Title- Coffee, Confessions, and Ayn Rand
Author- Victoria
Rating- PG
Summary- Peter and Emma have a conversation about books and friendship, and Peter gets the opportunity to ask a question he's been meaning to for a long time. Pemma!
A/N- I was thinking about what it is that makes a really great relationship, and the fact is that even if everything else lines up perfectly, if you can't have a decent conversation with your significant other, it's not going to work. Hence this. I will admit, I have borrowed a few thoughts from the Literati fics in the Gilmore Girls fandom (which, by the way, is another EXCELLENT Milo-related ship). Particularly the stuff regarding The Fountainhead. But I've had that book on my mind a lot lately, what can I say?
Peter glanced casually through the window of the Golden Bean as he walked past; suddenly he stopped, turned around, and walked back to the window to look through it again. He grinned. Yes, it was her alright. Emma was sitting at a small table in the back of the coffee shop, her blonde hair glimmering in the warm March sunlight that streamed through the very window Peter was now standing in front of. A steaming mug was sitting forgotten next to her as she focused intently on the book in front of her.
Still smiling broadly, he walked into the store and ordered a cup of coffee, then approached the table where she sat. She didn't look up as he sat down opposite her, still absorbed in her novel.
He touched her hand softly and she jumped, startled. When she saw who it was, Emma smiled. "Hi," she said.
"Hey," he replied, signing clumsily as he spoke. "How have you been?"
"I've been... overworked. I'd forgotten how long resident hours can be. And when did you learn to sign?"
Peter shrugged. "I started learning back in December. It seemed rude to leave the communication up to you."
Emma smiled. "Thank you."
He nodded, then glanced at the open book sitting in front of her. "What are you reading?" She picked up the book and showed him the cover. It was The Fountainhead. "Wow," he said. "Ayn Rand. Heavy stuff."
"Have you ever read it?" Emma asked.
"Yeah, back in high school."
"Did you ever throw it at the wall in frustration?"
Peter laughed. "Multiple times."
"Toohey?"
"Peter Keating. He reminded me a little too vividly of myself."
Emma raised an eyebrow. "Not just because of the name?"
"No, there were other things, as well."
"Like what?" she asked incredulously. "You're the last person I'd think of when I think of Keating! You're definitely more like--" She broke off, then shrugged. "Actually, there really isn't anyone like you. Ayn Rand probably wouldn't believe that someone like you could even exist."
"Like me?"
She shrugged. "Altruistic. Empathic. The closest you can come to that in The Fountainhead is Catherine. But even then, it's not a perfect fit."
"I guess Rand was just a pessimist," Peter said, shrugging. "Brilliant, but a pessimist. Or possibly just insane."
"There's a fine line between genius and madness," Emma said, keeping a carefully straight face. "Still, I guess it doesn't matter, because I keep coming back to read her books. I've read Atlas Shrugged three times, and I'm not actually sure how many times I've read The Fountainhead anymore. How does she do it? It's about the most boring profession known to man, but every time, I still manage to get emotionally involved. In architecture!"
Peter laughed. "Maybe she was one of us?"
Suddenly, Emma looked thoughtful. "Maybe," she said slowly, considering. Then she shrugged.
He took a sip of his coffee, then signed, So you like to read? She nodded. Speaking and signing simultaneously once more, Peter said, "I used to go into my dad's office and steal his books. When he finally figured out that it was me and not Nathan taking them, he made me read The Art of War."
"Charming." She made a face.
Peter shrugged. "That was Dad. If I couldn't be the tough son, I was sure as hell gonna be the smart son. I haven't lost a game of chess since."
"Useful," she said. "Though there isn't much call for chess skills in the life of a paramedic."
"No, but some knowledge of strategy has been helpful in... other areas of my life."
Emma nodded. "The world-saving thing."
"Yep," Peter said. There was a brief, uncomfortable lull in the conversation, before he forced himself to change the subject. "So, I haven't seen much of you lately. Have they been giving you really weird hours?"
"Very. New girl gets the worst shifts," she joked. "They've got me up in oncology right now."
Peter grimaced. "Ah. That's always fun."
Emma shrugged. "It's alright. Depressing, but it's alright. And next month they're sending me down to the ER, so maybe we'll at least see each other occasionally."
"That's good," he said. "I've missed having you around."
He turned a little pink as he said it, and tried to disguise it by taking a large gulp of his coffee. Emma, though, was smiling. "Thanks," she said. "I've missed seeing you, too. It's... nice... to have a friend. I don't have many. Or really any at all." And suddenly it was her turn to look uncomfortable, as she realized that she'd said much more than she intended to when she began speaking.
"That makes two of us," Peter assured her. "There's Hesam, I guess, and a couple of people like Hiro that seem to keep coming back into my life every time somebody's plotting to blow up the city or release a deadly virus or... or whatever. But I don't think you can count them as friends. You're different." And once again, Peter was regretting opening his mouth. Emma seemed to have this effect on him; every time he talked to her, he found himself spilling out his innermost thoughts. He'd always been a very open person, but there was honesty and then there was this, whatever it was.
Emma nodded, a little uncomfortably. "You're... different too," she said. "Do you know that in six years of filing, you were the first person to realize that my headphones weren't plugged in?"
Peter grinned, remembering that encounter. "Yeah, but I also managed to make an ass out of myself that entire conversation."
"I think you mean monologue: I wasn't talking back."
She laughed, and he joined her. At times like these, it was hard to believe that they had really only been friends since October, that every day before that they had just passed each other by without a word. There was just something easy and comfortable about being in Emma's presence. No matter what hell life had decided to put him through that day, being with her somehow just made it all go away.
Before he could think it through, Peter found himself blurting out, "Emma, would you like to have dinner with me sometime?"
Her dark hazel eyes widened. "Uh, yes," she said, sounding completely taken aback.
"Great," he said. He was trying to ignore the fact that his stomach had bottomed out from delayed nerves. "I know a place on Oliver Street. How do you feel about Chinese?"
"Anyone who doesn't love it was dropped on their head as a child," she responded with a smile.
"Okay," Peter said. "Is Thursday good?"
"Thursday's great."
"Alright. Excellent."
Silence descended around their corner of the coffee shop, and for several seconds neither of them could find a way to break it. Finally, Peter said, "Please tell me I'm not the only one suddenly feeling incredibly awkward."
Emma laughed nervously. "No, it's not just you."
Peter gave a self-effacing smile. "Maybe I should've waited to ask you out until I finished my coffee." He held up the offending mug.
"Probably, but it's alright. We ought to be able to have a conversation despite the awkwardness."
"We should," he agreed. "So... Ayn Rand, huh?"
She nodded. "Ayn Rand. When I was fifteen, she was my hero. She didn't write many books, but every one was something radical and important. Everything she said was meaningful."
"Make every word count," Peter said, smiling.
--
Anyone passing the pair sitting at the back of the coffee shop would have assumed they were a couple. There was a look on the man's face as he watched the blonde across from him, a kind of tenderness in his eyes that was hard to properly define. And as for the woman, she had a happy smile planted indelibly on her face. For another twenty minutes they sat there, chatting about inconsequential things and both of them grinning like idiots. Then the man stood up and walked out of the coffee shop, still looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
The woman stood up and slipped her book into her purse. She glanced fondly around the coffee shop. This just might be her favorite place in the world right now...