Title: Still Didn't Send It
Note: How Graham and Emma found each other.
Emma liked the bar on 84th.
It was a couple blocks from the 20th precinct, and just close enough to her apartment that it wouldn't be terrible if she had more than a couple drinks. It was frequented by the cops that worked the Upper West Side, so it wasn't terribly upscale as well.
Emma felt comfortable in the bar. Always had.
She had just dropped off the latest stack of paperwork for the bail jumper she had turned in, so she felt deserving of a drink or two. A case finished meant some time to relax, enjoy a paycheck, and do something fun with her son for a few days. Just in time for the weekend. Henry, however, was at Avery's with Matt and Michael doing a school project and then a sleepover, so she didn't have any more responsibilities for the night.
She sighed as she eased up to the bar. She rubbed the back of her neck and let her coat fall. She smiled up at Andie, and then switched her phone to silent. She could drink in peace. She turned a coaster over in her hands absently as she considered if it was simply a beer night, or full-on whiskey night.
Suddenly, a frothy pink drink was pushed in front of her. She looked up, catching Andie's twinkling eye. "I did not order this," she said bluntly at the bartender.
Andie grinned and flicked back her bobbed black hair, cleaning off a glass. "I'm aware of that. It was purchased by an admirer of yours," she replied, gesturing with her chin to the back tables.
Emma groaned. She peeked over her shoulder discreetly to see who might have sent the drink. She scanned an unfamiliar row of detectives before landing on one that stood out in the crowd. Her heart picked up pace, just a little.
Dammit, she had been trying to avoid that one. She wasn't sure which division he worked, but she had seen him a few times at the precinct. He was handsome; tall and strong but not bulky, dark curly hair and soft blue eyes. She had noticed him, all right. She noticed and cursed every time her stomach fluttered like a teenager with a crush.
She sighed and rose reluctantly, picking up the frilly drink with a grimace. She needed to shut him down now. He was … he was too dangerous. She thought about him too much, even from just little glances.
He was looking down at his glass of amber-colored liquor when she approached. She slid the drink onto the table, and he looked up. His eyes flashed with something, a flare of recognition mixed with surprise and delight. Her features set.
"Nice gesture. But I don't take drinks from strange men and I wouldn't be drinking this, even if I did. So thank you, but no thank you," she said, trying to keep her voice firm even as something in the pit of her stomach warmed and quivered as their eyes caught and held.
He looked down at the drink and then back to her. "I didn't send it," he said. His accent should have been surprising; it wasn't often to catch a cop in the 20th with an accent of any kind, let alone one that rich and lilting. Confusingly, she found that she had excepted that tone from his words, had anticipated the way his voice would sound even before he had opened his mouth.
She reasoned that she must've heard him around the station.
Finally, she shook her head to clear it, focusing on his words. She raised a brow. "You didn't," she asked skeptically.
He smiled, slowly. "No. I don't usually send drinks to women that don't know me. As for the fruity thing here? Nah, I'd take you more for a Jameson girl, myself." Even as he joked, there was something serious behind his features, like she could see his brain trying to discern something.
"I sent it," a voice came, two tables down. A sheepish grin set across the face of the beat cop she'd been avoiding all autumn long.
"No, Pickett," she grumbled, bringing the glass to his table. "You drink it."
She turned on her heel, feeling herself redden. She felt more than a little stupid, and frustrated as well. She bit down on her lip, looking away. She crossed her arms in front of her and approached his table again. "Well, this is embarrassing then."
He shook his head, his face splitting into a dimpled grin. "No, it's fine." He hesitated before leaning forward. "I've been meaning – well, rather, I've seen you at the precinct. And you just …," he looked off, his brow furrowing for a moment. "Have we met before? Somewhere not in New York?"
She was about to drop something about cheesy lines, before the pull inside her seized up. She swallowed. "I don't … think so? I think I'd remember but maybe … you are familiar," she said, stumbling over her words a bit.
He gestured to the seat opposite him and she took it. She studied him a moment, over the curves and lines of his face, startling over the familiarity again. It was even more prominent close up. "I've traveled a bit," she admitted slowly. "I don't know where I'd start."
He frowned. "I transferred from Maine. That's the only place I've really been, other than here. Up near Bangor. I grew up near the coast, though. All through that area."
She looked away sharply. "I was …" found "… born in Maine. Lived there until I was sixteen." It had been foster care, all over that area, where she had bounced from home to home until a particularly bad one. She had gained a couple scars, and then she ran.
He was looking at her with a strange sort of knowledge. He nodded. "Maybe there, then. I didn't stay in a home more than a couple months at a time, though. That could be why we don't remember."
Her eyes widened. That's where the knowledge came from. "Oh," she said simply. She looked down at his drink. "I think I need one of those," she said numbly.
He nodded, gesturing to Andie. He turned back with a small smile. "I'm Graham, by the way."
She reached over and took his glass. She took a long sip from it. "Emma. Nice to see you again."