A/N: (winces) ALSO: This is not exactly in chronological order. Still AU. I don't own anybody or anything. If I did, the chain of events would have come out quite differently.
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They had stopped asking why when she'd opened the door. Rachel Brooks was a threatening woman and he'd almost turned tail and run when he heard her coming down the hall - "What in FUCK'S name are you doing, son?"
And then her front door'd swung open and he shoved his freckled hands down in her pockets.
"Deeexter Price." She drawled it.
"You been practicin' that accent?"
She snorted. "Why are you….never mind." She turned sideways and allowed him through the door.
It was all crisp inside. Dark cherry finish and cream colored carpet and nothing at all that made him welcome. He stood frozen in the foyer hands still dug in his pockets.
She had padded into the kitchen, looking back over her shoulder. "Come on," she said.
"Maybe I should, uh…." She popped the fridge open, waved a Heineken bottle at him. When he still didn't move, she crossed the tile and offered it.
"This is a mistake," he remembered saying very clearly, but he guessed Rachel didn't year him because she pulled his hand out of his pocket and wrapped it around the beer. "Come on," she repeated.
His mouth was so dry it felt like sand paper. She took hold of his wrist and tugged, so he followed her into her kitchen. There was something boiling on the stove that smelled about like heaven (if chili could smell like heaven) and he loosened a notch. He smiled up at her from underneath his brow and then stared at his boot tops.
She chuckled, that sarcastic, musical sound he'd heard in the mine, and the notch threatened to tighten again. When he looked back up, she wasn't smiling any more than he was.
"This is hard." She said it a little low, so he leaned forward to hear better.
"They tell me alcohol blurs judgment some," he remarked, opening his beer.
And then she smiled, truly smiled. For the first time she was in enough light he could see it.
A good smile went a long way toward making her take the breath out of his lungs. He almost choked on his beer and she burst out laughing.
And then HE laughed. She dropped another hand in the fridge and fished out her own beer. "To blurred judgment," she said, and raised the bottle.
"Yup. Where can I put this coat?"
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They ended up on the couch watching WVU eat Clemson for supper. Boring enough game they could talk, but still enough noise and interest they didn't feel pushed. The chili was HOT—Rachel laughed when he dug in and then scrambled for his beer to put out the fire.
"I have family in Louisiana that would tell you that's mild," she said and he made some kind of comment about the difference between Kentucky and Louisiana taste buds. Clemson scored just then and he cheered for the underdog.
Eventually the chili bowls ended up on the floor and she had stretched her sock feet out onto the couch. He had whined about getting stuck in the corner and the wrestling that ensued was not serious on either part. His bottle started to tip and he dove onto the floor to catch it and stayed there, his back next to her right knee.
"'Nother beer?" he asked, rocking his head back against the couch cushion. She'd turned on her side and kinda peaked at him over top the arm she'd dropped down across her waist.
"Yes please."
He pushed up off his feet and fetched back two more. He was a long way from that blurry judgment they'd discussed, but the tension was out of his shoulders at least. The game was done by midnight, and neither one of them were sleepy. He thumped back down on the far cushion and Rachel hissed at him good naturedly.
He didn't know whether he wanted an excuse to touch her or not. Lord. If it were Cory Blevins or any other woman he'd already be all over her.
The TV still rattled. "What?" She cocked her head.
"I still don't…"
She did three things in unison at that point; rolled her eyes, rocked up on her knees, and kissed him across the mouth. She pulled back momentarily and they stared at each other. When she moved to kiss him again he met her halfway and hung a long arm around her waist, pulling her down, pulling her close, slowing her down.
They came up for air and he caught her wrist as she reached for his belt. She hissed at him, and it wasn't good natured this time.
"I need some kinda say in this, don't'cha think?" He chuckled at her.
Two can play at that game, and Miz Brooks made a point to. She pushed, he stalled. She pushed harder, he spun her head with a well placed touch and a whisper. And still, a half hour later, STILL they were on the couch. And their clothes were still on. This had not been why she'd called Dexter Price. This had not been what she was expecting at all. But the broad fingers tracing across the small of her back and the snug with which they fit against one another wasn't a bad second at all.
There was a reason. Of course there was a reason.
She reached for his belt again, and he flipped her. She tightened suddenly, made to fight him, and he slammed her wrists down on the arm of the couch.
"Dammit DON'T!"
Right about then the air chilled his bones and he sat up.
"Please don't." He pried the words loose from his voice box.
The furrow in her brow deepened, but she didn't get up from the couch. He would have-hell he most CERTAINLY would have.
"Dexter, what…"
He looked down at his freckled hands. "I don't…I don't know. It just seems too soon."
Rachel gritted her teeth and shoved off of the couch. "You don't get it, do you?"
"The time thing?"
"It's NEVER too soon. Because the only thing that's coming too soon is the end!"
Sometimes you couldn't tell when he was half-amused by something because his mouth was pulled too far across his jaws. But he was, and he looked up from under his brows at her again.
"See that's the beauty of it."
She was upright, like a pillar of fury and frustration. "Beauty of WHAT?"
He motioned between them. "Keepin' secrets. They'll buy us some time."
She shook her head at him, thumped back down on the far cushion. "You aren't supposed to be a philosopher."
"You ain't supposed to be into gents from the Aryan Brotherhood."