Criminal Minds Fic-A Hinge in the Air, Chapter 6
Title: A Hinge in the Air, Chapter 6
Author: mingsmommy
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Spoilers: Everything through Season 5
Rating: FRT/PG13
Author's Notes: This fic is the wonderful wojelah's help_haiti fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan. May I just say writing for her makes me feel a little like I'm presenting Da Vinci with a finger-painting? Yet she is gracious and generous and lovely regarding my attempts.
smittywing and smacky30 are the best betas anyone could ask for. They giveth the comma, the hyphen and the em dash and they taketh away the incomplete sentence and poor sentence structure. They are amazing and I am very fortunate.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
When she wakes again, sunlight is peeking around the edges of the heavy draperies. It's morning is her first bleary thought. As she comes slowly into something resembling consciousness, she absorbs the heavy weight of an arm thrown carelessly over her hip and that the mass of covers in front of her is not, in fact, bed clothes but a pajama-clad David Rossi. They're nice pajamas, she notes. The blue-striped cotton is soft against her where her t-shirt has ridden up and the sleeve is brushing against an exposed section of her skin. The material is equally soft against her fingers where her arm is bent between them and her hand is splayed over the heavy, steady thud of his heart.
Closing her eyes again for just a moment, she savors this. It's been a while since she's shared a bed with anyone, and even longer since she woke up in bed anything but alone. The last long-term relationship she had had been in Chicago and the break-up had been sudden, which they tend to be when you find the person you're practically living with screwing a coworker on his desk when you stop by to surprise him with dinner when he's "working late." So, the last time she woke up with someone, she didn't know it would be the last time in, literally, years.
Robert, while being quite proficient at the technical aspects of sex, had not been a cuddler. Once the orgasms were achieved he was pretty much hands off, staying on his side of the bed. She's trying to remember if she's ever slept in anyone's arms; not that she can lay all of the blame at the feet of the men she's slept with. While she's sexually confident she's socially awkward, and she knows her nervousness and fear of doing the wrong thing often translates to Don't touch. Being a profiler doesn't leave a lot of room for self-deception; afterall, Emily has the inside scoop on her psyche. Sex is easy; it's chemistry and biology as well as an awful lot of fun. It's goal-oriented and easy to gauge if it's been successful. Sex, in her experience, has seldom been a problem. She's never been in a situation where a man would reject a physical gesture with sexual overtones.
She has, however, experienced the rebuff of a hug, the rejection of a kiss. Other physical affection is a lot riskier emotionally, and if she doesn't offer affection beyond sex, there's no chance of being rejected. No overture means no opportunity for humiliation or reinforcement of the notion that she is unworthy of love and affection.
The safest thing is to save hugs for her friends, kisses on the cheek for those she trusts. There's no risk of rejection, no message that she's not good enough or not doing it right. It's simple, it's comfortable, it's easy.
This, though, this is new. While Rossi is her friend, not her lover, his arms around her have set up an intense longing for something more in her life. What would it be like to wake up every morning with the weight of an arm over her hip? For the first sensation she experiences every day to be the touch of her skin against someone else's?
When she looks up, she sees his eyes are open. His expression is serious, and she feels herself blushing furiously when it suddenly occurs to her she just woke up after sleeping with a coworker. Just sleeping, but still. She recalls pretty much forcing him to stay and her blush gets hotter.
"Stop." His voice is scratchy, but still quite firm.
"What?" she asks, trying to find somewhere to look that's not into his eyes without it being obvious she's not looking into his eyes.
"Stop that thing you do when you think you've made some sort of a blunder, where you beat yourself up and get all weird." He hasn't removed his arm from her body, and she doesn't want to point it out and make things that much more awkward.
"I'm not..."
He moves his head the fraction of an inch it takes to force her to look into his eyes. "You are and you need to stop."
"Rossi," she begins, but she really doesn't have anything to say when she meets the stern set of his mouth coupled with the kindness of his eyes.
"We all have nightmares, Emily. All of us." He moves his head against the pillow as if nestling deeper into it. "And not all of us nearly died a few days ago. You don't have to be Superwoman all the time, you know. It's okay to need comfort every now and then."
"I'm not trying to be Superwoman," she grouses, just a little flipped out she's having this conversation while horizontal, in a bed, with Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi in the same bed, equally as horizontal.
"What do you call it then?" Emily can't tell if he's trying to challenge her view of herself or call her on what he perceives as self-deception. "You seem to think you've failed if anything we see or do impacts you personally. Keep things in their neatly labeled boxes, and don't let yourself be touched. How long do you think you can go like that before you start to burn out?" His words are harsh, but his tone is even. "Being successful at this job isn't about not being affected, Emily. Being successful at this job is about catching the bad guys and the madmen. It's about looking into the blackness, knowing what's there and being able to look in the mirror the next day. And sometimes that costs us."
She nods her head, unable to speak.
"You think," his voice gentles, "I don't know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night from a dream like that? Trust me, there's no one on the team that doesn't know what that's like."
His eyes are warm and kind, and she remembers Indiana, remembers him talking about the Galen children’s screams echoing in his head, the cries that never stop. She wonders who was there to hold him when those nightmares came to call.
"It's easier sometimes," she manages, "to just shut it all away."
He nods and finally moves his arm from across her hip, but it's only so he can use his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. "That's okay, too. But, maybe you could...I don't know...maybe allow yourself a week off from all that considering you were almost the victim of a serial killer? Maybe let yourself off the hook for a nightmare or two or letting someone see you cry or needing a little extra sleep? I'm sure it's against the Superhero rule book or something, but I promise not to let anyone know."
His half-teasing, half-sarcastic tone makes her feel light and a little ridiculous at the same time.
"Fine, fine." She rises up on her elbows, then remembers she is braless and that particular position puts her breasts on display, so she hastily scrambles up to a sitting position, allowing the folds of her roomy t-shirt to cover the shape of her chest.
Dave is watching her, looking amused as he stretches. "But, I gotta tell you, Prentiss, if you have a nightmare tonight we're moving to the King-sized bed."
She can feel herself blushing but she doesn't want another lecture, so she seizes the only option open to her; grabbing the closest pillow, she smacks him over the head with it, then slides off the bed and runs for the bathroom followed by a growled, "Prentiss" and a hail of down-filled projectiles.
They eat breakfast at the hotel. They bypass the more decadent offerings and get their usual; cereal and a banana for Rossi, an apple and a strawberry yogurt for Emily. Charleston is a beautiful city with loads of charm, but if she keeps eating like she has been she isn't going to fit in any of her clothes when she gets home. Though to be fair, the first really over the top meal shouldn't count since it was pumped out of her stomach; not exactly the most comfortable or reliable diet plan, she thinks with a dark smile.
They both answer e-mails after breakfast. Emily has another four e-mails from Garcia filled with lightness and silliness that make her both smile and wonder if Penelope ever actually sleeps. After answering, she composes a quick e-mail to her neighbor Sheila, asking her to continue to pick up her mail through the end of the week. Then Emily crafts a careful reply to Cheryl, trying to encourage without being overly enthusiastic; she doesn't want to make the girl feel any pressure. She makes a mental note to talk to Dave about having Cheryl come to visit over the summer. It might be a little complicated since she obviously thinks Emily and Dave are a couple, but they could work around that. Cheryl could even stay over at Emily's; she smiles at the thought. The constant moving around when she was growing up prevented her from ever having many girlfriends and even fewer giggly, girlie sleepovers. Somewhat ruefully she wonders for whose sake she wants Cheryl to come visit.
Rossi pulls her out of her reverie, asking if she's ready. When she nods and closes her computer, he tells her to make sure to put on comfortable shoes because they'll be walking a lot. She is privately amused at David Rossi, tourist, but goes to the bedroom to put her hair in a ponytail and put on her cushy loafers before rejoining him in the living area.
They set off on foot, and though he had seemed eager to get started earlier, the pace is leisurely and she's glad of the fresh air and the sun. It's spring and warm, the sky is a brilliant blue and there are flowers and trees in bloom. In DC spring was only beginning to awaken when they left, but here, 500 miles south, it is in full regalia. Despite the many buildings and busy streets, the plant life is abundant; tulips and daffodils nodding their heads in agreement with the slight breeze that she guesses is coming off the water and the wisteria is drooping over buildings and streets alike and the bees are buzzing in a delighted dance around the flowers, high and low.
"Wow," she breathes, stopping.
"What?" He looks around as if trying to see what caused her exclamation.
"How did I not notice this before?" She waves a hand around her. "I just remember seeing a couple of daffodils when we got here, not this entire spring thing."
Face solemn, he nods. "Part of the amenities package for the two room suite."
Laughing a little, she starts walking again; if it were possible, she wouldn't put it past him. "You really do know how to live, Rossi."
Grinning at her, he resumes his steps beside her. "It wouldn't hurt you to live a little, Prentiss."
"You might have to show me how." Too late she realizes that might sound a little too flirty, maybe even suggestive; she looks down at her feet and picks up her pace.
Thankfully, Rossi doesn't miss a beat. "I'll get right on that. You might start by slowing down a little."
Risking a look at his face she sees him smirking at her, but it's no more than his usual self-satisfied smirk; there's nothing in it that's sexual or indicates she just made a fool of herself, so she shakes her head and slows her pace. "Are we going to Fort Sumter today?"
Indicating a turn, he shakes his head. "No, I thought we'd do that tomorrow. We can just walk around today. We can take a tour if you want or go it alone. The only thing I have planned is our first stop, City Market." He gives her a smile. "Not only a place of historic significance but a place to buy a teenage girl a really cool gift." Lifting an eyebrow in question, he asks, "If you'll help me pick something out?"
"God, Rossi, I get to expand my cultural horizons and help you spend your money on girlie things?" She looks at him from under her lashes. "This day could not get any better."
Emily congratulates herself for not jumping or shivering when he puts a guiding hand on the small of her back. "We're just getting started, Prentiss. Pace yourself."
"The Market," as it's called, is nothing short of amazing. The three buildings, each a city block long, stretch out, housing a multitude of vendors selling everything from spices and t-shirts to artwork and jewelry. Emily is especially fascinated by the women weaving the sweetgrass baskets outside each of the buildings.
Most of them are well over middle-aged, and a few are downright elderly. One of these women sits on a small stool, her wares spread out before her, baskets of different sizes and shapes fanning out on a colorful cloth she has spread on the ground in front of her. Her brown hands reach for the pieces of sweetgrass as she adds them to the basket currently resting in her lap. Emily notes the specialized callouses on the woman's short fingers as she pulls the stalks through the basket she's weaving. Her face is unsmiling but not harsh as she continues to work, unmindful of her audience, never acknowledging anyone's presence unless they speak to her, asking about a design or a price.
"Kind of pricey for a basket," a man says as he brushes by and Emily wants to hold him still and explain about art, tradition and the value of something being handcrafted, but the touch of Rossi's hand between her shoulder blades brings her attention back to the woman just in time to see her begin fashioning the handle.
The rhythm of it is fascinating to Emily, the way the thick, elderly fingers push, pull and shape the materials into a rather large basket. She's a little awed, standing in a beam of sunlight with Dave standing beside her silently as they both watch the woman create a piece of art that is both functional and beautiful.
"We should get one," Dave says as a customer approaches the woman.
"I'd love to," she sighs. "But it wouldn't live through the flight back."
He grunts wordlessly, as if that hadn't occurred to him.
"Come on." She gently tugs on his arm, pulling him towards the next building. "I believe we're on a mission to find a 'really cool' present."
For a minute she senses a reluctance, as if he'd like to linger, but it doesn't last and he allows himself to be led towards another building of vendors. By the time they're through, two pairs of earrings and a tie-dye shirt have been purchased for Cheryl and a t-shirt has also been acquired for Michael. "I at least don't want it to look like I'm playing favorites," he says blandly.
"Though you totally are." She grins at him.
"Totally," he says in a fair imitation of one of his nephews and she laughs aloud.
Emily picks up a necklace for JJ, several brightly colored (and feathery) headbands for Garcia, a small print of Rainbow Row for Hotch, candy for both Reid and Morgan and a bracelet for her mother. While Rossi talks to an elderly man selling spices, she wanders around the other stalls on that end of the building. Looking back toward the spice booth, she sees the older gentleman sitting on his stool reading a cooking magazine and Rossi nowhere in sight. Shrugging to herself, she moves to the next vendor; it's easy to get distracted and wander away in places like this. He'll catch back up to her, she knows.
When she sees the fringes hanging from the inside of the next booth, she gasps a little. The most delicate scarves and colorful shawls decorate the partition that make up the walls of the stall. The tables are covered with more materials, as well as well as hand-beaded earrings. Everything is gorgeous; satins, brocades, velvets, and silks in swirls of color, patches of beading, tassels and fringe. Touching each with tender fingers, she is almost too awed at the artistry to speak to the young man with jet black hair and heavy eyeliner who turns out to be the craftsman behind the pieces. His name is Grant, he can't be more than twenty and he is actually quite shy; she figures that's why he chose the Goth look, to appear less approachable. When he reaches up to pull down a shawl she wants to see, she notes the old, round cigarette burns on the skin of his lower back where his shirt rides up; just from that small strip of skin she sees at least a half a dozen and that tells its own story about why he might want to appear less approachable.
After a somewhat one-sided conversation that leaves him blushing and flattered, Emily treats herself to a red and black embroidered shawl and a pair of long, dangling earrings that match it beautifully. She admires the way the two items look together in one of the ornate mirrors Grant has on each of his tables.
"Very pretty." Rossi says, appearing suddenly in front of her. Though he's startled her a little, she does note he's not carrying any items other than what he left with; whatever it was that distracted him and caused him to wander away was apparently not worth buying. Of course, she thinks to herself a little cynically, it might not have been a what, but a who. Then she shuts that down; he can follow whoever he wants, he's under no obligation to her. He's merely shown her a few kindnesses; they're friends and coworkers and it is so going to suck if he tells her she's on her own for dinner, because he has a date.
Embarrassed by her line of thought, she feels her cheeks heating and rapidly begins speaking. "Rossi, these shawls are gorgeous."
One hand casually resting in a pocket, the other holding his purchases for Cheryl, he turns in a circle, admiring Grant's work. "They are." He aims a serious look at the young man. "This is beautiful work."
Grant's features brighten with a pleased little smile before he ducks his head and begins folding some scarves.
Dave makes another slow circle. "Emily, do you think my mother would like one of these?"
The gentle spread of warmth in her chest matches the spread of the smile on her face. "There's not a woman I know that wouldn't love one of these."
He gravitates toward a richly embroidered black one, "Mama would love this with her church dresses." But Emily suggests a more vibrant blue with long fringe saying it will be a perfect foil for Angela's hair. In the end, they both agree on a shimmering bronze with delicate beading along the edge; it's beautiful and vibrant without being flashy.
"That blue one, though, that would be great for JJ," he says as he hands the material over to Grant. "Which one do you think would suit Garcia?"
Emily grins. "Something bright."
"Profile much?" Rossi asks, dryly. "Your insight is astonishing."
Letting her eyes run over the shawls, she approaches a gleam of bright yellow hidden under a stack of darker hues; when she pulls it out she gives a little laugh of delight at the pink and green beaded fringe.
"It's reversible," Grant mumbles and she unfolds it to see the inside is painted with pink and green polka dots that perfectly match the beads.
"Rossi." She flips the polka dot side for his inspection. "I think we have a winner."
His eyebrows climb and he nods. "That is meant for Penelope Garcia." He turns to Grant. "You couldn't have custom made anything better for her."
The young man beams as he accepts the shawl from Emily.
Rossi's head is tilted back, looking at the selections draped on the walls. "What about your mother?"
"I already bought her a bracelet." She's gently lifting each stack of shawls, looking for another unexpected find.
He frowns. "That's nice. But I meant from me."
"What?" Startled, she turns to look at him, mouth agape.
He gestures around them. "You're right; these are beautiful things. They're rare, one of a kind. They strike me as something your mother would appreciate."
Emily folds her arms. "When did you and my mother become such good friends?"
"Do you know what she did, Prentiss? Evidently a little bird told her I drink Scotch." He shakes his head. "She sent me a case."
"I told you she'd be grateful and want to know what she could do for you." Emily had, indeed, received a call from her mother the day after the ball and had been the little bird in question. "A case of Scotch is not that big of a deal, she can afford it."
"Prentiss." He levels his gaze at her. "It was a case of Johnny Walker Blue."
"Okay." Her eyes widen. "Okay. That is a big deal."
"It would have been rude to send it back, not that I even wanted to. But," his hands open in a gesture encompassing the tables. "I'd like to get her something; it's just a token, really." He leans in a little and lowers his voice. "Besides, think what it would do for this young man's business if Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss wears something he made."
One side of his mouth tilts up and she blinks at him, before she fully absorbs what he’s saying, then she nods. "I should get her one, too."
Rossi chooses a classic black velvet evening shawl with a white satin lining and black silk fringe with tiny crystal beads knotted at the end. In the end, Emily chooses one of his hand-dyed scarves instead of another shawl, easily imagining her mother wearing the silk dyed in graduated shades of red, from palest pink to screaming scarlet.
Then Dave decides each of his sisters and Cheryl need a scarf. They take a long time over the choices, factoring in each woman's coloring as well as their personal style. Though he asks for her help, he has definite opinions, and they squabble over a couple of the selections. But it's light-hearted and she realizes, somewhat surprised, she's having fun. By the time they've made their choices, and Grant has carefully wrapped everything, Rossi has paid an amount that makes Emily blink and Grant nearly giddy. It's almost lunch time and they decide to head back to Charleston Place to drop off their Market loot before deciding what to do the rest of the day.
"I grabbed a couple of his business cards," Emily says as they carry their packages back towards the hotel.
"Good." Rossi shifts his bags from one arm to the other and takes another from her, despite her severe look. "I think he put a card in with each thing."
"I'm not so weak I can't carry two pounds of candy, Rossi," she gripes uselessly, then sighs. "Good, about the cards. I noticed he had a website; hopefully, he's about to get a lot busier." She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "Doing that for him? It was a good thing."
He just grunts and she smiles as they walk on.
Emily might be more tired than she's willing to admit when they get back to their suite. She feels ridiculous; all she's done is walk a few blocks and shop, but she feels a little like she feels when they've been up for two days straight trying to pin down a profile or chasing an unsub. Disgusted with herself, she kicks off her shoes and collapses on the sofa, grateful when Rossi doesn't say anything. But she can't miss the vertical lines between his eyebrows or the way his mouth tightens like it does when he's not happy about something.
After he drops the gifts from the Market in his room, he comes back with the room service menu in hand.
She can't help the laugh that escapes, even though she knows it sounds tired. "Dave, I swear, you do not have to feed me every five minutes."
One eyebrow goes up and the other goes down in a face that she thinks is supposed to look severe but just looks kind of silly, even for Rossi. "I am not feeding you every five minutes, Emily." She snorts and the look moves to mock affronted. "I am feeding me; you're just collateral damage. Vacation is all about the experience and a good part of experiencing any new place is the food." He sits on the sofa next to her and fishes out his reading glasses. "It's not like I eat like this all the time and trust me, the trainer at the gym is going to take it out of my hide one way or another. At least, this way, I'm going to deserve it."
He is remarkably fit; it's not like his biceps threaten to bust the seams of his shirts like Morgan's, but he seems to be in good shape. And, yes, she pays particular attention to his forearms when his shirt sleeves are rolled up. She had managed to feign a decent amount of surprise and indifference when Garcia pointed out he had a nice ass; Emily had noticed that from the beginning. Actually, Emily might have noticed that when she saw him on a book tour in Chicago three years before she joined the BAU.
"Besides," he continues, "I wasn't thinking about eating this minute." He flips to a page towards the back of the menu. "They do picnic baskets; we could go to Battery Park and eat there. They ask for a two hour window to prepare it. Would you mind hanging out here until they get it together?"
Ruefully, she shakes her head. He's trying so hard not to look as if he's babying her and it's out of character for him. Normally, he'd probably just yell at her to rest and threaten to lock her in her room; anyone who's known her for more than ten minutes probably knows she doesn't take kindly to being told what to do, but that's never stopped Rossi from trying before.
She'd give him grief about it, but she really is tired and she appreciates that he's concerned enough about her well-being that he would change his own natural behavior to get her to rest. Because, for once, she is giving him the benefit of the doubt that he wants her to do what is best for her, not just do what he wants her to do. It doesn't take a profiler to figure out everything that happened between Saturday night and Sunday morning still has him a little flipped out; so, really, the best thing to do is what he wants her to do, which is also what she wants to do and what is best for her. It's an all around win, but she still feels like she should offer some resistance with still being fourteen and all, she thinks.
"That sounds perfect." She loops her hair behind her ear and smiles at him a little shyly. "I guess I didn't realize how weak I still am."
He looks relieved and a little surprised, but he covers it immediately with a wry expression. "Comas tend to do that; even short, medically induced ones."
Laughing, she pulls her feet up onto the sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Besides, who am I to turn down a picnic in the park on a beautiful spring day? It sounds like heaven."
"Okay, then." He attempts to hand her the menu. "Which picnic do we want?"
She keeps her hands firmly clasped around her legs and shakes her head. "No, sir. If food is your way to experience a new place, then you choose the experience."
Giving her a narrow eyed glare, he withdraws the menu. Then he grins at her suddenly. "I had no idea you had such a need to give up control, Prentiss."
That earns him her best scowl, but he just grins a little wider and gets up to go call room service. Stretching out on the sofa, she listens to the murmur of his voice on the phone and is mostly asleep when he returns with a book in hand. "Sorry," she mumbles, starting to move, but he hushes her, lifts her feet and slides back onto the sofa resting her calves across his lap.
Even if it's just for friendship sake, she likes how tactile he is, she decides as she slides a little closer towards sleep. There are two armchairs where he could have sat or he could have gone to read in his room. She likes how he seems to want the company, even if they're not doing anything. The thought makes her smile as she gives in and goes to sleep.
When she wakes, he's still reading, one hand casually resting against her legs. It's a rare opportunity to watch him without the usual masks and guards, the walls and protection they use with everyone, including each other. His face is relaxed and he looks content, which is not something she would necessarily think would look good on any of them; they're all too focused, too driven. Yes, that's part of what makes them good at what they do, but it doesn't leave a lot of time for contentment or room for serenity.
"You're staring," he says, eyes never leaving the book. "If you haven't profiled me by now, staring at me while I read is not going to give you any greater insight."
She moves her leg up enough to bump his book. "I'm not staring, I'm looking; there's a difference."
Turning his head, he makes a bullshit face at her, but doesn't say anything; instead, he deliberately replaces his bookmark and turns to look at her. "Good to see you awake again, Snow White."
Frowning at him fiercely, she slides up to a sitting position so her feet are now resting on his thigh. "That's the second time you've compared me to Snow White. Sleeping Beauty was my favorite princess, I'll have you know."
Looking mildly amused, he places his book on the side table. "They're both asleep against their will and you look more like Snow White."
"But," she argues, "Sleeping Beauty had a color changing dress and I really, seriously wanted one of those."
"Ah, I see." He somehow manages to pull off looking sage while obviously wanting to laugh at her. "I am unaware of the finer points of which is the best princess...sorry."
"I'm surprised your sisters didn't educate you." She stretches her arms over her head, pulling out the kinks in her muscles.
"Gabriella was the only one that hadn't outgrown fairy tales by the time I can remember...she was enamored of Cinderella."
"I liked Cinderella, too." Running a hand through her hair, she wonders how bad it looks from her nap. "But she didn't have a color changing dress," she points out reasonably.
"Actually," he says, angling his torso so he's facing her, "I like the new crop of heroines better, Mulan, Ariel, Belle...they didn't wait for a man to rescue them."
Emily is aware her mouth is open, a true reflection of her astonishment: whether it's from David Rossi actually being current on his children's movie heroines or that he's thought that much about them. "You watch much Disney?"
His lips purse as he gives her a dry look. "You think I have as many nieces and nephews as I do without being aware of children's pop culture?" He taps the top of her foot. "Also, I taught a class on child predators at the Academy before I retired. Sad to say, getting into their heads means realizing the most innocent things can be used for perversion."
It is sad; it's also the hardest part of the job, knowing how easily innocence can be snatched away and once innocence is lost, it's lost forever.
"Allowing heroines to evolve, I think, has actually helped make fewer victims," he opines. "The 'waiting for the Prince to rescue me' mentality is slowly giving way to one of 'I'm smart and resourceful, how do I handle this?' It might sound silly, but not waiting for rescue may have saved a young girl’s life a time or two. And any life saved is a win. Of course, preying on the 'searching for Prince Charming' is how a lot of predators manage to be so successful."
Emily has no argument with any of what he's said, she agrees with all of it, though she does find herself making a slight adjustment to her view of him. His manners are always impeccable, old fashioned, chivalrous even, so to hear something sounding so much like theories they'd discussed in her Women's Studies classes coming out of his mouth is a little mind boggling. It's not that she thinks of him as a chauvinist, but she has to admit he's surprised her; of course, it's not the first time and it probably won't be the last.
"You should write that." Sitting up a little straighter, she looks at him earnestly. "Seriously; it would be a great book."
Laughing, he shakes his head. "No, I don't think so." Then his expression shifts to something speculative, almost hesitant. "I've actually been thinking about writing a book about Benjamin Cyrus. Well, really, I've been thinking about asking you to write a book on Benjamin Cyrus with me."
Emily boggles at him. "What?"
"I've been meaning to ask you --" His tone is slow and exaggeratedly patient. "-- If you would be interested in coauthoring a book on Benjamin Cyrus and the standoff in Colorado with me."
"Rossi." Astonished doesn't even begin to cover what she feels at this moment. "Seriously?"
"Yeah," he nods. "Think about it; it can be really demanding and it would take up what little free time you have. But I think you'd enjoy writing. And you'd be good at it." He's not being condescending or cajoling, he's just laying out facts. "We could both do the background writing, then I could write what happened outside during the standoff and you could write what happened inside."
Her mouth snaps shut as she becomes aware she must look ridiculous, she's so surprised. "Rossi, I..."
"Prentiss." He lifts her feet and stands. "How are you going to think about it if you won't be quiet?" He grins when her expression shifts from shocked to indignant. "Besides, our picnic basket should be ready and I'm starving. Some people didn't sleep half the afternoon away." He drops her feet unceremoniously. "Get ready, let's go."
Huffing, she slides off the sofa and stalks to her room. It's no wonder he's been divorced three times, she grumbles to herself, he's lucky he hasn't been murdered three times.
***
The afternoon is warm where the morning had been temperate and Emily slips off her jacket as they walk towards the park. Again, she lets Rossi set the pace and again, his stride is leisurely rather than goal-oriented; she wonders how much of that is his vacation attitude and how much is his consideration of her health.
In all honesty, she doesn't recall sleeping so much since the week after a particularly heinous midterm week at Yale, but other than that she feels mostly normal. Even last night's nightmare wasn't out of the ordinary; she always has bad dreams after an especially difficult case, not to mention one that puts her in the hospital. Still, she tells herself as a horse drawing a carriage clomps by, taking the opportunity to relax a little doesn't make her weak. Everybody needs to recharge once in awhile, and she can take these few days and make the most of them. If nothing else, the break from the paperwork is a welcome respite.
The tourist and commercial areas have quickly thinned out to beautiful antebellum homes increasing in size the closer they get to the Battery. Trees and vines climb over the walls that enclose each home's green space, shading the inner yard and the outer sidewalk alike. As they walk, Emily unabashedly looks through the gates, getting a small glimpse into the world behind the walls. She sees well tended gardens, brick pathways, jetting fountains and, in one instance, an ancient gray Great Dane looking out the gate with a mournful, yet dignified, expression.
Rossi is patient while she stops to talk to the beast, and the animal allows her to reach her hand through the gate and gently rub his head. She thinks he must be used to tourists, and she's never known a dog that didn't appreciate a head rub when offered by a friendly soul at the right time. Briefly, she considers giving him something from the picnic basket, but she doesn't think she's ever seen a dog that looks quite as old as this one does, and she'd be willing to wager his digestive system is delicate.
"Good boy," she croons softly as he attempts to lick her wrist as she rubs. "Such a good boy."
Watching her, smiling slightly, Rossi leans against the brick wall, picnic basket in hand. "He's trying to kiss you for rubbing him. That makes him a good boy?"
Giving one last pass over the dog's huge head, Emily stands. "Reciprocity is always good when it comes to affection."
"If only my third wife had felt that way." He sighs dramatically, and begins walking again. "Please feel free to forgo all the jokes about my being a dog. Even an old one."
Snorting out a little laugh, she falls into step beside him. "Why would I do that when you're trying to take all the fun out of it?"
It doesn't take them long to reach Battery Park; across the street from a strip of antebellum mansions, overlooking the water, the strip of lush green grass was shaded by huge oak trees and dotted with monuments. Rossi picked a flat spot away from any of the giant tree roots and out of the immediate path to any of the monuments (including cannons and a pyramid of cannon balls) but well within sight of the water. "This all right?" he asks but he was already reaching into the basket for the gingham picnic cloth.
"Perfect." Emily grabs the opposite end of the cloth and helps him spread it evenly over the patch of ground they've temporarily claimed as their own.
"That's the Cooper River -- " He nods to the opposite end of the point, then leans his head to the right. "This is the Ashley. Out there --" He points out onto the water where Emily can see an island flying a flag above a structure, "-- Is Fort Sumter and the Atlantic Ocean." He looks back at the basket and begins pulling items out. "In here, is lunch."
Emily doesn't even blink at the lavishness of the items included in the basket; the combination of the knowledge that Dave appears to have mastered to art of gourmet ordering and the first class nature of everything she's experienced so far from the hotel have robbed her of the ability to be surprised. However, the two do not stop her from smiling over the sumptuous repast set out before her.
"I am going to go into hock paying you back," she laughs as she reaches for the elegantly presented shrimp.
His face immediately changes to a fierce scowl. "Paying me back?" He shakes his head as he reaches for a plate. "I don't think so, Prentiss."
"Come on, Dave!" She huffs out a breath. "You've spent a fortune; of course I'm paying you back...at least part of it." She dredges the shrimp through the cocktail sauce.
His look, if possible, gets darker. "You're not giving me a dime. I told you, I've always wanted to come here; this was a great opportunity."
Discarding the shrimp tail, she sucks a stray dollop of sauce off her thumb. "If you weren't babysitting me you could have made your own decisions about when you made this trip and who you made it with."
"The where is the whole point, Prentiss," he grouses, putting some sliced tenderloin on his plate. "Sometimes I think you just like fighting with me." He snaps one of the linen napkins open. "Don't you believe in serendipity, Emily? Sometimes taking an unexpected opportunity is better than planning something for years. Expectations aren't overwhelming and it's easier to let go and enjoy yourself." He looks at her carefully. "Unless you're not enjoying yourself?"
A laugh bursts from her at the sheer ridiculousness of that statement. "Are you kidding? This is..." She tries to think of a word and falters, shrugs and finishes, "Incredible. Amazing."
"Good." He slices some gouda and adds it, along with a few crackers to his plate. "Then just enjoy it. I haven't done anything I wouldn't have done if I'd come on my own."
She almost argues the extra meals and the second bedroom, but decides that isn't the direction she wants to go.
"Dave, really. I am enjoying it. This is fabulous, but I'd like to..."
He points a finger at her. "If you're about to say something to me about paying me back you should probably know you are very close to pissing me off."
"Oh, that's really hard to do, too," she says dryly.
"Okay, smartass." The severe look is back. "You are precariously close to insulting me. And that is not so easy to do."
No, it's not, she knows that. He has a temper and he likes his way, but he's also generally accepting of other people's quirks and foibles. And while he has a robust ego, he isn't prone to take offense easily.
Instantly, she's contrite. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to insult you."
"Oh, I'm sure if you were trying you would have gotten here a lot quicker." He offers the container holding the chicken salad to her. "It's not a big deal, okay? I'm having a good time."
Emily starts to protest, wanting to ask how he can be having a good time when all he's done has been her nursemaid, but she manages to bite her tongue before any of it gets out, instead offering a simple, "Thank you."
They're quiet for awhile, though it's not awkward, it just seems the issue is settled and they're both intent on the decadent lunch in front of them. Still, when he pushes his plate away and stretches out on the cloth, she pays attention as he begins speaking. "If you really feel like you need to pay me back, seriously consider the book thing."
"I am thinking about it," she assures him, picking at a small portion of a grape in the chicken salad. "I just...why? Why would you want me to write a book with you when you could write it yourself?"
He's resting on one elbow, looking unruffled and very Rossi. "Because you were there on the inside, you know how it happened."
"So does Reid," she supplies. "You could write with him."
"God forbid." Rossi raises a hand. "You know I love Spencer just as much as the rest of you." She's not sure if he means he loves Reid as much as he loves the rest of the team or if he means he loves Reid the way everyone else on the team seems to love Reid with a sort of exasperated and protective fondness. "But about five minutes in I'd be looking for my service weapon to put one of us out of our misery."
"So, I'm malleable and Reid isn't?" The grape bit, clasped between thumb and index finger, finally makes it to her mouth.
Barking out a laugh, Rossi shakes his head. "There are many things you are, Prentiss, but malleable is not one of them." She snaps her napkin against his bicep and he winces. "It was meant as a compliment."
Emily makes a doubtful and slightly indignant noise as she reaches for the brie. "Reid was with Benjamin Cyrus towards the end; he knows more about what was going on than I do."
"So, we'll interview Reid about it," Rossi says dismissively. "His memory will make him a great interview."
"You could just interview both of us."
"Prentiss, if you don't want to write the book with me that's fine, just say so."
His tone is exasperated and she’s not sure how much is just Rossi being gruff and how much is indicative that he’s getting sick of her protests. “No, Rossi, no,” she stumbles. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do, I really do and I’m incredibly flattered you asked me.”
“Then what’s the problem?” He rubs his fingers on one of the napkins.
“I…” she starts, then stops, trying to gather the right words to express exactly how she feels, because, yes, she is extremely flattered but there are a host of other emotions mixed in there, too. She takes a deep breath and begins again. “I guess…I’m afraid.”
Dave frowns, but it’s a frown of concern not censure or disappointment. “Do you still have baggage from Liberty Ranch?”
“No…well, yes, but no…” Emily realizes how ridiculous she must sound when he snorts; she takes a breath and speaks slowly and rationally. “Maybe a little but no more I think than anyone would…I did the required sessions with the Bureau shrink. There are issues there but that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
“What are you afraid of, then?” Apparently without shame or regret, he pilfers the cracker she had just loaded with brie.
Releasing a gusty breath, she reaches for another cracker and keeps her attention focused on the act of adding the rich cheese to it. “I’ve never…I mean, other than narratives on paperwork reports, I’ve never written anything and certainly not a book.”
“Prentiss.” His voice holds an insistent pull and she looks up hesitantly. He raises an eyebrow speculatively. “So, you didn’t have to write a thesis for your Masters?”
Emily rolls her eyes. “Of course, but that was school.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s still writing.” He kicks his foot against hers. “Quit trying to talk me out of it.”
"I'm not trying to talk you out of it," she replies defensively. "I just don’t understand why you want anyone to help you at all. You do great on your own.”
Rossi gives a one-sided shrug. “I want to write the book, but doing it on my own might take longer than I want to put into a project now that I’m out of retirement. And, frankly, I think it would be a better story with you helping to tell it.”
“But Dave, this is…you… what if I really suck at it?” She swallows. “What if I embarrass myself? What if I let you down?”
“Not going to happen, Prentiss.” His response is swift and sure, and she can’t help the spread of warmth in her chest. “I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone but you. Do you know why?”
Emily lets out a small nervous laugh. “I have no clue.”
“Not because you were there and your actions saved a lot of lives -- even though you were and they did -- but because I not only know you can do this, I believe you’ll be great at it. Besides, I can’t think of anyone less likely to let me down.”
The look he gives her is frank, sincere and warm, and she feels her cheeks heating and her heart begins to thud in her ears as the realization hits her full-force: she doesn’t just have a crush on him, but she is, in actual fact, head over heels in love with David Rossi.
Her body is still sitting on a cloth under a tree in Battery Park in Charleston, South Carolina, where the Cooper and Ashley Rivers meet and flow into the Atlantic Ocean out beyond. But her mind is somewhere beyond the reach of any of it.
Fuck.
It was bad enough when she thought she just had a little crush on him.
Now…
Fuck.
She’s considered him a friend since pretty early on, and after Matthew’s death she’d begun to consider him a rare friend and one of her closest. But that didn’t mean they suddenly started to hang out in their off time, well, until they started to hang out in their off time.
This has thrown her, far more than it should have, she thinks. She needs to get away, needs to think about this, needs to figure out how to get over this without humiliating herself, damaging their working relationship or losing his friendship. Instead, she’s here with him in this setting that often veers into intimate (Oh, God, they slept together in the same bed last night... ) until they can travel home, and she has just essentially agreed to spend all of her free time with him, working on a book, when they do return.
Now? she asks herself. You couldn’t have realized this an hour ago? Or better, three months from now? Fuck.
“Did I overload your compliment receipt quota again, Emily?” His voice, amused but threaded through with what seems to be a real query, brings her out of her head.
“No.” She shakes her head, trying to clear the sudden fog, hoping her cheeks are not as red as she thinks they must be. “I…thank you. That’s incredibly generous of you. I feel the same way about you.”
The look he gives her as he steals her second cracker is unabashedly pleased.
Later, she remembers those moments with a startling clarity, but the remainder of their stay melts into a blur with just a few clear images...
Walking the Battery wall with Rossi beside her...
Laughing at the delightfully cheesy story told by the Ghost Tour Guide of Edgar Allen Poe and the Charleston girl who was supposed to be Annabel Lee...
Leaning against the rail of the boat on the way back from Fort Sumter the next day watching as the ocean breeze lifted strands of Rossi's hair and thinking about running her fingers through it...
Listening to him outline their book over seafood...
Staring at the ceiling of her room sternly telling herself not to go to his room, not even just for a night, no strings attached.
It is both a relief and a disappointment when the doctor clears her for travel on Friday. She'll have to see her doctor when she gets back, and she'll probably be out of work another week, plus be on desk duty for a while after that, but this small pocket of time away from Quantico and the job, just her and Dave, is over. Emily knows it will make things easier to have some distance, to not be having three meals a day with him, not walking for miles and talking late into the night, not joining in on Skype calls with Cheryl or watching as he has a loving conversation with "Nonna Angela" on Cheryl's computer, not knowing he's sleeping just a few feet away.
Still, she puts on a bright face and applauds JJ's skills when she manages to get them a flight into Dulles late on Friday night, but she finds herself looking wistfully around the suite when the bellman comes for their luggage.
"You okay?" Rossi looks at her quizzically. It's not the first time she's seen the look over the last couple of days. When she's working too hard at the compartmentalization she's so well known for, trying to shove everything about their interactions into boxes labeled either "coworker" or "friend", he'll give her the same look, the one that says he doesn't know what's going on in her head but he'd like nothing better than to figure it out and maybe give her Hell about it. Then, she makes herself stop trying so hard, just makes herself be where she is without thinking about getting over him or pushing him away.
"Yeah," she answers and realizes it's okay to let him know where she is, what she's feeling in this moment. "This is one of the nicest vacations I've ever had and I'm going to miss your two room Presidential suite." She tilts her head and smiles at him. "Thank you. For everything."
He gives her an answering smile. "I enjoyed it, too. Thank you."
Barking out a laugh, she shakes her head. "All of this...I didn't do anything."
"You are a hard woman to convince," he grumbles. "Thank you for the company, I had a good time, too."
On the way to the airport she wonders if the way his words cause such a pleasant warmth in her chest shows on her face.
TBC...
Chapter 7
Author: mingsmommy
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Spoilers: Everything through Season 5
Rating: FRT/PG13
Author's Notes: This fic is the wonderful wojelah's help_haiti fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan. May I just say writing for her makes me feel a little like I'm presenting Da Vinci with a finger-painting? Yet she is gracious and generous and lovely regarding my attempts.
smittywing and smacky30 are the best betas anyone could ask for. They giveth the comma, the hyphen and the em dash and they taketh away the incomplete sentence and poor sentence structure. They are amazing and I am very fortunate.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
When she wakes again, sunlight is peeking around the edges of the heavy draperies. It's morning is her first bleary thought. As she comes slowly into something resembling consciousness, she absorbs the heavy weight of an arm thrown carelessly over her hip and that the mass of covers in front of her is not, in fact, bed clothes but a pajama-clad David Rossi. They're nice pajamas, she notes. The blue-striped cotton is soft against her where her t-shirt has ridden up and the sleeve is brushing against an exposed section of her skin. The material is equally soft against her fingers where her arm is bent between them and her hand is splayed over the heavy, steady thud of his heart.
Closing her eyes again for just a moment, she savors this. It's been a while since she's shared a bed with anyone, and even longer since she woke up in bed anything but alone. The last long-term relationship she had had been in Chicago and the break-up had been sudden, which they tend to be when you find the person you're practically living with screwing a coworker on his desk when you stop by to surprise him with dinner when he's "working late." So, the last time she woke up with someone, she didn't know it would be the last time in, literally, years.
Robert, while being quite proficient at the technical aspects of sex, had not been a cuddler. Once the orgasms were achieved he was pretty much hands off, staying on his side of the bed. She's trying to remember if she's ever slept in anyone's arms; not that she can lay all of the blame at the feet of the men she's slept with. While she's sexually confident she's socially awkward, and she knows her nervousness and fear of doing the wrong thing often translates to Don't touch. Being a profiler doesn't leave a lot of room for self-deception; afterall, Emily has the inside scoop on her psyche. Sex is easy; it's chemistry and biology as well as an awful lot of fun. It's goal-oriented and easy to gauge if it's been successful. Sex, in her experience, has seldom been a problem. She's never been in a situation where a man would reject a physical gesture with sexual overtones.
She has, however, experienced the rebuff of a hug, the rejection of a kiss. Other physical affection is a lot riskier emotionally, and if she doesn't offer affection beyond sex, there's no chance of being rejected. No overture means no opportunity for humiliation or reinforcement of the notion that she is unworthy of love and affection.
The safest thing is to save hugs for her friends, kisses on the cheek for those she trusts. There's no risk of rejection, no message that she's not good enough or not doing it right. It's simple, it's comfortable, it's easy.
This, though, this is new. While Rossi is her friend, not her lover, his arms around her have set up an intense longing for something more in her life. What would it be like to wake up every morning with the weight of an arm over her hip? For the first sensation she experiences every day to be the touch of her skin against someone else's?
When she looks up, she sees his eyes are open. His expression is serious, and she feels herself blushing furiously when it suddenly occurs to her she just woke up after sleeping with a coworker. Just sleeping, but still. She recalls pretty much forcing him to stay and her blush gets hotter.
"Stop." His voice is scratchy, but still quite firm.
"What?" she asks, trying to find somewhere to look that's not into his eyes without it being obvious she's not looking into his eyes.
"Stop that thing you do when you think you've made some sort of a blunder, where you beat yourself up and get all weird." He hasn't removed his arm from her body, and she doesn't want to point it out and make things that much more awkward.
"I'm not..."
He moves his head the fraction of an inch it takes to force her to look into his eyes. "You are and you need to stop."
"Rossi," she begins, but she really doesn't have anything to say when she meets the stern set of his mouth coupled with the kindness of his eyes.
"We all have nightmares, Emily. All of us." He moves his head against the pillow as if nestling deeper into it. "And not all of us nearly died a few days ago. You don't have to be Superwoman all the time, you know. It's okay to need comfort every now and then."
"I'm not trying to be Superwoman," she grouses, just a little flipped out she's having this conversation while horizontal, in a bed, with Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi in the same bed, equally as horizontal.
"What do you call it then?" Emily can't tell if he's trying to challenge her view of herself or call her on what he perceives as self-deception. "You seem to think you've failed if anything we see or do impacts you personally. Keep things in their neatly labeled boxes, and don't let yourself be touched. How long do you think you can go like that before you start to burn out?" His words are harsh, but his tone is even. "Being successful at this job isn't about not being affected, Emily. Being successful at this job is about catching the bad guys and the madmen. It's about looking into the blackness, knowing what's there and being able to look in the mirror the next day. And sometimes that costs us."
She nods her head, unable to speak.
"You think," his voice gentles, "I don't know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night from a dream like that? Trust me, there's no one on the team that doesn't know what that's like."
His eyes are warm and kind, and she remembers Indiana, remembers him talking about the Galen children’s screams echoing in his head, the cries that never stop. She wonders who was there to hold him when those nightmares came to call.
"It's easier sometimes," she manages, "to just shut it all away."
He nods and finally moves his arm from across her hip, but it's only so he can use his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. "That's okay, too. But, maybe you could...I don't know...maybe allow yourself a week off from all that considering you were almost the victim of a serial killer? Maybe let yourself off the hook for a nightmare or two or letting someone see you cry or needing a little extra sleep? I'm sure it's against the Superhero rule book or something, but I promise not to let anyone know."
His half-teasing, half-sarcastic tone makes her feel light and a little ridiculous at the same time.
"Fine, fine." She rises up on her elbows, then remembers she is braless and that particular position puts her breasts on display, so she hastily scrambles up to a sitting position, allowing the folds of her roomy t-shirt to cover the shape of her chest.
Dave is watching her, looking amused as he stretches. "But, I gotta tell you, Prentiss, if you have a nightmare tonight we're moving to the King-sized bed."
She can feel herself blushing but she doesn't want another lecture, so she seizes the only option open to her; grabbing the closest pillow, she smacks him over the head with it, then slides off the bed and runs for the bathroom followed by a growled, "Prentiss" and a hail of down-filled projectiles.
They eat breakfast at the hotel. They bypass the more decadent offerings and get their usual; cereal and a banana for Rossi, an apple and a strawberry yogurt for Emily. Charleston is a beautiful city with loads of charm, but if she keeps eating like she has been she isn't going to fit in any of her clothes when she gets home. Though to be fair, the first really over the top meal shouldn't count since it was pumped out of her stomach; not exactly the most comfortable or reliable diet plan, she thinks with a dark smile.
They both answer e-mails after breakfast. Emily has another four e-mails from Garcia filled with lightness and silliness that make her both smile and wonder if Penelope ever actually sleeps. After answering, she composes a quick e-mail to her neighbor Sheila, asking her to continue to pick up her mail through the end of the week. Then Emily crafts a careful reply to Cheryl, trying to encourage without being overly enthusiastic; she doesn't want to make the girl feel any pressure. She makes a mental note to talk to Dave about having Cheryl come to visit over the summer. It might be a little complicated since she obviously thinks Emily and Dave are a couple, but they could work around that. Cheryl could even stay over at Emily's; she smiles at the thought. The constant moving around when she was growing up prevented her from ever having many girlfriends and even fewer giggly, girlie sleepovers. Somewhat ruefully she wonders for whose sake she wants Cheryl to come visit.
Rossi pulls her out of her reverie, asking if she's ready. When she nods and closes her computer, he tells her to make sure to put on comfortable shoes because they'll be walking a lot. She is privately amused at David Rossi, tourist, but goes to the bedroom to put her hair in a ponytail and put on her cushy loafers before rejoining him in the living area.
They set off on foot, and though he had seemed eager to get started earlier, the pace is leisurely and she's glad of the fresh air and the sun. It's spring and warm, the sky is a brilliant blue and there are flowers and trees in bloom. In DC spring was only beginning to awaken when they left, but here, 500 miles south, it is in full regalia. Despite the many buildings and busy streets, the plant life is abundant; tulips and daffodils nodding their heads in agreement with the slight breeze that she guesses is coming off the water and the wisteria is drooping over buildings and streets alike and the bees are buzzing in a delighted dance around the flowers, high and low.
"Wow," she breathes, stopping.
"What?" He looks around as if trying to see what caused her exclamation.
"How did I not notice this before?" She waves a hand around her. "I just remember seeing a couple of daffodils when we got here, not this entire spring thing."
Face solemn, he nods. "Part of the amenities package for the two room suite."
Laughing a little, she starts walking again; if it were possible, she wouldn't put it past him. "You really do know how to live, Rossi."
Grinning at her, he resumes his steps beside her. "It wouldn't hurt you to live a little, Prentiss."
"You might have to show me how." Too late she realizes that might sound a little too flirty, maybe even suggestive; she looks down at her feet and picks up her pace.
Thankfully, Rossi doesn't miss a beat. "I'll get right on that. You might start by slowing down a little."
Risking a look at his face she sees him smirking at her, but it's no more than his usual self-satisfied smirk; there's nothing in it that's sexual or indicates she just made a fool of herself, so she shakes her head and slows her pace. "Are we going to Fort Sumter today?"
Indicating a turn, he shakes his head. "No, I thought we'd do that tomorrow. We can just walk around today. We can take a tour if you want or go it alone. The only thing I have planned is our first stop, City Market." He gives her a smile. "Not only a place of historic significance but a place to buy a teenage girl a really cool gift." Lifting an eyebrow in question, he asks, "If you'll help me pick something out?"
"God, Rossi, I get to expand my cultural horizons and help you spend your money on girlie things?" She looks at him from under her lashes. "This day could not get any better."
Emily congratulates herself for not jumping or shivering when he puts a guiding hand on the small of her back. "We're just getting started, Prentiss. Pace yourself."
"The Market," as it's called, is nothing short of amazing. The three buildings, each a city block long, stretch out, housing a multitude of vendors selling everything from spices and t-shirts to artwork and jewelry. Emily is especially fascinated by the women weaving the sweetgrass baskets outside each of the buildings.
Most of them are well over middle-aged, and a few are downright elderly. One of these women sits on a small stool, her wares spread out before her, baskets of different sizes and shapes fanning out on a colorful cloth she has spread on the ground in front of her. Her brown hands reach for the pieces of sweetgrass as she adds them to the basket currently resting in her lap. Emily notes the specialized callouses on the woman's short fingers as she pulls the stalks through the basket she's weaving. Her face is unsmiling but not harsh as she continues to work, unmindful of her audience, never acknowledging anyone's presence unless they speak to her, asking about a design or a price.
"Kind of pricey for a basket," a man says as he brushes by and Emily wants to hold him still and explain about art, tradition and the value of something being handcrafted, but the touch of Rossi's hand between her shoulder blades brings her attention back to the woman just in time to see her begin fashioning the handle.
The rhythm of it is fascinating to Emily, the way the thick, elderly fingers push, pull and shape the materials into a rather large basket. She's a little awed, standing in a beam of sunlight with Dave standing beside her silently as they both watch the woman create a piece of art that is both functional and beautiful.
"We should get one," Dave says as a customer approaches the woman.
"I'd love to," she sighs. "But it wouldn't live through the flight back."
He grunts wordlessly, as if that hadn't occurred to him.
"Come on." She gently tugs on his arm, pulling him towards the next building. "I believe we're on a mission to find a 'really cool' present."
For a minute she senses a reluctance, as if he'd like to linger, but it doesn't last and he allows himself to be led towards another building of vendors. By the time they're through, two pairs of earrings and a tie-dye shirt have been purchased for Cheryl and a t-shirt has also been acquired for Michael. "I at least don't want it to look like I'm playing favorites," he says blandly.
"Though you totally are." She grins at him.
"Totally," he says in a fair imitation of one of his nephews and she laughs aloud.
Emily picks up a necklace for JJ, several brightly colored (and feathery) headbands for Garcia, a small print of Rainbow Row for Hotch, candy for both Reid and Morgan and a bracelet for her mother. While Rossi talks to an elderly man selling spices, she wanders around the other stalls on that end of the building. Looking back toward the spice booth, she sees the older gentleman sitting on his stool reading a cooking magazine and Rossi nowhere in sight. Shrugging to herself, she moves to the next vendor; it's easy to get distracted and wander away in places like this. He'll catch back up to her, she knows.
When she sees the fringes hanging from the inside of the next booth, she gasps a little. The most delicate scarves and colorful shawls decorate the partition that make up the walls of the stall. The tables are covered with more materials, as well as well as hand-beaded earrings. Everything is gorgeous; satins, brocades, velvets, and silks in swirls of color, patches of beading, tassels and fringe. Touching each with tender fingers, she is almost too awed at the artistry to speak to the young man with jet black hair and heavy eyeliner who turns out to be the craftsman behind the pieces. His name is Grant, he can't be more than twenty and he is actually quite shy; she figures that's why he chose the Goth look, to appear less approachable. When he reaches up to pull down a shawl she wants to see, she notes the old, round cigarette burns on the skin of his lower back where his shirt rides up; just from that small strip of skin she sees at least a half a dozen and that tells its own story about why he might want to appear less approachable.
After a somewhat one-sided conversation that leaves him blushing and flattered, Emily treats herself to a red and black embroidered shawl and a pair of long, dangling earrings that match it beautifully. She admires the way the two items look together in one of the ornate mirrors Grant has on each of his tables.
"Very pretty." Rossi says, appearing suddenly in front of her. Though he's startled her a little, she does note he's not carrying any items other than what he left with; whatever it was that distracted him and caused him to wander away was apparently not worth buying. Of course, she thinks to herself a little cynically, it might not have been a what, but a who. Then she shuts that down; he can follow whoever he wants, he's under no obligation to her. He's merely shown her a few kindnesses; they're friends and coworkers and it is so going to suck if he tells her she's on her own for dinner, because he has a date.
Embarrassed by her line of thought, she feels her cheeks heating and rapidly begins speaking. "Rossi, these shawls are gorgeous."
One hand casually resting in a pocket, the other holding his purchases for Cheryl, he turns in a circle, admiring Grant's work. "They are." He aims a serious look at the young man. "This is beautiful work."
Grant's features brighten with a pleased little smile before he ducks his head and begins folding some scarves.
Dave makes another slow circle. "Emily, do you think my mother would like one of these?"
The gentle spread of warmth in her chest matches the spread of the smile on her face. "There's not a woman I know that wouldn't love one of these."
He gravitates toward a richly embroidered black one, "Mama would love this with her church dresses." But Emily suggests a more vibrant blue with long fringe saying it will be a perfect foil for Angela's hair. In the end, they both agree on a shimmering bronze with delicate beading along the edge; it's beautiful and vibrant without being flashy.
"That blue one, though, that would be great for JJ," he says as he hands the material over to Grant. "Which one do you think would suit Garcia?"
Emily grins. "Something bright."
"Profile much?" Rossi asks, dryly. "Your insight is astonishing."
Letting her eyes run over the shawls, she approaches a gleam of bright yellow hidden under a stack of darker hues; when she pulls it out she gives a little laugh of delight at the pink and green beaded fringe.
"It's reversible," Grant mumbles and she unfolds it to see the inside is painted with pink and green polka dots that perfectly match the beads.
"Rossi." She flips the polka dot side for his inspection. "I think we have a winner."
His eyebrows climb and he nods. "That is meant for Penelope Garcia." He turns to Grant. "You couldn't have custom made anything better for her."
The young man beams as he accepts the shawl from Emily.
Rossi's head is tilted back, looking at the selections draped on the walls. "What about your mother?"
"I already bought her a bracelet." She's gently lifting each stack of shawls, looking for another unexpected find.
He frowns. "That's nice. But I meant from me."
"What?" Startled, she turns to look at him, mouth agape.
He gestures around them. "You're right; these are beautiful things. They're rare, one of a kind. They strike me as something your mother would appreciate."
Emily folds her arms. "When did you and my mother become such good friends?"
"Do you know what she did, Prentiss? Evidently a little bird told her I drink Scotch." He shakes his head. "She sent me a case."
"I told you she'd be grateful and want to know what she could do for you." Emily had, indeed, received a call from her mother the day after the ball and had been the little bird in question. "A case of Scotch is not that big of a deal, she can afford it."
"Prentiss." He levels his gaze at her. "It was a case of Johnny Walker Blue."
"Okay." Her eyes widen. "Okay. That is a big deal."
"It would have been rude to send it back, not that I even wanted to. But," his hands open in a gesture encompassing the tables. "I'd like to get her something; it's just a token, really." He leans in a little and lowers his voice. "Besides, think what it would do for this young man's business if Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss wears something he made."
One side of his mouth tilts up and she blinks at him, before she fully absorbs what he’s saying, then she nods. "I should get her one, too."
Rossi chooses a classic black velvet evening shawl with a white satin lining and black silk fringe with tiny crystal beads knotted at the end. In the end, Emily chooses one of his hand-dyed scarves instead of another shawl, easily imagining her mother wearing the silk dyed in graduated shades of red, from palest pink to screaming scarlet.
Then Dave decides each of his sisters and Cheryl need a scarf. They take a long time over the choices, factoring in each woman's coloring as well as their personal style. Though he asks for her help, he has definite opinions, and they squabble over a couple of the selections. But it's light-hearted and she realizes, somewhat surprised, she's having fun. By the time they've made their choices, and Grant has carefully wrapped everything, Rossi has paid an amount that makes Emily blink and Grant nearly giddy. It's almost lunch time and they decide to head back to Charleston Place to drop off their Market loot before deciding what to do the rest of the day.
"I grabbed a couple of his business cards," Emily says as they carry their packages back towards the hotel.
"Good." Rossi shifts his bags from one arm to the other and takes another from her, despite her severe look. "I think he put a card in with each thing."
"I'm not so weak I can't carry two pounds of candy, Rossi," she gripes uselessly, then sighs. "Good, about the cards. I noticed he had a website; hopefully, he's about to get a lot busier." She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "Doing that for him? It was a good thing."
He just grunts and she smiles as they walk on.
Emily might be more tired than she's willing to admit when they get back to their suite. She feels ridiculous; all she's done is walk a few blocks and shop, but she feels a little like she feels when they've been up for two days straight trying to pin down a profile or chasing an unsub. Disgusted with herself, she kicks off her shoes and collapses on the sofa, grateful when Rossi doesn't say anything. But she can't miss the vertical lines between his eyebrows or the way his mouth tightens like it does when he's not happy about something.
After he drops the gifts from the Market in his room, he comes back with the room service menu in hand.
She can't help the laugh that escapes, even though she knows it sounds tired. "Dave, I swear, you do not have to feed me every five minutes."
One eyebrow goes up and the other goes down in a face that she thinks is supposed to look severe but just looks kind of silly, even for Rossi. "I am not feeding you every five minutes, Emily." She snorts and the look moves to mock affronted. "I am feeding me; you're just collateral damage. Vacation is all about the experience and a good part of experiencing any new place is the food." He sits on the sofa next to her and fishes out his reading glasses. "It's not like I eat like this all the time and trust me, the trainer at the gym is going to take it out of my hide one way or another. At least, this way, I'm going to deserve it."
He is remarkably fit; it's not like his biceps threaten to bust the seams of his shirts like Morgan's, but he seems to be in good shape. And, yes, she pays particular attention to his forearms when his shirt sleeves are rolled up. She had managed to feign a decent amount of surprise and indifference when Garcia pointed out he had a nice ass; Emily had noticed that from the beginning. Actually, Emily might have noticed that when she saw him on a book tour in Chicago three years before she joined the BAU.
"Besides," he continues, "I wasn't thinking about eating this minute." He flips to a page towards the back of the menu. "They do picnic baskets; we could go to Battery Park and eat there. They ask for a two hour window to prepare it. Would you mind hanging out here until they get it together?"
Ruefully, she shakes her head. He's trying so hard not to look as if he's babying her and it's out of character for him. Normally, he'd probably just yell at her to rest and threaten to lock her in her room; anyone who's known her for more than ten minutes probably knows she doesn't take kindly to being told what to do, but that's never stopped Rossi from trying before.
She'd give him grief about it, but she really is tired and she appreciates that he's concerned enough about her well-being that he would change his own natural behavior to get her to rest. Because, for once, she is giving him the benefit of the doubt that he wants her to do what is best for her, not just do what he wants her to do. It doesn't take a profiler to figure out everything that happened between Saturday night and Sunday morning still has him a little flipped out; so, really, the best thing to do is what he wants her to do, which is also what she wants to do and what is best for her. It's an all around win, but she still feels like she should offer some resistance with still being fourteen and all, she thinks.
"That sounds perfect." She loops her hair behind her ear and smiles at him a little shyly. "I guess I didn't realize how weak I still am."
He looks relieved and a little surprised, but he covers it immediately with a wry expression. "Comas tend to do that; even short, medically induced ones."
Laughing, she pulls her feet up onto the sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Besides, who am I to turn down a picnic in the park on a beautiful spring day? It sounds like heaven."
"Okay, then." He attempts to hand her the menu. "Which picnic do we want?"
She keeps her hands firmly clasped around her legs and shakes her head. "No, sir. If food is your way to experience a new place, then you choose the experience."
Giving her a narrow eyed glare, he withdraws the menu. Then he grins at her suddenly. "I had no idea you had such a need to give up control, Prentiss."
That earns him her best scowl, but he just grins a little wider and gets up to go call room service. Stretching out on the sofa, she listens to the murmur of his voice on the phone and is mostly asleep when he returns with a book in hand. "Sorry," she mumbles, starting to move, but he hushes her, lifts her feet and slides back onto the sofa resting her calves across his lap.
Even if it's just for friendship sake, she likes how tactile he is, she decides as she slides a little closer towards sleep. There are two armchairs where he could have sat or he could have gone to read in his room. She likes how he seems to want the company, even if they're not doing anything. The thought makes her smile as she gives in and goes to sleep.
When she wakes, he's still reading, one hand casually resting against her legs. It's a rare opportunity to watch him without the usual masks and guards, the walls and protection they use with everyone, including each other. His face is relaxed and he looks content, which is not something she would necessarily think would look good on any of them; they're all too focused, too driven. Yes, that's part of what makes them good at what they do, but it doesn't leave a lot of time for contentment or room for serenity.
"You're staring," he says, eyes never leaving the book. "If you haven't profiled me by now, staring at me while I read is not going to give you any greater insight."
She moves her leg up enough to bump his book. "I'm not staring, I'm looking; there's a difference."
Turning his head, he makes a bullshit face at her, but doesn't say anything; instead, he deliberately replaces his bookmark and turns to look at her. "Good to see you awake again, Snow White."
Frowning at him fiercely, she slides up to a sitting position so her feet are now resting on his thigh. "That's the second time you've compared me to Snow White. Sleeping Beauty was my favorite princess, I'll have you know."
Looking mildly amused, he places his book on the side table. "They're both asleep against their will and you look more like Snow White."
"But," she argues, "Sleeping Beauty had a color changing dress and I really, seriously wanted one of those."
"Ah, I see." He somehow manages to pull off looking sage while obviously wanting to laugh at her. "I am unaware of the finer points of which is the best princess...sorry."
"I'm surprised your sisters didn't educate you." She stretches her arms over her head, pulling out the kinks in her muscles.
"Gabriella was the only one that hadn't outgrown fairy tales by the time I can remember...she was enamored of Cinderella."
"I liked Cinderella, too." Running a hand through her hair, she wonders how bad it looks from her nap. "But she didn't have a color changing dress," she points out reasonably.
"Actually," he says, angling his torso so he's facing her, "I like the new crop of heroines better, Mulan, Ariel, Belle...they didn't wait for a man to rescue them."
Emily is aware her mouth is open, a true reflection of her astonishment: whether it's from David Rossi actually being current on his children's movie heroines or that he's thought that much about them. "You watch much Disney?"
His lips purse as he gives her a dry look. "You think I have as many nieces and nephews as I do without being aware of children's pop culture?" He taps the top of her foot. "Also, I taught a class on child predators at the Academy before I retired. Sad to say, getting into their heads means realizing the most innocent things can be used for perversion."
It is sad; it's also the hardest part of the job, knowing how easily innocence can be snatched away and once innocence is lost, it's lost forever.
"Allowing heroines to evolve, I think, has actually helped make fewer victims," he opines. "The 'waiting for the Prince to rescue me' mentality is slowly giving way to one of 'I'm smart and resourceful, how do I handle this?' It might sound silly, but not waiting for rescue may have saved a young girl’s life a time or two. And any life saved is a win. Of course, preying on the 'searching for Prince Charming' is how a lot of predators manage to be so successful."
Emily has no argument with any of what he's said, she agrees with all of it, though she does find herself making a slight adjustment to her view of him. His manners are always impeccable, old fashioned, chivalrous even, so to hear something sounding so much like theories they'd discussed in her Women's Studies classes coming out of his mouth is a little mind boggling. It's not that she thinks of him as a chauvinist, but she has to admit he's surprised her; of course, it's not the first time and it probably won't be the last.
"You should write that." Sitting up a little straighter, she looks at him earnestly. "Seriously; it would be a great book."
Laughing, he shakes his head. "No, I don't think so." Then his expression shifts to something speculative, almost hesitant. "I've actually been thinking about writing a book about Benjamin Cyrus. Well, really, I've been thinking about asking you to write a book on Benjamin Cyrus with me."
Emily boggles at him. "What?"
"I've been meaning to ask you --" His tone is slow and exaggeratedly patient. "-- If you would be interested in coauthoring a book on Benjamin Cyrus and the standoff in Colorado with me."
"Rossi." Astonished doesn't even begin to cover what she feels at this moment. "Seriously?"
"Yeah," he nods. "Think about it; it can be really demanding and it would take up what little free time you have. But I think you'd enjoy writing. And you'd be good at it." He's not being condescending or cajoling, he's just laying out facts. "We could both do the background writing, then I could write what happened outside during the standoff and you could write what happened inside."
Her mouth snaps shut as she becomes aware she must look ridiculous, she's so surprised. "Rossi, I..."
"Prentiss." He lifts her feet and stands. "How are you going to think about it if you won't be quiet?" He grins when her expression shifts from shocked to indignant. "Besides, our picnic basket should be ready and I'm starving. Some people didn't sleep half the afternoon away." He drops her feet unceremoniously. "Get ready, let's go."
Huffing, she slides off the sofa and stalks to her room. It's no wonder he's been divorced three times, she grumbles to herself, he's lucky he hasn't been murdered three times.
***
The afternoon is warm where the morning had been temperate and Emily slips off her jacket as they walk towards the park. Again, she lets Rossi set the pace and again, his stride is leisurely rather than goal-oriented; she wonders how much of that is his vacation attitude and how much is his consideration of her health.
In all honesty, she doesn't recall sleeping so much since the week after a particularly heinous midterm week at Yale, but other than that she feels mostly normal. Even last night's nightmare wasn't out of the ordinary; she always has bad dreams after an especially difficult case, not to mention one that puts her in the hospital. Still, she tells herself as a horse drawing a carriage clomps by, taking the opportunity to relax a little doesn't make her weak. Everybody needs to recharge once in awhile, and she can take these few days and make the most of them. If nothing else, the break from the paperwork is a welcome respite.
The tourist and commercial areas have quickly thinned out to beautiful antebellum homes increasing in size the closer they get to the Battery. Trees and vines climb over the walls that enclose each home's green space, shading the inner yard and the outer sidewalk alike. As they walk, Emily unabashedly looks through the gates, getting a small glimpse into the world behind the walls. She sees well tended gardens, brick pathways, jetting fountains and, in one instance, an ancient gray Great Dane looking out the gate with a mournful, yet dignified, expression.
Rossi is patient while she stops to talk to the beast, and the animal allows her to reach her hand through the gate and gently rub his head. She thinks he must be used to tourists, and she's never known a dog that didn't appreciate a head rub when offered by a friendly soul at the right time. Briefly, she considers giving him something from the picnic basket, but she doesn't think she's ever seen a dog that looks quite as old as this one does, and she'd be willing to wager his digestive system is delicate.
"Good boy," she croons softly as he attempts to lick her wrist as she rubs. "Such a good boy."
Watching her, smiling slightly, Rossi leans against the brick wall, picnic basket in hand. "He's trying to kiss you for rubbing him. That makes him a good boy?"
Giving one last pass over the dog's huge head, Emily stands. "Reciprocity is always good when it comes to affection."
"If only my third wife had felt that way." He sighs dramatically, and begins walking again. "Please feel free to forgo all the jokes about my being a dog. Even an old one."
Snorting out a little laugh, she falls into step beside him. "Why would I do that when you're trying to take all the fun out of it?"
It doesn't take them long to reach Battery Park; across the street from a strip of antebellum mansions, overlooking the water, the strip of lush green grass was shaded by huge oak trees and dotted with monuments. Rossi picked a flat spot away from any of the giant tree roots and out of the immediate path to any of the monuments (including cannons and a pyramid of cannon balls) but well within sight of the water. "This all right?" he asks but he was already reaching into the basket for the gingham picnic cloth.
"Perfect." Emily grabs the opposite end of the cloth and helps him spread it evenly over the patch of ground they've temporarily claimed as their own.
"That's the Cooper River -- " He nods to the opposite end of the point, then leans his head to the right. "This is the Ashley. Out there --" He points out onto the water where Emily can see an island flying a flag above a structure, "-- Is Fort Sumter and the Atlantic Ocean." He looks back at the basket and begins pulling items out. "In here, is lunch."
Emily doesn't even blink at the lavishness of the items included in the basket; the combination of the knowledge that Dave appears to have mastered to art of gourmet ordering and the first class nature of everything she's experienced so far from the hotel have robbed her of the ability to be surprised. However, the two do not stop her from smiling over the sumptuous repast set out before her.
"I am going to go into hock paying you back," she laughs as she reaches for the elegantly presented shrimp.
His face immediately changes to a fierce scowl. "Paying me back?" He shakes his head as he reaches for a plate. "I don't think so, Prentiss."
"Come on, Dave!" She huffs out a breath. "You've spent a fortune; of course I'm paying you back...at least part of it." She dredges the shrimp through the cocktail sauce.
His look, if possible, gets darker. "You're not giving me a dime. I told you, I've always wanted to come here; this was a great opportunity."
Discarding the shrimp tail, she sucks a stray dollop of sauce off her thumb. "If you weren't babysitting me you could have made your own decisions about when you made this trip and who you made it with."
"The where is the whole point, Prentiss," he grouses, putting some sliced tenderloin on his plate. "Sometimes I think you just like fighting with me." He snaps one of the linen napkins open. "Don't you believe in serendipity, Emily? Sometimes taking an unexpected opportunity is better than planning something for years. Expectations aren't overwhelming and it's easier to let go and enjoy yourself." He looks at her carefully. "Unless you're not enjoying yourself?"
A laugh bursts from her at the sheer ridiculousness of that statement. "Are you kidding? This is..." She tries to think of a word and falters, shrugs and finishes, "Incredible. Amazing."
"Good." He slices some gouda and adds it, along with a few crackers to his plate. "Then just enjoy it. I haven't done anything I wouldn't have done if I'd come on my own."
She almost argues the extra meals and the second bedroom, but decides that isn't the direction she wants to go.
"Dave, really. I am enjoying it. This is fabulous, but I'd like to..."
He points a finger at her. "If you're about to say something to me about paying me back you should probably know you are very close to pissing me off."
"Oh, that's really hard to do, too," she says dryly.
"Okay, smartass." The severe look is back. "You are precariously close to insulting me. And that is not so easy to do."
No, it's not, she knows that. He has a temper and he likes his way, but he's also generally accepting of other people's quirks and foibles. And while he has a robust ego, he isn't prone to take offense easily.
Instantly, she's contrite. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to insult you."
"Oh, I'm sure if you were trying you would have gotten here a lot quicker." He offers the container holding the chicken salad to her. "It's not a big deal, okay? I'm having a good time."
Emily starts to protest, wanting to ask how he can be having a good time when all he's done has been her nursemaid, but she manages to bite her tongue before any of it gets out, instead offering a simple, "Thank you."
They're quiet for awhile, though it's not awkward, it just seems the issue is settled and they're both intent on the decadent lunch in front of them. Still, when he pushes his plate away and stretches out on the cloth, she pays attention as he begins speaking. "If you really feel like you need to pay me back, seriously consider the book thing."
"I am thinking about it," she assures him, picking at a small portion of a grape in the chicken salad. "I just...why? Why would you want me to write a book with you when you could write it yourself?"
He's resting on one elbow, looking unruffled and very Rossi. "Because you were there on the inside, you know how it happened."
"So does Reid," she supplies. "You could write with him."
"God forbid." Rossi raises a hand. "You know I love Spencer just as much as the rest of you." She's not sure if he means he loves Reid as much as he loves the rest of the team or if he means he loves Reid the way everyone else on the team seems to love Reid with a sort of exasperated and protective fondness. "But about five minutes in I'd be looking for my service weapon to put one of us out of our misery."
"So, I'm malleable and Reid isn't?" The grape bit, clasped between thumb and index finger, finally makes it to her mouth.
Barking out a laugh, Rossi shakes his head. "There are many things you are, Prentiss, but malleable is not one of them." She snaps her napkin against his bicep and he winces. "It was meant as a compliment."
Emily makes a doubtful and slightly indignant noise as she reaches for the brie. "Reid was with Benjamin Cyrus towards the end; he knows more about what was going on than I do."
"So, we'll interview Reid about it," Rossi says dismissively. "His memory will make him a great interview."
"You could just interview both of us."
"Prentiss, if you don't want to write the book with me that's fine, just say so."
His tone is exasperated and she’s not sure how much is just Rossi being gruff and how much is indicative that he’s getting sick of her protests. “No, Rossi, no,” she stumbles. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do, I really do and I’m incredibly flattered you asked me.”
“Then what’s the problem?” He rubs his fingers on one of the napkins.
“I…” she starts, then stops, trying to gather the right words to express exactly how she feels, because, yes, she is extremely flattered but there are a host of other emotions mixed in there, too. She takes a deep breath and begins again. “I guess…I’m afraid.”
Dave frowns, but it’s a frown of concern not censure or disappointment. “Do you still have baggage from Liberty Ranch?”
“No…well, yes, but no…” Emily realizes how ridiculous she must sound when he snorts; she takes a breath and speaks slowly and rationally. “Maybe a little but no more I think than anyone would…I did the required sessions with the Bureau shrink. There are issues there but that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
“What are you afraid of, then?” Apparently without shame or regret, he pilfers the cracker she had just loaded with brie.
Releasing a gusty breath, she reaches for another cracker and keeps her attention focused on the act of adding the rich cheese to it. “I’ve never…I mean, other than narratives on paperwork reports, I’ve never written anything and certainly not a book.”
“Prentiss.” His voice holds an insistent pull and she looks up hesitantly. He raises an eyebrow speculatively. “So, you didn’t have to write a thesis for your Masters?”
Emily rolls her eyes. “Of course, but that was school.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s still writing.” He kicks his foot against hers. “Quit trying to talk me out of it.”
"I'm not trying to talk you out of it," she replies defensively. "I just don’t understand why you want anyone to help you at all. You do great on your own.”
Rossi gives a one-sided shrug. “I want to write the book, but doing it on my own might take longer than I want to put into a project now that I’m out of retirement. And, frankly, I think it would be a better story with you helping to tell it.”
“But Dave, this is…you… what if I really suck at it?” She swallows. “What if I embarrass myself? What if I let you down?”
“Not going to happen, Prentiss.” His response is swift and sure, and she can’t help the spread of warmth in her chest. “I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone but you. Do you know why?”
Emily lets out a small nervous laugh. “I have no clue.”
“Not because you were there and your actions saved a lot of lives -- even though you were and they did -- but because I not only know you can do this, I believe you’ll be great at it. Besides, I can’t think of anyone less likely to let me down.”
The look he gives her is frank, sincere and warm, and she feels her cheeks heating and her heart begins to thud in her ears as the realization hits her full-force: she doesn’t just have a crush on him, but she is, in actual fact, head over heels in love with David Rossi.
Her body is still sitting on a cloth under a tree in Battery Park in Charleston, South Carolina, where the Cooper and Ashley Rivers meet and flow into the Atlantic Ocean out beyond. But her mind is somewhere beyond the reach of any of it.
Fuck.
It was bad enough when she thought she just had a little crush on him.
Now…
Fuck.
She’s considered him a friend since pretty early on, and after Matthew’s death she’d begun to consider him a rare friend and one of her closest. But that didn’t mean they suddenly started to hang out in their off time, well, until they started to hang out in their off time.
This has thrown her, far more than it should have, she thinks. She needs to get away, needs to think about this, needs to figure out how to get over this without humiliating herself, damaging their working relationship or losing his friendship. Instead, she’s here with him in this setting that often veers into intimate (Oh, God, they slept together in the same bed last night... ) until they can travel home, and she has just essentially agreed to spend all of her free time with him, working on a book, when they do return.
Now? she asks herself. You couldn’t have realized this an hour ago? Or better, three months from now? Fuck.
“Did I overload your compliment receipt quota again, Emily?” His voice, amused but threaded through with what seems to be a real query, brings her out of her head.
“No.” She shakes her head, trying to clear the sudden fog, hoping her cheeks are not as red as she thinks they must be. “I…thank you. That’s incredibly generous of you. I feel the same way about you.”
The look he gives her as he steals her second cracker is unabashedly pleased.
Later, she remembers those moments with a startling clarity, but the remainder of their stay melts into a blur with just a few clear images...
Walking the Battery wall with Rossi beside her...
Laughing at the delightfully cheesy story told by the Ghost Tour Guide of Edgar Allen Poe and the Charleston girl who was supposed to be Annabel Lee...
Leaning against the rail of the boat on the way back from Fort Sumter the next day watching as the ocean breeze lifted strands of Rossi's hair and thinking about running her fingers through it...
Listening to him outline their book over seafood...
Staring at the ceiling of her room sternly telling herself not to go to his room, not even just for a night, no strings attached.
It is both a relief and a disappointment when the doctor clears her for travel on Friday. She'll have to see her doctor when she gets back, and she'll probably be out of work another week, plus be on desk duty for a while after that, but this small pocket of time away from Quantico and the job, just her and Dave, is over. Emily knows it will make things easier to have some distance, to not be having three meals a day with him, not walking for miles and talking late into the night, not joining in on Skype calls with Cheryl or watching as he has a loving conversation with "Nonna Angela" on Cheryl's computer, not knowing he's sleeping just a few feet away.
Still, she puts on a bright face and applauds JJ's skills when she manages to get them a flight into Dulles late on Friday night, but she finds herself looking wistfully around the suite when the bellman comes for their luggage.
"You okay?" Rossi looks at her quizzically. It's not the first time she's seen the look over the last couple of days. When she's working too hard at the compartmentalization she's so well known for, trying to shove everything about their interactions into boxes labeled either "coworker" or "friend", he'll give her the same look, the one that says he doesn't know what's going on in her head but he'd like nothing better than to figure it out and maybe give her Hell about it. Then, she makes herself stop trying so hard, just makes herself be where she is without thinking about getting over him or pushing him away.
"Yeah," she answers and realizes it's okay to let him know where she is, what she's feeling in this moment. "This is one of the nicest vacations I've ever had and I'm going to miss your two room Presidential suite." She tilts her head and smiles at him. "Thank you. For everything."
He gives her an answering smile. "I enjoyed it, too. Thank you."
Barking out a laugh, she shakes her head. "All of this...I didn't do anything."
"You are a hard woman to convince," he grumbles. "Thank you for the company, I had a good time, too."
On the way to the airport she wonders if the way his words cause such a pleasant warmth in her chest shows on her face.
TBC...
Chapter 7