A/N Thanks for the alerts, guys!

For disclaimer see chapter one

The first thing Emma said, once they had sat down, was not intended to hurt him. In fact, it was just a friendly observation, one that she could have no idea would prod so perfectly at the wound he had been obsessively protecting for all the years that they were apart.

She said, "It's been too long, David."

"It sure has," he nodded, his fist clenching under the table, "What are you doing in Manhattan?"

She didn't answer him immediately, choosing instead to take a sip of wine and use the pause to try and work out why he'd been so abrupt in changing the subject. David didn't like crap, that much she knew, and it occurred to her that in his drunken state with heightened emotion, he may simply have a problem with the sentimentality of her statement. She didn't see the fist clench or notice the set of the jaw. She wasn't looking for them.

"I'm here on a case," she shrugged, "Murder charge that got all the way to the High Court. The defence thinks they can nail me to the wall but I've got a plan. I'm going to take the bastard down."

She was half joking of course, the tell – tale glow of amusement in her eyes testament to that, but there was still a certain fire to her words that betrayed the mind-set of someone who truly loved their career. David gazed at her as she spoke, amazed that in all the years since he had seen her, she didn't seem to have lost any of the youthful passion she first had for her job. She'd always known what she wanted to do, even when they were barely teenagers, and she'd made it happen through hard earned scholarships to colleges that she most certainly couldn't afford to pay for.

"I don't doubt that for a minute, Em," he said, returning her smile as best he could, eying her slender fingers play contentedly over the stem of her wine glass. Her warmth left damp fingerprints in the condensation on the glass, and David was suddenly very thirsty. He excused himself and lurched to the bar, the order for a scotch on his lips before he had even taken the last step. The bar tender, an old man with warm, chocolate brown eyes, didn't move immediately and David thought he hadn't heard him.

"Same again, please."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, son."

"I beg your pardon?" Dave stared at him as he leaned in closer as though to not be heard.

"I said I don't think that's a good idea."

"What would you know?" Dave snapped, the alcohol that had been lying dormant now singing in his veins, "Get me a scotch."

"No. You've had enough."

"I'll say when I've had enough," he said, leaning heavily on the bar in what he hoped was a vaguely menacing pose. The bar tender didn't look uncomfortable under his stare; rather he returned it and then some, his arms crossed in defiance. They stood for a while like that, until something in Dave's resolve gave up and he sat heavily on one of the stools before the world span too much for him to be able to stay on his feet.

"I need a drink," he whispered.

"You can have water, juice, even a coffee if you want," the man said, gesturing to the mugs on the shelf behind him, "But I'm saying that you don't need any more of this stuff in you. That woman of yours is having much the same effect, as far as I can tell."

Dave flushed so red that it was almost purple, his eyes staying on the bar as he whispered, "Coffee please. And she's not my woman."

"Well, whatever she is," the bar tender shrugged, a coffee on the bar almost before Dave noticed him moving, "You got it bad, boy. And trust me, you don't need anything to be clouding your judgement."

Without another word, Dave handed over some money and nodded once to the man. He could feel the old man's eyes on his back the whole way back to the table, taking his time so as not to stumble and spill the precious nectar from the mug in his trembling hand. Emma was waiting patiently, sipping her wine and examining the artwork on the wall above her head. Her eyes fell on his coffee mug, clutched tightly in his hands and she nodded.

"You read my mind, David."

"Em?"

"I was going to suggest that you give up on the scotch for the evening. How much have you had?"

"Three," he lied, looking her straight in the eye. She didn't have to say anything, just kept looking at him until he buckled and corrected himself, "Six."

"Hard case?" she asked sympathetically, reaching out to take his hand across the table. It was warm, almost to the point of hot, and she assumed that he had been holding the boiling coffee too tightly. He looked down at their joined hands for a moment before he spoke.

"When is it ever not hard?"

"Touché. But that doesn't stop it being rather sad that you're getting pissed all alone in a hotel bar."

"I'm not alone anymore," he pointed out, having trouble getting beyond the fact that she was still holding his hand, "You're here."

"And you lay off the drink," she laughed, "I'm glad to see you're still as contrary as you always were."

"That's just a nice way of saying I'm a difficult bastard," Dave said, surprising himself with the ease that he slipped back into their old banter, "Which is what all three of the exes put down as one of the many reasons for getting the hell out of my life."

Emma's easy expression faltered at his words and, as she took her hand away on the pretence of having a sip of her wine, Dave immediately felt guilty. That wasn't part of their routine. He'd deviated from the script too early on and now he was going to suffer for it. Not that he probably didn't deserve to but that wasn't the point.

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, David."

"It's true," he shrugged.

"I know but-" she paused, searching for the right words, "I just don't like it, that's all."

"I'm sorry, Em," he said sincerely, "I'll knock it off. So how have you been? Really?"

As she spoke, he watched her carefully, trying to absorb fifteen years of dormant friendship in just a few minutes. She was aging much better than him, he noted wryly; apart from some grey hairs and shallow wrinkles, she looked much the same as the last time he had seen her. Her delicate face, framed by the fussy lace of a wedding veil, was one thing that he didn't think he'd ever forget. He'd imagined, privately of course, what Emma might look like in a wedding dress, walking demurely up the aisle towards him and their old pal Jimmy who would of course be asked to marry them. Jimmy would pat him on the shoulder and whisper something comforting as Emma smiled at them, kissing her father on the cheek and taking her place besides them. He'd stumble through the ceremony, not giving himself enough credit to hold himself together in the face of her beauty and the weight of the moment itself, and then Jimmy would pronounce them man and wife, and he'd take a deep breath and lean in and then…

But that's where the fantasy stopped, because he'd never kissed her and he didn't think that he could ever imagine something like that. It didn't matter, not when he could comfort himself that one day, someday, he would be allowed to find out. Despite what she said, it had never occurred to him that maybe he wouldn't get to call her his. That maybe that wedding scene wouldn't belong to him. That maybe she was right. That maybe-

"David, are you listening?" Emma's voice, warm despite her words, cut through his alcohol and history addled brain and he nodded quickly.

"Of course."

"What was the last thing I said?"

He stared at her for a moment, noting the upward twitch of her lips, and deciding he was safe to admit the truth.

"I don't know, Em. I'm sorry."

"That's OK," she said, her voice half amused, half concerned, "Are you alright, David?"

"Yes. It's just a – I never expected to see you here. It's thrown me, that's all."

"I understand. You're a bit of a shock yourself, you know. After the last time, I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

He looked up sharply from his coffee, the wistful edge to her voice catching his attention. It wasn't a tone he was used to in her and it wasn't one he took lightly.

"I'm sorry, Em. I shouldn't have been there."

"The only reason I didn't invite you was because I didn't want to hurt you," she murmured, "Why did you have to make it so difficult for…" She paused, deliberately avoiding the word 'us', "Yourself?"

"I needed to see you, Em. One more time."

"You could have come before the wedding day," she said helplessly, reaching out and taking his hand again. It was still hot, and she realised it wasn't the coffee having an effect on him before. His pulse thumped rapidly in the wrist that the very tips of her fingers danced over and she blushed slightly.

Oh God.

Still?

"It was a last minute thing, Em, and I'm sorry," he whispered, leaning in closer and trying to get her to look at him again, "Please forgive me."

"I was never mad at you, David," she lifted her eyes to his, the slightest sheen of moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes, "I missed you, you know. Fifteen years and not a word."

"I'm sorry," he said again, knowing he sounded like a broken – and very insincere – record, but having nothing more he could think of to say, "You didn't deserve that. It wasn't your fault."

"You'd married Julie," Emma said helplessly, grabbing his other hand so she had him trapped, "And I loved Boyd and I knew he loved me. It made sense. But then you-"

Her voice was steadily rising, and David pulled a hand free to place a finger gently over her lips. It was a gesture so tender, so reminiscent of their childhood, that one of the tears that had been threatening ran down her cheek and onto his finger. But there was only one, and she wiped away its trail with a steady hand. A moment of weakness, over almost before it started. So like Emma, David thought. Still so like Emma.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Em. You knew we'd end up like we did. It was my fault for not listening. I should have known you were right. You're always right."

"I guess that's why Shakespeare had to kill them," she mused, a far away look on her face.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Romeo and Juliet. He had to kill them because he couldn't handle the what ifs," she smiled weakly, "Coward."

"Oh I don't know," David took a gulp of his coffee for want of anything to take his mind off everything he knew he just hadn't said, "I think he had the right idea. No bloody mess to clear up."

The clock over the bar struck half past one and, with a quick glance around, David realised that they were the only patrons left in the room and that the old bartender was trying very hard to look busy, and uninterested in what the couple at the table in the corner were talking about exactly. He made a snap decision, standing up and pulling Emma to her feet before he could change his mind.

"Come upstairs with me."

David," she blushed, "I can't-"

"Please" he whispered, his arm snaking around her waist, his voice soft in her ear, "Please, Em."