed...well, a little. He hadn't really expected it to go anywhere and she seems sincere in her reasons for turning him down.
Still.
"All work and no play makes Emily a dull girl."
Again, her snorty laugh makes him half smile as she responds. "All work and no play makes sure Emily does well in school, makes progress on her thesis and keeps a roof over her head."
Dave runs a frankly assessing eye over her and nods. "Fair enough. But you have my card...if your schedule should lighten up..."
Grinning, Emily pats her pocket. "You'll be my first call."
Over the next week he finds himself thinking about Emily Prentiss and her snorty laugh and her sexy laugh, and when Hotch asks them if they want to grab a bite when they get in from a case in South Carolina Saturday evening, Dave is happy to suggest Emily's diner. Max's eyebrows climb, but he responds, "Sure. Carol is in California. This will be better than the McDonald's drive-thru." Gideon spreads the pictures from Kansas out on his desk and never answers the invitation.
Emily smiles and raises a hand in greeting when she sees them slide into what Dave is fast coming to think of as his booth. It's only a couple of minutes before she's at their table with three cups and the coffee pot. "Agent Ryan, it's good to see you again." Her voice is formal and her smile is winning, and Dave is secretly delighted to see Max puff up a little as she fills his coffee cup. "Agent Hotchner, my mother said to tell you hello if I saw you again."
"Please give her my best," The Kid says.
She nods and begins pouring Dave's coffee. "You were right about the arson thing, Dave."
He feels the eyes of the other two land on him, but he ignores them and concentrates instead on Emily. "Good. I hoped it would help."
"It did." He gets the wide, beauty queen smile and he hopes it doesn't blow her chances of charming Max, but he feels a tug in the middle of his chest at the sight of it. "I'll be back in a minute to get your order."
Max waits until she's decently far enough away to lean across the table and hiss. "Dave? You've gone from asshole agent to Dave? And you helped her out with something? I guess now I know how one of her advisors got my phone number." Max has a booming and merry laugh and it draws everyone in the diner's attention, but Dave doesn't mind. Dave looks at Emily, smiling at him as she passes with another table's order. No, he doesn't mind at all.
"I need a black skirt," she says out of the blue one Saturday night.
She's draped across the opposite seat of the booth. It's close enough to closing that she's taken her hair down, and he's rather mesmerized by the fall of it over her shoulders. His fingers itch to reach across the table and brush through it from scalp to ends.
Without conscious thought, he's become a regular at the diner every Friday and Saturday night and sometimes Sunday afternoons. He knows Hector is the owner's son and has hopes to open a place of his own in a few years. He knows Dottie, who is about to become a first time grandmother and Jenn, whose husband is in Afghanistan. Sean is the weekend busboy, and Joey and Willie share the kitchen. He knows the beef stew is as good as the vegetable soup, but not to have the beef tips when Willie is cooking. He's well fed, and he realized last week, this is the longest he's gone without having sex since his divorce.
He's not exactly sure why, either. Emily has shown no interest in being more than friends, and it's not exactly like she could hold anything against him if she changed her mind. But, still, he’s stopped looking. And when he's jacking off in the shower it's Emily's face he sees, Emily's body he imagines.
"What?" he asks, partially confused by the complete non-sequitur and partially trying not to imagine her legs if he were to ever see her in a skirt.
She frowns at him. "I need a new black skirt. I don't have class on Wednesday. The first draft of the thesis is with my advisor and I need a new black skirt. My mother is going to be in town next week, and I don't have a suitably sober skirt to show up to Thanksgiving dinner. So, I'm going shopping on Wednesday."
He's still a little confused but he knows she tends to babble when she's working her way up to something. "And?"
"And I don't think it'll take all day, and I wanted to ask you to lunch." Her eyes widen a little, and she flushes slightly and continues, "To, you know, thank you. For all of your help."
He's not sure how much help he's been, but he has talked things out with her, as well as pointed some things out that might send her in a better direction. He's also enjoyed hearing about a childhood spent globe-trotting and telling her about his quick first marriage and the slow, sad breakdown of his second. She's thanked him plenty, even bought him a few meals. So, he decides to needle her a little. "You mean, like a date?"
"No." She narrows her eyes at him. "Like a lunch."
"Hmmm," he says consideringly. "Will you wear the skirt?"
Heaving a sigh, she slides off the bench. "We can meet closer to Quantico if that makes it easier on you."
He shakes his head. "I've actually got a meeting at the Hoover Building on Wednesday. How about 1:30 at that little pub in Georgetown you told me about?"
The mention of the pub was several weeks ago and only in passing, but he's made an effort to pay attention. He's tried not to look at that too closely; he usually doesn't waste energy pursuing someone who isn't interested, and he's not sure why this time is any different. Not that he's actively pursuing Emily. Really, he just enjoys spending time with her. She's quick and smart and has the most sarcastic wit he's ever had the pleasure to experience. He's seen her be serious and passionate, irreverent and blasé, earnest and nerdy.
Right now she's smiling at him fondly, and at the moment he doesn't care why he's paid attention, he's just glad he has.
"So." She bites the corner of her lip a trifle hesitantly before continuing, "I'll see you Wednesday?"
"Yeah, you will." He grins at her and reaches for his wallet as she heads back toward the kitchen.
He's the last one out, as usual, and even though the weekend crew is tolerant of him taking up a table, he doesn't want to delay any of them getting home to their families. Besides, he doesn't have to wait until Friday to see Emily again; he only has to wait until Wednesday. It's a little easier to leave tonight, and he quashes his usual temptation to wait and watch to make sure she gets to her car all right. Hector and Willie have both let him know they all leave as a group so nobody is at risk. Besides, if he watches to make sure she gets to her elderly Civic and then to make sure it starts, how much longer before he's following her to make sure she gets home okay? And how long after that before he’s sitting outside her apartment checking to see when he lights go off or to make sure she's home alone? Nah, he's seen too much obsession, and as tempting as it is, Dave's never been one to meet a slippery slope and not slide. Best to avoid the slope and the slippery all together.
Wednesday will be here soon enough.
Only Wednesday finds him in Manhattan, Kansas, sitting across the table from the parents of another murdered woman. Lori Morrison was a senior majoring in Chemistry at Kansas State University. She was blonde haired and blue eyed, but he can't help the thought She's only a little younger than Emily when he looks at the pictures of her broken body.
Emily still hadn't given him her number; his plan had been to charm it out of her at lunch. He takes the only recourse he has and calls the diner on his way out of town on Monday. He gets Hector, who won't give him Emily's number, but does agree to call her for him and explain the situation. Dave gives him the number of his cell phone (it's supposed to be just for Bureau use, but screw that) and tells him to tell Emily to call. She doesn't, of course, and he's not surprised; he just hopes it's because she knows he's on a case and doesn't want to bother him and not because she's pissed he couldn't make lunch.
So, he sends flowers to the diner on Friday. He doesn't have a lot of time to agonize over just the right thing to say so he settles for simple. I'm sorry. Dave. Saturday night when they break for dinner he goes back to the hotel and sits on the faded bedspread and calls the diner. "Rocky's" says a gruff voice on the other end.
"Hey, Willie. It's Dave. Is Emily around?"
There's no answer into the phone, but in the distance Dave can hear him call. "Hey, Emily, Romeo’s on the phone for you."
Dave tries to imagine her face. Is she flushing or irritated? Is she rolling silverware into napkins or putting waters down in front of customers when Willie calls across the diner? She must be reasonably close though because he hears the phone change hands fairly quickly. There's some exchange between Willie and Emily as she takes up the phone, and it sounds suspiciously like the Ambassador's daughter has just told the 6'6" 400 lb ex-boxer to "bite me."
Dave is grinning at the receiver when Emily says, "Dave?"
"Hi." He's smiling. He's lovesick and ridiculous and probably a dirty old man, but he's smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt. It's bad, because he didn't mean for this to happen again, ever. He'd been having fun and hadn't wanted anything more serious, and she's so young she probably wants kids, and he guesses that would be okay, but hell, she doesn't even want to go out on a date with him. Still, he's smiling.
"Hi." Her voice is a little wobbly and he hears her clear her throat; she sounds a little nervous. "Thank you for the flowers. You didn't have to do that."
"I couldn't possibly stand a lady up without some kind of apology." He is trying to sound both chivalrous and affronted to tease her a little, but he can't do much more than remember to speak when he's concentrating so hard on the sound of her breathing. "Hector gave you the message, right?'
"Yeah." Emily gives a little laugh. "I don't know what you said to him, but I came home Tuesday to a half dozen messages on my machine making sure I knew you'd called."
"He's a good man," Dave says, not really thinking about it, but it's something else to say, another thing to keep her on the phone for another few minutes.
"Yeah." He can almost see her there at the phone behind the counter, back to the dining area, twisting the phone cord absently around her finger. "The flowers...they're really gorgeous. Thank you."
His first instinct is to say she's really gorgeous, but he doesn't voice it. Instead he says lightly, "I didn't want to ruin my chances for a free lunch the next time you go shopping."
She laughs, but he can hear the tension start to creep in to her voice. "I hate to..."
"Yeah," he sighs. "I know, you gotta go."
"You..." She starts, then stops, then picks up again. "How long will you be gone?"
"I hope not long." Then he lets the smile on his face show in his voice. "Do you miss me?"
He expects another laugh, but the response he gets is a little more interesting. "Nothing is the same without you here." In the background he hears someone call for her. "I gotta go. I'll see you when you get back."
"Take care, Emily." His heart is clenched in his chest, and he hates his job, and he hates Manhattan Kansas, and he fucking hates the twisted asshole who is murdering innocent young women.
"Bye, Dave."
He hears the click and the dial tone before he returns the receiver to the cradle.
It takes everything he's got to not call again on Sunday, but he tells himself to stay focused and get this guy so he can get home.
In the end, it's Gideon who sees the pattern in the murders, Hotch who finds the connection between the victims and Dave's the one that sees the person that's unseen: maintenance, delivery, utility...landscaper. Max ends up shooting the guy in the middle of campus. It's a clean shoot, but it means another day before they can fly out. Still they make it home in time for him to repack a bag and head to his parents' house for Thanksgiving.
Mama tries to talk him into staying the weekend, but he's on the road again Friday afternoon, headed back to DC. He's not going another day without seeing Emily.
She's behind the counter when he walks through the door, and the first look on her face when she sees him is...happy. But it quickly changes to something a little bit nervous, a little bit guilty as her gaze shifts to the two men sitting at the counter. They're both about Emily's age and appear to be having some sort of exchange with her. One, dark haired, dressed in an old army jacket, hunched over a cup of coffee, doesn't look up as Dave takes a seat at his usual table. But the other one, he's got a high forehead and a sullen face (Dave wonders, somewhat unkindly, if it's occurred to the punk yet he's going bald) that give him the look of a not quite mature caveman. His eyes follow Dave, flicking back to Emily, then Dave as he slides into his booth.
Emily seems distressed, but he can't do anything from here. If something was really wrong, Willie would have handled it or Hector would have gotten out the Louisville Slugger that rests under the register. Still, he doesn't like the looks of it. Emily's face is too tense, her movements are jerky as she pours Neanderthal boy a cup of coffee and puts the pot down with a plunk. She says something to both of them and starts toward Dave, but caveboy grabs her hand. Emily twists it free and says something sharp before Dave is half way out of his seat, so he settles back down and watches as Emily approaches.
"Hi." She smiles and pushes an invisible lock of hair back behind her ear and her tone is a mix of happy and nervous, but not the good kind of nervous he'd heard on the phone last week.
"Everything all right?" He doesn't want to give her the impression he thinks she can't take care of herself, but he also doesn't want her to think she can't ask him if she needs some help.
"Yeah." Emily looks over her shoulder quickly; dark haired Army jacket is still holding on to his coffee cup, but Neanderthal is turned around on his stool, elbows resting on the counter behind him, openly staring at Emily and Dave.
Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are drawn down and he knows where she's going to get the first lines on her face. It hits him then, the way his giddy thoughts sitting on an ugly bedspread in an average priced hotel in Kansas had hit him. He wants to see that. He wants to be there the first time she notices she's getting lines or wrinkles; he wants to come up behind her in the mirror and kiss the side of her neck and convince her she's beautiful, she'll always be beautiful, she'll always be beautiful to him.
But Army boy and Neanderthal have his gut tightening and his instincts screaming that something's not right, and he's afraid whatever it is doesn't match up with that future in front of the mirror. "You sure? 'Cause if you need my help..."
She shakes her head and turns back to face him fully. "Just a couple of guys I grew up with...well, spent a few years with in Italy. One of them is going through a rough time right now."
The look he gives her must be doubtful, because the smile she gives him is soft and grateful, though her eyes are still troubled. "Really. Everything is fine." She puts her hand on his arm, and without thinking, he reaches out with his other hand to grasp her fingers.
Her eyes widen a little, then soften. "How was your Thanksgiving?" She turns her hand within his grasp and runs her thumb over the ridge of his fingers, and he has to concentrate on answering the question instead of absorbing the feel of skin on skin, no matter how slight.
"Good. It was good." His large and loud family holidays are very different than the quiet elegant ones Emily has described. "Yours?"
"Pretty quiet. I didn't even manage to argue with my mother this year." Her tone is dry.
He snorts a little laugh. "Maybe she's mellowing."
Emily tilts her head and squeezes his hand. "Maybe I'm growing up." With obvious reluctance she withdraws her hand and pulls her pad out of her pocket. "Do you know what you want?"
He barely manages not to answer, "You." Instead he asks who's cooking and when she answers Willie, he says anything but the beef tips. She cracks a smile and then realizes she forgot to bring his coffee. Then there's a steady stream of customers through the door, and Neanderthal and Army boy seem to demand her attention during her free time.
Hector actually brings his food. "Glad you're back, man."
Dave looks at the pork tenderloin and mashed potatoes in front of him with a nod. "Me, too."
Hector inclines his head toward the counter. "I don't have a good feeling about those two."
Eyebrows climbing into his forehead, Dave looks at Hector's frowning face. "Yeah? Why?"
Hector shakes his head, "I dunno. But you shoulda seen her face when they walked in."
Dave nods. "I'll keep an eye out."
Hector nods in return. "Yeah. Me too."
On one hand, Dave is even more concerned knowing Hector is picking up the same feeling from these guys. On the other hand, he's a little bit relieved; he's glad to know the feeling isn't just jealousy. Though there's that, too, he admits, looking at Neanderthal.
Patience is not necessarily something he's known for, but that doesn't mean he's not capable. So, he settles in to wait. Problem is Army boy and Neanderthal seem to be set on waiting, too. About thirty minutes before closing, the three of them are the only customers left and Emily and Hector are having a conversation in the corner. Dave can tell from his expression and body language Hector doesn't like what Emily is saying, but given the look of earnestness and pleading on Emily's face it would take a stronger man than Dave to tell her "no" and evidently, Hector is not that man. Obviously unhappy about it, Hector, jaw clenched, nods at whatever she's saying, and Emily grabs for her coat. Army boy and Neanderthal stand and Neanderthal pays their check.
Emily scurries over to Dave. "I'm so sorry," her voice is breathy and she is wound as tight as he's ever seen her. "Matthew isn't feeling well and John and I are going to take him home." From the pallor and the sweats, Dave is going to guess Army boy is Matthew and that makes Neanderthal John. She gives him a trembling, apologetic smile. "I hate this. I had so much I wanted to talk to you about." She looks surprised for a moment, as if she can't really believe she just said that, then she gives a minute shake of her head and continues. "I have to do this. I'll explain tomorrow." The look she gives him is suddenly stricken, as though something unthinkable just occurred to her. "You will be here tomorrow, won't you?"
"I'll be here," he nods. Nothing in the world would keep him away.
Emily looks over her shoulder, but Hector is wiping down the counter and Neanderthal is escorting Army boy (Matthew Dave corrects himself) out the door. Leaning forward so quickly it leaves him blinking, she presses a kiss far back on his cheek, just in front of his ear. "Good," she whispers, then draws away, heading out the door.
He watches her and sees John watching him. "I'll be here," he repeats though no one can hear him.
Tomorrow comes, but Emily is not there.
Part Two