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"You've never been in love, have you?"
Emily nursed her wine glass, sipping from it when she could pull herself out of her thoughts long enough to not just toy with the stem. No matter what she did, it seemed she couldn't focus on anything else. She didn't make a habit of letting weirdos get into her head. By all means, this should have been innocuous, a statement shrugged off the minute she and Dave left Shara Carlino's office. It stayed with her though. She forgot about it just long enough to be done with the case, but as soon as Hotch and Morgan disappeared into one SUV while Spencer took the wheel of the one the rest of them were going to take to get to the airfield; as soon as Dave put on his seatbelt, sharing the backseat with her, it came back. It slammed her in the face when he tilted his head and silently asked if she was okay, the same way he did whenever she got in her head too much. He looked at her with the same warmth he always did, and images of him, still sleep-faced and bed-haired in the morning, had her itching to reach out for his hand. She'd resisted the urge. She'd nodded. Spencer had started the car and that was that.
Only it wasn't, or else why was she here and why couldn't she get shit-faced and make herself get past this odd funk? Those words stuck to her skin like an uncomfortable, scratchy suit.
"Thought I might find you here."
Emily smiled despite herself; he did that too, made her smile at the strangest times, when joy was the last thing on her mind. She watched Dave get into the stool next to her, shrugging his jacket and draping it over the back of his seat before signalling the bartender.
"A scotch, neat, please," he said, then turned to her. "Are you going to tell me?"
"Tell you?" Emily tried to play coy; she could always attempt an escape, a diversion. She could, but she didn't really feel like it. Especially as Dave raised an eyebrow at her, obviously unimpressed by her acting skills, and then gently pushed some of her hair behind her ear.
"You don't fool me, Emily Prentiss," he whispered, exasperated yet fond, and again, what a mix. From anyone else she would feel patronised. The same words and gestures from anyone other than this grotesque, loving, passionate ass of a man would get her hackles raised. Instead, she sighed, and he squinted at her. "Come on, out with it."
"What are we doing, Dave?" She asked, unsure what route to take this. They had carefully avoided this conversation thus far. Stayed up late chatting about any and everything but that, had sex that they never would call making love, yet looked and felt a lot like it, kissed, like they would find all the answers if only they pressed closer. "That woman," she added when he looked confused, and maybe even worried. "What she said to me…"
"She was a serial killer's groupie, Emily—"
"I know. I know, it's just…"
"Just what?" He sat sideways in his seat, and caught her hand, kept her from ruining her cuticles any further.
"She was wrong?" She said it like it was a question, her tone rising more out of nerves than anything — her heart in her throat, she waited.
"Of course she was wrong. I mean, you're a grown woman; you've been in love at some point in your life. Anyone not wacky-into serial murderers could tell you that." He smiled still, like he was amused, and Emily laughed a little hysterically — he'd misunderstood her.
"Dave," she shook her head, "You're not hearing me."
"I'm not?" Still, he looked confused, and by God, it was true, men were too dumb to read between the lines, or right through them apparently. He watched her as she laughed, like he wanted in on the joke, and she felt like punching him but she also needed to take this off her chest, stop making a secret of something so obvious.
"God," she sighed again, rubbing her face with her free hand.
"Oh, we're calling him so soon?"
"Shush," she said, and then sat the same way he did, so their knees fit together, nested. She turned her hand in his and squeezed, then leaned closer, watching his expression morph as he slowly caught on. She kissed him, the way she did when she wanted to cut some of his most rambly ventings off, when she needed his attention and he just wasn't giving it, when she wanted his focus on her and her only. Then she drew back; her face felt warm. She brushed her nose against his and repeated herself, "She was wrong."
That she hid her face in his neck next might be a little pathetic, but this she hadn't felt this naked in a long time, hadn't made herself this vulnerable to another person in decades. A large hand cradling the back of her head was exactly what she needed to start relaxing again though. That, and the gentle way he kissed her temple.
"Can I see your face again?" He whispered, and he sounded just that side of choked-up that let Emily feel it was safe enough to straighten up. His thumbs brushed just under her eyes, then moved to the line of her nose, until he traced her lips with one of them and let his other hand drop back in his lap. He opened his mouth, but kissed her again rather than talk. "Let's get out of here, get some air."
They did get some air. They walked down the street, and the next, and when Emily indicated her car was the other way around, they walked back. Dave grabbed her hand but he didn't talk. She didn't either, unsure if this was the moment where she was meant to freak out he hadn't said it back, so to speak, or if she could afford to stay calm a while longer.
Turns out, it would have been too bad if she'd missed the next of Dave's moves — why did he always have such good ones — where he pushed her back against her car, and his hand warmed the side of her neck as he once again claimed her mouth, slotting their legs together.
"You are the most exasperating, anxious, nerdy, sweet woman I have ever met, Emily," he fired while she caught her breath. "And it turns out, I am quite fond of all of that."
"Quite fond?" She asked, and wondered if this was it, the moment where she punched him.
"I love you, too."
There was no punching. Instead Emily let out an embarrassing little squeak, and her face flamed up again. She was nodding, over and over and she couldn't stop it anymore than she could stop the way her heart jumped and her stomach flipped. It was ridiculous.
Dave grinned at her "I have for a minute now."
"Oh yeah?" Emily asked, unsure if she wanted to know exactly, or if she needed something to hold on. An attitude perhaps; he shook his head though. Never fooled.
"Come on, let's get home," he brushed his fingers down her arm. "Maybe we can even find a Barry Manilow concert on the… the tube thing."
That made her laugh, pulled her off the brink. "It's called Youtube, and careful what you wish for. Might not be a concert but I'm sure I could find whole albums on there."
"Lord, help me," Dave laughed. He stole another kiss then went around the car, letting her drive her own car for once. It made Emily's lips tug into yet another ghost of a smile. She slid into the driver's seat and try as she might, keeping her eyes on the road was tougher than she'd thought.
"Where is home?" She asked, as though that wasn't a loaded question.
"It's wherever you want, Em."