Faces part 6 of 9
Title: Faces (part 6 of 9)
Author: Tamoline and Louisa
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not my pairing.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Emily's apartment was at least in a tasteful part of town, I'd give her that. In an obviously expensive building, too. Curiouser and curiouser. I pressed the buzzer.
"Emily Prentiss' flat," she answered immediately, almost as if she had been waiting right by the intercom.
The amusement from that mental image crept into my voice as I replied: "Which of your other lovers are you expecting, darling?"
"Come in, you infuriating woman," she grumbled.
She was waiting just inside her apartment, looking out through a half-open door as the elevator arrived at her floor. I looked her up and down. Her outfit was smart-casual: a fitted blouse over tight black skinny jeans. Make-up (of course): eyes and lips emphasised with charcoal grey and deep red, respectively. It suited her. Also, she'd done something with her hair; added a soft wave through the length of it. I approved. I had the feeling that this whole look was more for herself than for me; that this was how she dressed to be comfortable. That was... Actually kind of touching. Which disturbed me more than I could say. Luckily I had no intention whatsoever of attempting to do so.
Her position and air of alertness just confirmed my suspicions about how she had been waiting for me. I briefly wrestled with my conscience, and to my own utter lack of surprise, failed, taking a quick peek inside her head. I had been right!
I let out a chortle as I exited the elevator, grinning widely and, perhaps, a trifle smugly.
Emily gave me a suspicious look. "Am I going to regret inviting you here?"
"Probably," I said as I leaned over and kissed her thoroughly. "After all," I continued when we broke for air, "it is *completely* in my interests to make sure that you don't invite anyone else over here for the first time."
"It wasn't in my immediate plans," she said wryly (and, I flattered myself, a little breathlessly) as she led me into a combined living room and kitchenette. The place looked superficially neat, but a missed book here and a glass there showed that this was probably a fairly recent state of affairs.
"You mean that it's not just me that you're obsessively private with?"
"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" she scoffed as she moved into the kitchenette. "Wine?"
"Trying to get me drunk?" I said with a smile on my face.
"Only so I can have my way with you," she said, then shot me a nervous look. "If that's alright with you?"
"I haven't had a problem with our arrangement so far."
She handed me a glass of wine, then glanced away, suddenly looking vulnerable. "That was before."
I placed the glass carefully down on the counter, leaning forward a little so I could meet her eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Are you sure? You've always said that you didn't want a relationship." The look on her face was raw and open, her fingers clenched tightly around the stem of her wineglass. This... could get tricky. I opened my mind up to hers and could feel the hope in the back of her mind that I'd deny this, that I'd say that things had changed. But I couldn't give her what she... Not wanted, not really. What she thought she might want.
"This isn't about a relationship." I almost winced at the dull ache my words caused Emily, but they had to be said. We weren't in a relationship. We *couldn't* be in a relationship. I didn't point out that she had always been equally firm on the subject. It wouldn't have helped. "This is about us being friends. I hope that I can call you that."
She looked down for a minute or two, then drained half of her wineglass before finally looking back up at me. "Friends, then. It's probably just as well." She smiled, crookedly, weakly. "I still don't have time for a relationship."
I felt her starting to convince herself of that. It shouldn't have hurt. It was what I wanted. after all. But it did anyway.
Time to change the subject. "Why do you keep your job such a big secret?" I looked at her curiously and couldn't help adding, with a smirk: "Are groupies that big a problem?"
She snorted. "Sadly, no. It's just..." She waved a hand in the air. "It takes up so much of my life already, that I try to keep it completely out of my personal life. I don't want to be 'Special Agent Emily Prentiss' when I'm with my friends, but if I'm not very careful, that's what happens anyway. And that way leads to burn out, at least for me."
"So your two different faces are a coping mechanism?"
"Pretty much." Her shoulders twitched in a shrug. "Compartmentalisation seems to work for me. I've seen far worse in my time at the Bureau."
It did make a certain amount of sense. And she was right about one thing: someone doing a job like hers needed *some* way of stopping it from chewing them up and spitting them out. Who was I to criticise the method she chose if it worked for her? And yet... "I can't help notice that we are talking about it right now," I pointed out cautiously.
Finishing off the rest of her glass and setting it aside in what seemed to be one smooth motion, she gave me a look. "Apparently you have a talent for wriggling past my defences." She sighed, and her mind hardened in on itself. "And it seemed only fair after last night." she muttered.
The topic of what had prompted last night squatted ominously in the middle of the living room like a particularly unpleasant unexploded bomb. Peeking at her mind, *she* wasn't sure about whether she wanted me to leave it alone or not. I briefly considered bringing up the subject of counselling, but decided that this was not the time.
Finally, I said: "If you ever want to talk about what happens at work to someone supremely unconnected, you only have to say the word, darling."
That seemed to decide her. "Yesterday was... unpleasant. But I don't think I'm ready to talk about it tonight."
I nodded in acknowledgement. "As you wish." Casting around for another topic of conversation, I reached down to the floor and daintily retrieved the book I had noticed earlier. As she saw what I was reaching for, her face took on a cast of horror and embarrassment and she reached out a hand as if to ward me away from it. Okay, now my interest was well and truly piqued. What *had* she been reading?
"'Use of Weapons' by Iain M. Banks," I read off the front cover. To my great disappointment, it didn't *look* overly embarrassing. Flipping it over, I read the blurb on the back. "Ah, science fiction," I announced sagely.
Emily was cringing slightly, her cheeks flushed, looking like she'd rather be anywhere than here. I debated whether to tease her or let her off the hook. In the end, of course, it was no decision at all: I had to be me.
"So dearest Emily is a secret geek," I teased, waving the offending tome in her direction. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but her reaction was rather like a squirming mouse to my inner cat. I couldn't help but bat at it. But I'd keep my claws remain firmly sheathed. After all, I liked her.
She marched over and snatched the book off me, glowering all the while. "*This* is why I don't invite people over to my apartment!" she said furiously, cheeks still blazing.
"How long were you planning on staying in the closet?"
"I'd have been quite happy there with just a lion and a witch for company!" She folded her hands -- still holding the book -- underneath her arms, looking away from me. Her defensive posture said that my friendly ribbing may be in danger of actually hitting a nerve.
As much as my more predatory teasing instincts urged me to do otherwise, I decided to offer an olive branch. "Is there room in there for one more?" I asked her, with a smile.
She stopped dead, flush fading from her cheeks as she glanced hesitantly in my direction. "You're not saying that you're also nerdily inclined... Are you?"
"I'm at least geek conversant." Well, I could fake it. Geekish was just another language as far as I was concerned.
She blinked. "I'd never have guessed."
I had the uncomfortable feeling that certain parts of the profile she was forming in her head were currently in the process of being revised. Time for another distraction, I felt. "I haven't read that book," I indicated the one she was clutching. "Is it any good?"
Her mind bloomed, colours rippling through it like the Northern Lights, and she smiled shyly at me. "I think so..."
With a little encouragement from me, she proceeded to tell me about the setting of the book, an ultra advanced civilisation called the Culture. (She wouldn't tell me about the plot. Apparently there was a twist. Isn't there always?) As she described it, her face lit up and she spoke with excitement, animation and a great deal of enthusiastic gesturing with her hands. Quite frankly, it was *unutterably* cute.
Abruptly, she broke off mid-sentence, shooting me a look that fell halfway between 'grouchy' and 'confused'. "What?" she asked, a little defensively.
I realised that I had what I rather suspected was a fond smile dancing across my lips. I was utterly certain that my reputation would be shot to hell if *that* ever got out. Ah well.
"Nothing," I replied, and took a sip of wine, blinking innocently at her over the rim of my glass.
By this point, we were seated comfortably -- me sprawlingly decadently, yet elegantly, on her sofa; her sitting forward in one of the chairs. As she looked at me suspiciously, I stretched languidly and I waved her onwards with my empty hand. After a few moments, she continued, a little hesitant at first but soon losing her self-consciousness in the flow of fantastic imagery. The setting all seemed rather implausible to me, to be completely honest. In my experience, star-spanning civilisations tended to be empires and dictatorships, not ultra-liberal democratic utopias. Given the general level of intelligence of humanity, it was just depressing that the most sophisticated styles of government seemed to be all here on Earth. And sentient AIs that didn't try and destroy all organic life? That seemed even more unlikely.
Still, I guess there was something to be said for a good, escapist, fantasy story. And if I started to read it and decided that I couldn't continue, I could always rifle through her mind for the ending and tell her I'd finished it.
"So, where are the rest of your books?" I asked.
She blinked at me, nonplussed.
Oh please, tell me that she had a library. A science fiction fan I could understand. Not having a proper collection of books? Unforgiveable. A worse thought occurred to me. "You don't keep them all on one of those electronic book readers, do you?" I asked in a tone of utmost horror.
"What? No," she said. 'Not *all* of them,' she thought, unrepentantly. What manner of philistine had I become friends with? "It's just that no one has asked to see my collection before," she said, shy again all of a sudden.
Moving a little hesitantly, a little awkwardly, she stood up and led me further into her flat, pausing by a closed door. She fumbled inside a pocket, withdrew a key, and then unlocked and opened the door. "Behold my secret realm."
What was evidently once a spare bedroom now had bookcases lining most of the walls, filled with books new and old (all in good condition to my initial inspection). One wall was taken up by a desk with a computer on it.
"Truly a den of iniquity," I drawled. "I can see why you'd not want me wandering in here unprepared."
Apropos of nothing in particular, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly. "Thank you," she said, her voice muffled by my hair.
Despite the utterly inexplicable -- and immediately banished -- urge to burrow into her embrace, I kept my tone light and airy. "Don't thank me yet. I'm just acquiring credit against the day that you find out some of my dark secrets."
"Oh?" What secrets would those be?" she asked me playfully.
I looked through my eyelashes at her coquettishly. "I've already said too much."
"Hey, you got me to reveal my inner geek." But she sounded more amused than truly indignant.
"And what fun is it if you find out too easily?"
"Hmm..." She pretended to think deeply for a moment, then raised one hand as if struck by some divine inspiration. "This sounds like a problem that may require more wine!"
"That, my dear Emily, sounds like an excellent idea. And I believe you promised me food?"
Eyes widening in horror, she spun around and positively sprinted for the kitchenette. "Oh, my god! The lasagne!" She shook her head, even as she opened the oven, peering into its depths with obvious reluctance as she muttered. "I can't believe I forgot about the lasagne."
I hung back to allow her to deal with this minor domestic emergency (and to minimise the risk of me actually being called upon to help). From her sigh of relief, it seemed that matters weren't as bad as she'd feared. When I was reasonably certain she had everything under control I sauntered over to the table and sat down. "You do realise," I mused, watching her serve, "that if you fail to perform to my culinary satisfaction, I *will* have to claim a forfeit."
"This was your fault in the first place," she griped, shooting me a dark look.
"*My* fault?" For once, my righteous indignation was actually fully justified. "How was it my fault that *you* got distracted and forgot about dinner?"
"Because you're the one who distracted me!" In a completely different tone of voice, she continued: "More wine?"
"Yes, please." I answered her with exactly the same tone of calm politeness, before returning to my totally legitimate grievance. "You distracted yourself," I pointed out, quite reasonably. "You were simply having a grand old time telling me about that book."
"You asked me about it," she protested.
"You left it there," I reminded her. "This smells delicious, by the way."
"Thank you. I hope it tastes okay. I'm just glad I didn't actually burn it. Anyway, I'm still cross with you. You... You... You!" She stopped, glared, and then abruptly burst into peals of laughter so infectious I couldn't help but join in. "This is totally ridiculous," she said, shaking her head.
"Completely and utterly," I agreed. "But you're not nervous about the food any more, are you?"
"I wasn't nervous," she protested half-heartedly, but then sighed. "Okay, how did you know?"
I shrugged. "Lucky guess." Actually, it was. Well, not a guess, exactly, but I hadn't peeked. I'd just read the signs, apparently with some accuracy. "Anyway, were you just planning on using the food for decoration, or should we start before it gets cold?"
"Please do." She picked up her knife and fork, looking over at me with a grin. "Bon appetit!"
The food was really quite tasty. I wasn't sure whether or not I should be surprised. In my experience, full and erratic schedules did not tend to facilitate the development of any food preparation skills beyond ordering take-away or heating something up. On the other hand, I could well believe Emily was obsessively competitive enough to put in the effort necessary to excel at anything she turned her hand to. Or it could be a natural talent of hers. In any case, I made sure to compliment the chef appropriately and I could tell she was pleased that I liked it. Maybe that meant she would cook for me again sometime.
"So, where did you learn to cook like this?" I asked curiously.
She shrugged. "Various places. My family tended to move around a lot, so if I found a particular dish I liked I tried to learn how to make it for myself. At least that meant I had a halfway decent chance of being able to have it again." She shook her head, frowning in disapproval. "You would not believe the rubbish that some places try to pass off as authentic 'ethnic cuisine'."
"Oh, I'm sure I would. Although," some perverse impulse made me add. "Sometimes 'authentic' can be overrated."
"Not when you find yourself craving genuine Sicilian ravioli, it can't." This was clearly something she felt strongly about. "Or borscht."
"Sicilian borscht?" I was a little confused.
"Ukrainian," she corrected. "It's a Ukrainian beetroot soup."
"I see." I eyed her suspiciously, just about managing to keep from wrinkling my nose in distaste. "It sounds..." Revolting. Disgusting. Nauseating. "Interesting."
"I'll make it for you someday," she offered enthusiastically.
"Thank you," I replied, managing to return her smile, if a trifle fixedly. Well, what was I *supposed* to say? Maybe she'd forget. Or, if she remembered, maybe I could 'accidentally' distract her again. If science fiction didn't work, there was always sex.
The conversation continued fluidly, the only interruptions to its easy ebb and flow being the occasional pause to politely chew and swallow food. As in the coffee shop, it roamed freely between subjects of import, interest and sheer, unadulterated amusement, albeit a little slanted by the fact that Emily was letting her inner geek out to play tonight. I had to admit that I liked seeing this side of her. We were so involved in our discussion that, once the main course was done, we actually just sat at the table and talked (and drank wine) for quite a while before Emily remembered that there was dessert as well. It proved to be a chocolate cake so rich that I generously forgave her the fact that it was store-bought and not home-made. It was worth waiting for, I supposed. And, it probably wasn't a bad thing that the lasagne (also rather rich and full-flavoured) had had a chance to settle. When dessert had been consumed, we again remained in place and continued talking. It was some time before it occurred to either of us that we could actually move to the more comfortable seating. Emily started to clear up the meal's debris, while I retired to the sofa once more and watched her.
Glancing back over her shoulder, she shot me a look that was part irritation, part amused indulgence. "Were you planning on helping out at all?" she asked.
"Certainly not," I sniffed. "I'm a guest: it wouldn't be at all proper for me to undertake menial work."
"And you're all about proper etiquette," she muttered.
"Exactly. Anyway," I observed, my eyes glued to her shapely backside as she bent down to load up the dishwasher. "The view is *far* better from over here."
Twisting around to look at me, she correctly figured out what I was looking at and rolled her eyes. "Incorrigible," she pronounced. But I could tell that she wasn't really displeased. And she didn't do anything to spoil my view.
When she'd finished the chore, I mused thoughtfully: "You know, now that this bottle of wine's been opened, we should probably finish it off. It simply wouldn't do to let it go to waste." I quickly finished off the small amount remaining in my glass and held it out to her with a bright smile. "And my glass appears to be empty right now. How fortuitous!" She glared, muttered and complained, but she *did* refill my glass. "Thank you!" I trilled, blowing her a kiss.
"You're welcome." She tipped the rest of the bottle into her own glass, and took a healthy swallow of it. Was I driving her to drink? Surely not. Or... Maybe it was something else.
She took a couple of steps towards me, took another sip -- really more of a gulp -- of wine, and then said: "You know... It's quite late. And we've drunk a lot of wine. Maybe... I don't think you should drive home tonight."
I had been wondering where exactly the endpoint of this evening was going to be. Possibly I should have been disturbed by the fact that this was far more cozy than it had any right to be. Possibly I could blame the relaxing effects of the wine for the warm calmness spreading through me. And quite possibly, at this particular point, I just didn't care.
"Darling, I thought that you'd never ask," I drawled, smiling.
Finishing my wine, I rose to my feet and moved towards Emily, crossing the room in a few languid steps. For a moment, I found myself moving in the old patterns as I reached for her, but then my hand moved past the usual less than innocent locations and, somewhat to my surprise, came to rest upon her cheek.
"Thank you," I whispered. Thank you for sharing your home with me. Thank you for showing me this side of you that you keep locked away. Thank you for not asking anything in return."
Emily brought her hand up to cover mine, just for a second, and then it seemed only natural that our fingers should intertwine as she looked deep into my eyes.
"To the bedroom?" she asked, almost hesitantly. When I nodded wordlessly in response, she led me there by the hand.
It was immediately obvious that this had not been part of her plan earlier in the day. The bedroom was somewhat messy, with clothes peeking out of a laundry bin and a pile of books by the bed. It somehow seemed very her.
She coloured a little at the sight. "Crap! Sorry..."
I silenced her by placing a finger from my free hand upon her lips. "Hush." Then I kissed her slowly and unhurriedly. That seemed to disrupt her flow of thoughts most satisfactorily.
After I released her, she glanced over at the bed. "Shall we?" she asked, more nervous, more vulnerable than I had ever seen her.
I almost replied 'Of course' before realising that I didn't actually feel the need to. Not tonight. Somehow the usual dance of dominance and passion seemed like it would burst the fragile mood that floated in the midnight air. There would always be other nights, anyway.
"Why don't we just see where the mood takes us?" I said, instead.
After a moment's surprise, Emily relaxed, smiling at me slightly as she quickly shimmied out of her clothing. I would have joined her, but I was enjoying the view a little too much. Sadly, it was all too quickly stolen from me as she jumped into bed and looked up at me.
"Well? Aren't you getting in? It's cold in here!" she said, eyes bright like stars.
I took my own clothing off with only a bare minimum of show. By the end of it, I was shivering a little. It was cold out here as well. Climate change be damned: couldn't she just turn the thermostat up when she had company? I cast a baleful eye towards the miscreant, who looked almost disturbingly cute, as well as far too warm beneath her covers.
Oh well, I was sure that I could improvise something.
Emily eyed me with great suspicion as I slipped into bed beside her. "What are you grinning so wickedly at?" she asked, cautiously.
"Oh, nothing," I drawled. And then I put my feet on her stomach.
She really could shriek extremely loudly.
Some time later, when she'd finally forgiven me enough to stop sulking, she propped herself up on one elbow to peer down at me. (Not that she'd forgiven me *completely*, oh no; apparently she could hold a grudge. I wouldn't have her any other way.) I'm not sure what she could see in the darkness of the room, but she stayed like that for a good half minute or so. It was enough to rouse my curiousity, at any rate.
"What is it?" I asked, softly. Something about this, about how we fit together in the silence and the darkness, made it seem more fitting to keep my voice low.
She shook her head; I felt, rather than saw the motion, the ends of her hair brushing lightly against my stomach. It tickled a little.
"Oh, nothing," she murmured.
"Then come back down here," I groused, holding out my arms. "You're letting the heat out."
She snuggled back down beside me, resting her head on my chest, arms draped over me in a loose, yet somehow secure embrace. I absently ran my fingers through her hair.
"I like what you did with your hair today," I murmured. "It suits you."
"I'm glad you liked it," she replied, a smile in her voice.
"I do." Even though she couldn't see it, I smiled back, the expression melting into a yawn as sleep started whispering its blandishments in my ear. There was a reason why I should fight it, but, for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it was right now. Peace enfolded me just like she had. "I like you," I mumbled.
The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was: "I like you, too."
Note: For those familiar with 'Use of Weapons', I'm sure you'll be relieved to hear that we definitely aren't using the twist of that book. Emma or Emily will *not* be adding any interesting bits of new furniture to their respective abodes.
Author: Tamoline and Louisa
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not my pairing.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Emily's apartment was at least in a tasteful part of town, I'd give her that. In an obviously expensive building, too. Curiouser and curiouser. I pressed the buzzer.
"Emily Prentiss' flat," she answered immediately, almost as if she had been waiting right by the intercom.
The amusement from that mental image crept into my voice as I replied: "Which of your other lovers are you expecting, darling?"
"Come in, you infuriating woman," she grumbled.
She was waiting just inside her apartment, looking out through a half-open door as the elevator arrived at her floor. I looked her up and down. Her outfit was smart-casual: a fitted blouse over tight black skinny jeans. Make-up (of course): eyes and lips emphasised with charcoal grey and deep red, respectively. It suited her. Also, she'd done something with her hair; added a soft wave through the length of it. I approved. I had the feeling that this whole look was more for herself than for me; that this was how she dressed to be comfortable. That was... Actually kind of touching. Which disturbed me more than I could say. Luckily I had no intention whatsoever of attempting to do so.
Her position and air of alertness just confirmed my suspicions about how she had been waiting for me. I briefly wrestled with my conscience, and to my own utter lack of surprise, failed, taking a quick peek inside her head. I had been right!
I let out a chortle as I exited the elevator, grinning widely and, perhaps, a trifle smugly.
Emily gave me a suspicious look. "Am I going to regret inviting you here?"
"Probably," I said as I leaned over and kissed her thoroughly. "After all," I continued when we broke for air, "it is *completely* in my interests to make sure that you don't invite anyone else over here for the first time."
"It wasn't in my immediate plans," she said wryly (and, I flattered myself, a little breathlessly) as she led me into a combined living room and kitchenette. The place looked superficially neat, but a missed book here and a glass there showed that this was probably a fairly recent state of affairs.
"You mean that it's not just me that you're obsessively private with?"
"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" she scoffed as she moved into the kitchenette. "Wine?"
"Trying to get me drunk?" I said with a smile on my face.
"Only so I can have my way with you," she said, then shot me a nervous look. "If that's alright with you?"
"I haven't had a problem with our arrangement so far."
She handed me a glass of wine, then glanced away, suddenly looking vulnerable. "That was before."
I placed the glass carefully down on the counter, leaning forward a little so I could meet her eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Are you sure? You've always said that you didn't want a relationship." The look on her face was raw and open, her fingers clenched tightly around the stem of her wineglass. This... could get tricky. I opened my mind up to hers and could feel the hope in the back of her mind that I'd deny this, that I'd say that things had changed. But I couldn't give her what she... Not wanted, not really. What she thought she might want.
"This isn't about a relationship." I almost winced at the dull ache my words caused Emily, but they had to be said. We weren't in a relationship. We *couldn't* be in a relationship. I didn't point out that she had always been equally firm on the subject. It wouldn't have helped. "This is about us being friends. I hope that I can call you that."
She looked down for a minute or two, then drained half of her wineglass before finally looking back up at me. "Friends, then. It's probably just as well." She smiled, crookedly, weakly. "I still don't have time for a relationship."
I felt her starting to convince herself of that. It shouldn't have hurt. It was what I wanted. after all. But it did anyway.
Time to change the subject. "Why do you keep your job such a big secret?" I looked at her curiously and couldn't help adding, with a smirk: "Are groupies that big a problem?"
She snorted. "Sadly, no. It's just..." She waved a hand in the air. "It takes up so much of my life already, that I try to keep it completely out of my personal life. I don't want to be 'Special Agent Emily Prentiss' when I'm with my friends, but if I'm not very careful, that's what happens anyway. And that way leads to burn out, at least for me."
"So your two different faces are a coping mechanism?"
"Pretty much." Her shoulders twitched in a shrug. "Compartmentalisation seems to work for me. I've seen far worse in my time at the Bureau."
It did make a certain amount of sense. And she was right about one thing: someone doing a job like hers needed *some* way of stopping it from chewing them up and spitting them out. Who was I to criticise the method she chose if it worked for her? And yet... "I can't help notice that we are talking about it right now," I pointed out cautiously.
Finishing off the rest of her glass and setting it aside in what seemed to be one smooth motion, she gave me a look. "Apparently you have a talent for wriggling past my defences." She sighed, and her mind hardened in on itself. "And it seemed only fair after last night." she muttered.
The topic of what had prompted last night squatted ominously in the middle of the living room like a particularly unpleasant unexploded bomb. Peeking at her mind, *she* wasn't sure about whether she wanted me to leave it alone or not. I briefly considered bringing up the subject of counselling, but decided that this was not the time.
Finally, I said: "If you ever want to talk about what happens at work to someone supremely unconnected, you only have to say the word, darling."
That seemed to decide her. "Yesterday was... unpleasant. But I don't think I'm ready to talk about it tonight."
I nodded in acknowledgement. "As you wish." Casting around for another topic of conversation, I reached down to the floor and daintily retrieved the book I had noticed earlier. As she saw what I was reaching for, her face took on a cast of horror and embarrassment and she reached out a hand as if to ward me away from it. Okay, now my interest was well and truly piqued. What *had* she been reading?
"'Use of Weapons' by Iain M. Banks," I read off the front cover. To my great disappointment, it didn't *look* overly embarrassing. Flipping it over, I read the blurb on the back. "Ah, science fiction," I announced sagely.
Emily was cringing slightly, her cheeks flushed, looking like she'd rather be anywhere than here. I debated whether to tease her or let her off the hook. In the end, of course, it was no decision at all: I had to be me.
"So dearest Emily is a secret geek," I teased, waving the offending tome in her direction. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but her reaction was rather like a squirming mouse to my inner cat. I couldn't help but bat at it. But I'd keep my claws remain firmly sheathed. After all, I liked her.
She marched over and snatched the book off me, glowering all the while. "*This* is why I don't invite people over to my apartment!" she said furiously, cheeks still blazing.
"How long were you planning on staying in the closet?"
"I'd have been quite happy there with just a lion and a witch for company!" She folded her hands -- still holding the book -- underneath her arms, looking away from me. Her defensive posture said that my friendly ribbing may be in danger of actually hitting a nerve.
As much as my more predatory teasing instincts urged me to do otherwise, I decided to offer an olive branch. "Is there room in there for one more?" I asked her, with a smile.
She stopped dead, flush fading from her cheeks as she glanced hesitantly in my direction. "You're not saying that you're also nerdily inclined... Are you?"
"I'm at least geek conversant." Well, I could fake it. Geekish was just another language as far as I was concerned.
She blinked. "I'd never have guessed."
I had the uncomfortable feeling that certain parts of the profile she was forming in her head were currently in the process of being revised. Time for another distraction, I felt. "I haven't read that book," I indicated the one she was clutching. "Is it any good?"
Her mind bloomed, colours rippling through it like the Northern Lights, and she smiled shyly at me. "I think so..."
With a little encouragement from me, she proceeded to tell me about the setting of the book, an ultra advanced civilisation called the Culture. (She wouldn't tell me about the plot. Apparently there was a twist. Isn't there always?) As she described it, her face lit up and she spoke with excitement, animation and a great deal of enthusiastic gesturing with her hands. Quite frankly, it was *unutterably* cute.
Abruptly, she broke off mid-sentence, shooting me a look that fell halfway between 'grouchy' and 'confused'. "What?" she asked, a little defensively.
I realised that I had what I rather suspected was a fond smile dancing across my lips. I was utterly certain that my reputation would be shot to hell if *that* ever got out. Ah well.
"Nothing," I replied, and took a sip of wine, blinking innocently at her over the rim of my glass.
By this point, we were seated comfortably -- me sprawlingly decadently, yet elegantly, on her sofa; her sitting forward in one of the chairs. As she looked at me suspiciously, I stretched languidly and I waved her onwards with my empty hand. After a few moments, she continued, a little hesitant at first but soon losing her self-consciousness in the flow of fantastic imagery. The setting all seemed rather implausible to me, to be completely honest. In my experience, star-spanning civilisations tended to be empires and dictatorships, not ultra-liberal democratic utopias. Given the general level of intelligence of humanity, it was just depressing that the most sophisticated styles of government seemed to be all here on Earth. And sentient AIs that didn't try and destroy all organic life? That seemed even more unlikely.
Still, I guess there was something to be said for a good, escapist, fantasy story. And if I started to read it and decided that I couldn't continue, I could always rifle through her mind for the ending and tell her I'd finished it.
"So, where are the rest of your books?" I asked.
She blinked at me, nonplussed.
Oh please, tell me that she had a library. A science fiction fan I could understand. Not having a proper collection of books? Unforgiveable. A worse thought occurred to me. "You don't keep them all on one of those electronic book readers, do you?" I asked in a tone of utmost horror.
"What? No," she said. 'Not *all* of them,' she thought, unrepentantly. What manner of philistine had I become friends with? "It's just that no one has asked to see my collection before," she said, shy again all of a sudden.
Moving a little hesitantly, a little awkwardly, she stood up and led me further into her flat, pausing by a closed door. She fumbled inside a pocket, withdrew a key, and then unlocked and opened the door. "Behold my secret realm."
What was evidently once a spare bedroom now had bookcases lining most of the walls, filled with books new and old (all in good condition to my initial inspection). One wall was taken up by a desk with a computer on it.
"Truly a den of iniquity," I drawled. "I can see why you'd not want me wandering in here unprepared."
Apropos of nothing in particular, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly. "Thank you," she said, her voice muffled by my hair.
Despite the utterly inexplicable -- and immediately banished -- urge to burrow into her embrace, I kept my tone light and airy. "Don't thank me yet. I'm just acquiring credit against the day that you find out some of my dark secrets."
"Oh?" What secrets would those be?" she asked me playfully.
I looked through my eyelashes at her coquettishly. "I've already said too much."
"Hey, you got me to reveal my inner geek." But she sounded more amused than truly indignant.
"And what fun is it if you find out too easily?"
"Hmm..." She pretended to think deeply for a moment, then raised one hand as if struck by some divine inspiration. "This sounds like a problem that may require more wine!"
"That, my dear Emily, sounds like an excellent idea. And I believe you promised me food?"
Eyes widening in horror, she spun around and positively sprinted for the kitchenette. "Oh, my god! The lasagne!" She shook her head, even as she opened the oven, peering into its depths with obvious reluctance as she muttered. "I can't believe I forgot about the lasagne."
I hung back to allow her to deal with this minor domestic emergency (and to minimise the risk of me actually being called upon to help). From her sigh of relief, it seemed that matters weren't as bad as she'd feared. When I was reasonably certain she had everything under control I sauntered over to the table and sat down. "You do realise," I mused, watching her serve, "that if you fail to perform to my culinary satisfaction, I *will* have to claim a forfeit."
"This was your fault in the first place," she griped, shooting me a dark look.
"*My* fault?" For once, my righteous indignation was actually fully justified. "How was it my fault that *you* got distracted and forgot about dinner?"
"Because you're the one who distracted me!" In a completely different tone of voice, she continued: "More wine?"
"Yes, please." I answered her with exactly the same tone of calm politeness, before returning to my totally legitimate grievance. "You distracted yourself," I pointed out, quite reasonably. "You were simply having a grand old time telling me about that book."
"You asked me about it," she protested.
"You left it there," I reminded her. "This smells delicious, by the way."
"Thank you. I hope it tastes okay. I'm just glad I didn't actually burn it. Anyway, I'm still cross with you. You... You... You!" She stopped, glared, and then abruptly burst into peals of laughter so infectious I couldn't help but join in. "This is totally ridiculous," she said, shaking her head.
"Completely and utterly," I agreed. "But you're not nervous about the food any more, are you?"
"I wasn't nervous," she protested half-heartedly, but then sighed. "Okay, how did you know?"
I shrugged. "Lucky guess." Actually, it was. Well, not a guess, exactly, but I hadn't peeked. I'd just read the signs, apparently with some accuracy. "Anyway, were you just planning on using the food for decoration, or should we start before it gets cold?"
"Please do." She picked up her knife and fork, looking over at me with a grin. "Bon appetit!"
The food was really quite tasty. I wasn't sure whether or not I should be surprised. In my experience, full and erratic schedules did not tend to facilitate the development of any food preparation skills beyond ordering take-away or heating something up. On the other hand, I could well believe Emily was obsessively competitive enough to put in the effort necessary to excel at anything she turned her hand to. Or it could be a natural talent of hers. In any case, I made sure to compliment the chef appropriately and I could tell she was pleased that I liked it. Maybe that meant she would cook for me again sometime.
"So, where did you learn to cook like this?" I asked curiously.
She shrugged. "Various places. My family tended to move around a lot, so if I found a particular dish I liked I tried to learn how to make it for myself. At least that meant I had a halfway decent chance of being able to have it again." She shook her head, frowning in disapproval. "You would not believe the rubbish that some places try to pass off as authentic 'ethnic cuisine'."
"Oh, I'm sure I would. Although," some perverse impulse made me add. "Sometimes 'authentic' can be overrated."
"Not when you find yourself craving genuine Sicilian ravioli, it can't." This was clearly something she felt strongly about. "Or borscht."
"Sicilian borscht?" I was a little confused.
"Ukrainian," she corrected. "It's a Ukrainian beetroot soup."
"I see." I eyed her suspiciously, just about managing to keep from wrinkling my nose in distaste. "It sounds..." Revolting. Disgusting. Nauseating. "Interesting."
"I'll make it for you someday," she offered enthusiastically.
"Thank you," I replied, managing to return her smile, if a trifle fixedly. Well, what was I *supposed* to say? Maybe she'd forget. Or, if she remembered, maybe I could 'accidentally' distract her again. If science fiction didn't work, there was always sex.
The conversation continued fluidly, the only interruptions to its easy ebb and flow being the occasional pause to politely chew and swallow food. As in the coffee shop, it roamed freely between subjects of import, interest and sheer, unadulterated amusement, albeit a little slanted by the fact that Emily was letting her inner geek out to play tonight. I had to admit that I liked seeing this side of her. We were so involved in our discussion that, once the main course was done, we actually just sat at the table and talked (and drank wine) for quite a while before Emily remembered that there was dessert as well. It proved to be a chocolate cake so rich that I generously forgave her the fact that it was store-bought and not home-made. It was worth waiting for, I supposed. And, it probably wasn't a bad thing that the lasagne (also rather rich and full-flavoured) had had a chance to settle. When dessert had been consumed, we again remained in place and continued talking. It was some time before it occurred to either of us that we could actually move to the more comfortable seating. Emily started to clear up the meal's debris, while I retired to the sofa once more and watched her.
Glancing back over her shoulder, she shot me a look that was part irritation, part amused indulgence. "Were you planning on helping out at all?" she asked.
"Certainly not," I sniffed. "I'm a guest: it wouldn't be at all proper for me to undertake menial work."
"And you're all about proper etiquette," she muttered.
"Exactly. Anyway," I observed, my eyes glued to her shapely backside as she bent down to load up the dishwasher. "The view is *far* better from over here."
Twisting around to look at me, she correctly figured out what I was looking at and rolled her eyes. "Incorrigible," she pronounced. But I could tell that she wasn't really displeased. And she didn't do anything to spoil my view.
When she'd finished the chore, I mused thoughtfully: "You know, now that this bottle of wine's been opened, we should probably finish it off. It simply wouldn't do to let it go to waste." I quickly finished off the small amount remaining in my glass and held it out to her with a bright smile. "And my glass appears to be empty right now. How fortuitous!" She glared, muttered and complained, but she *did* refill my glass. "Thank you!" I trilled, blowing her a kiss.
"You're welcome." She tipped the rest of the bottle into her own glass, and took a healthy swallow of it. Was I driving her to drink? Surely not. Or... Maybe it was something else.
She took a couple of steps towards me, took another sip -- really more of a gulp -- of wine, and then said: "You know... It's quite late. And we've drunk a lot of wine. Maybe... I don't think you should drive home tonight."
I had been wondering where exactly the endpoint of this evening was going to be. Possibly I should have been disturbed by the fact that this was far more cozy than it had any right to be. Possibly I could blame the relaxing effects of the wine for the warm calmness spreading through me. And quite possibly, at this particular point, I just didn't care.
"Darling, I thought that you'd never ask," I drawled, smiling.
Finishing my wine, I rose to my feet and moved towards Emily, crossing the room in a few languid steps. For a moment, I found myself moving in the old patterns as I reached for her, but then my hand moved past the usual less than innocent locations and, somewhat to my surprise, came to rest upon her cheek.
"Thank you," I whispered. Thank you for sharing your home with me. Thank you for showing me this side of you that you keep locked away. Thank you for not asking anything in return."
Emily brought her hand up to cover mine, just for a second, and then it seemed only natural that our fingers should intertwine as she looked deep into my eyes.
"To the bedroom?" she asked, almost hesitantly. When I nodded wordlessly in response, she led me there by the hand.
It was immediately obvious that this had not been part of her plan earlier in the day. The bedroom was somewhat messy, with clothes peeking out of a laundry bin and a pile of books by the bed. It somehow seemed very her.
She coloured a little at the sight. "Crap! Sorry..."
I silenced her by placing a finger from my free hand upon her lips. "Hush." Then I kissed her slowly and unhurriedly. That seemed to disrupt her flow of thoughts most satisfactorily.
After I released her, she glanced over at the bed. "Shall we?" she asked, more nervous, more vulnerable than I had ever seen her.
I almost replied 'Of course' before realising that I didn't actually feel the need to. Not tonight. Somehow the usual dance of dominance and passion seemed like it would burst the fragile mood that floated in the midnight air. There would always be other nights, anyway.
"Why don't we just see where the mood takes us?" I said, instead.
After a moment's surprise, Emily relaxed, smiling at me slightly as she quickly shimmied out of her clothing. I would have joined her, but I was enjoying the view a little too much. Sadly, it was all too quickly stolen from me as she jumped into bed and looked up at me.
"Well? Aren't you getting in? It's cold in here!" she said, eyes bright like stars.
I took my own clothing off with only a bare minimum of show. By the end of it, I was shivering a little. It was cold out here as well. Climate change be damned: couldn't she just turn the thermostat up when she had company? I cast a baleful eye towards the miscreant, who looked almost disturbingly cute, as well as far too warm beneath her covers.
Oh well, I was sure that I could improvise something.
Emily eyed me with great suspicion as I slipped into bed beside her. "What are you grinning so wickedly at?" she asked, cautiously.
"Oh, nothing," I drawled. And then I put my feet on her stomach.
She really could shriek extremely loudly.
Some time later, when she'd finally forgiven me enough to stop sulking, she propped herself up on one elbow to peer down at me. (Not that she'd forgiven me *completely*, oh no; apparently she could hold a grudge. I wouldn't have her any other way.) I'm not sure what she could see in the darkness of the room, but she stayed like that for a good half minute or so. It was enough to rouse my curiousity, at any rate.
"What is it?" I asked, softly. Something about this, about how we fit together in the silence and the darkness, made it seem more fitting to keep my voice low.
She shook her head; I felt, rather than saw the motion, the ends of her hair brushing lightly against my stomach. It tickled a little.
"Oh, nothing," she murmured.
"Then come back down here," I groused, holding out my arms. "You're letting the heat out."
She snuggled back down beside me, resting her head on my chest, arms draped over me in a loose, yet somehow secure embrace. I absently ran my fingers through her hair.
"I like what you did with your hair today," I murmured. "It suits you."
"I'm glad you liked it," she replied, a smile in her voice.
"I do." Even though she couldn't see it, I smiled back, the expression melting into a yawn as sleep started whispering its blandishments in my ear. There was a reason why I should fight it, but, for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it was right now. Peace enfolded me just like she had. "I like you," I mumbled.
The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was: "I like you, too."
Note: For those familiar with 'Use of Weapons', I'm sure you'll be relieved to hear that we definitely aren't using the twist of that book. Emma or Emily will *not* be adding any interesting bits of new furniture to their respective abodes.