A/N: Wow! Major hollers from peeps about this story! All right, all right. Ya bunch of hopeless romantics. Tango is now officially an AU series. I've fashioned the CBI Academy off the FBI Academy. I imagine they'd be similar.

Exceptional

Grace sat at her desk in Forensics and didn't hear a word the instructor said. She stared at the stark white page in front of her, completely devoid of notes, and concentrated on the other piece of paper currently burning a hole in her pocket. She didn't want to risk putting it in her purse and losing it to the Purse Monster that so often stole keys and lipsticks. This paper was special. It had to be kept safe.

He'd pulled his arms away from her long enough to write on a scrap she'd handed to him. His number. His address. And 7:30pm. He'd pressed it into her palm as he trapped her hands behind her back, holding her helpless as he kept kissing her, despite their mutual agreement that they should part.

"I need to go," she murmured against his lips, pulling half-heartedly at his hold.

"Me too." He tightened his grasp. "I have a meeting."

His free hand cupped her cheek and he deepened their kiss.

Quickly losing her reasoning power, Grace bumped him purposefully with her hips, half-trying to dislodge him, but only creating more pressure and sensation as their clothing dragged against their skin.

"Oh, Jesus," he moaned hotly against her. "I really need to let you go."

"You do." She arched and mewled softly. "We can't keep doing this."

"I know," he whispered, peppering kisses down her throat. "I never would, ordinarily, Grace. I'd never presume like this, but—,"

"I know," she interrupted, nuzzling the side of his face. "Me neither. But you're just…this is just…"

"Different," he supplied, flicking his tongue over her pulse point. "An exception."

"Exactly," she said. "An exceptional exception." She shivered at the implication.

Feeling her shivers, Rigsby finally pulled away. He was breathing heavily, his eyes big as quarters. He purposefully set her away from him. He took her hand that held his address and pulled it to his lips, kissing it hungrily. "I'm happy to take you out. Anywhere. We don't have to rush." Rigsby wanted her in his home more than he wanted oxygen, but he needed to make it clear that he was happy to court her at the same slow pace he would any new girlfriend. He never moved quickly, and he tended to avoid fast women. And while this woman made him want to…God, he didn't even want to think of the things he wanted to do to her…he was still more than willing to take it slow, if that was her wish.

Grace instinctively knew all of this. The simple way he carried himself told her that he was a gentleman. He was careful. He didn't go in for casual and was more often pursued by women instead of him pursuing them. His handsome face convinced her of the first, and his downturned, self-conscious eyes convinced her of the second.

All of it made her answer so easy.

"It's not rushing with you." Again, her brain wasn't 100% sure what that meant.

The blue in his eyes lit up and he kissed her hand harder. "Then don't lose this." He pressed her fist delicately.

Now, sitting in class twenty-eight minutes later, Grace could feel the heat of that tiny scrap burning against her thigh. She couldn't resist. She took it out of her pocket, using her index finger to flatten its crinkly texture against her notepad.

Black ink. Blocky, masculine writing. Scant information.

Her body pulsed with desire.

Oh, God, how was this possible? Less than two hours ago, she'd been going about her quiet, little life. She'd sat through her morning courses, studious as ever. She'd gone to her self-defense course and robotically fought against other mindless drones, not talking, not even looking them in the eye, until one of them said his name.

Now, a mere ninety-seven minutes later, she was no longer a quiet, studious little robot.

She was a lovesick mess.

But no. She stared in confusion at the scrap. She couldn't be lovesick. Lovesick had the word 'love' in it, which was ridiculous. She couldn't possibly be in love.

WAYNE

The blocky letters above his number. Single syllable. Long 'A'. Five letters.

Just like hers.

She exhaled softly as the until-now random name adhered itself to her memory of him. His face, his hands, his incredible taste, his soft yet scratchy voice.

Meeting someone new wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to feel nervous. They were supposed to go out for several meals, maybe a movie, over the space of a few weeks. After a few dates, he was supposed to try and kiss her. She was supposed to let him, for a little while. She'd hope for a spark. She'd pull away when he became too enthusiastic. Over a few months, they'd slowly expose themselves to one another. Memories. Opinions. Skin.

There was a procedure. That was the point.

So why had she just kissed Wayne like she'd never kissed anyone in her life? After no time? After thirty steps towards a coffee kiosk? And for almost a half and hour? She should have no knowledge of how firm his hands felt on her. Nor should she know how head-spinning his deep, tonguing kisses were. Her neck shouldn't be covered in his lip prints. Nor should his with hers.

What the hell had happened between the two of them?

Looking at the scrap, two answers surfaced. She didn't know. And? She didn't care.

She knew him. That fact—however bizarre and technically inaccurate—was enough.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rigsby sat in his professor's office as the man praised his decision to go into Arson. He leaned over his desk, smiling widely and insisting that Rigsby had made an excellent choice. That Rigsby had a knack, and a man should always follow his knacks. And forensics was a budding field. A young man entering the game at this point was going to see some fantastic advances, both in detective procedure and lab capabilities. Well chosen. Truly well chosen.

At least, Rigsby was pretty sure that's what the man was saying. He couldn't swear to it. And the reason had nothing to do with arson and everything to do with spontaneous combustion and devil-red accelerant.

Rigsby was lost in a fire.

Right that very moment, a woman was sitting in a classroom across campus. He knew without guessing that she was an excellent student. She took immaculate notes. Her handwriting was neat and even. She listened carefully. She kept her well-considered opinions to herself, most of the time. She shied away from attention, unless it was recognition for her abilities. She wanted no other kind. She seldom dated. She smiled occasionally.

She had burned him alive without trying.

He'd seen her several times around campus. She was hard to miss. When he did see her, she was almost always alone. Walking to class alone. Reading a book under a tree alone. Eating lunch on a bench, still buried in reading and alone.

He fell madly, stupidly, totally in love.

He'd seriously questioned his sanity until today. He couldn't possibly love a woman he didn't even know. All he knew was her name, and he'd found out through the rather stalker-ish method of weaseling a class roster from a buddy from the Forensics admin. There was only one name that repeated in the same classes he knew the redhead took.

Hence, the redhead was Grace Van Pelt.

He had a name. That was all. And yet…he knew her.

So, he had volunteered to play an attacker in her defense course. The coach had been pleased at this; He needed big guys and Rigsby was one of the scarier bulls at the rodeo. His participation would teach the first years a thing or two about fearing their opponent. So he donned the padding and attacked the newbies. He had swallowed his worry about throwing her to the floor, then asking her out. He had been impressed by her lack of shyness when it came to fighting him. She'd blown him out of the water when she beat him when no one else had. And then—most of all—she'd squeezed his heart when she kicked his legs out from under him and smiled at his defeat.

He was completely floored, and in more ways than one.

She'd asked him to coffee. She'd touched him. And then she asked if he would allow her to kiss him.

It was perfectly clear. She knew.

The professor in front him talked on mute as Rigsby relived the moment he put his hands on Grace. It had instantly made him a little crazy. Then he put his mouth on her. And that had rocketed him far beyond crazy and just shy of delirious. Suddenly the crowded campus had dropped away and nothing existed but her soft, pliant body and her softer, insanely perfect lips. He lost all concept of time and just plummeted into her taste and texture. She was dazzling. She was soul-stealing. And she was his.

A stupid, chauvinist thing to think, but it was true. Before their kiss, he was positive his desire was one-sided. After, he couldn't call them anything but fated for each other. She told him as much in the openness of her normally-reserved body and the breathless sighs from her normally-circumspect lips.

He had offered her the city and anything in it that she wanted for their first date. The only part of the city she'd wanted was his apartment. He was extremely proud that he hadn't blacked out from exhilaration and fallen at her feet in a dead faint.

Now, he was once again trying desperately not to think about all those things he wanted to do to Grace Van Pelt once she was in his home. He wanted to stare at her for hours on end. He wanted to explore every inch of her with his tongue. He wanted to burn all of her clothes and devour the sight of her naked body every second of the day. He wanted to watch her sleep. He wanted to rest his head against her chest and learn the rhythm of her heartbeat. He wanted her to wrap herself around him and beg him to make love to her again and again. He wanted…oh, Christ he needed to stop thinking about what he wanted.

"Wayne?" someone far away was calling. "Wayne?"

His gaze snapped up. "Yessir?"

"Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?" the older man asked kindly.

Rigsby shook his head. "Not today, thank you. I'll schedule another meeting with you closer to the end of term?"

"That's fine. I'll see you in class."

He was dismissed. "Thanks for the pep talk." He smiled gratefully and walked out.

He had nothing to do for the next three hours except plan dinner and try to keep his fantasies in check. Grace would be on his doorstep at 7:30. He had to clean his place up. He had to cook. He had to pick up something for them to drink. Was she a wine girl? If so, red or white? Or did she prefer beer? He smiled at the thought.

In the end, he picked up a little bit of each along with some juice, in case she didn't drink at all. He dove into his humble apartment and began a frenzied cleanup. Dishes thrown in the dishwasher. Dirty clothes rounded up and tossed in the hamper. Papers and books shuffled neatly and packed into their original spots. And on his freshly cleaned dining table, he set a bouquet of a dozen white calla lilies.

The mysterious part of him that recognized Grace had whispered to him in the flower shop. Avoid roses. They're not her favorite. She appreciates the deceptively simple. And while she dislikes clichés, she secretly thrills at romantic gestures.

Grace Van Pelt from Muscatine, Iowa liked calla lilies.

Even at gunpoint, Wayne Rigsby would have no idea how he knew that.

He was about to pay for them when he noticed an odd, but pretty clutch of flowers near the register.

"What are those?" he pointed them out to the florist.

"Ah," said the lady, smiling. "Those are Bells of Ireland. Just got them in today."

He fingered the tiny drops as they hung gracefully from the stems. "They're green. I've never seen a green flower before," Rigsby mused out loud.

"Unusual, aren't they?" she agreed.

Rigsby held out his larger bouquet of lilies. "Can you add some of them to these?"

She nodded graciously and took the bundle. "You must have a girl who has a taste for the unusual, then." She carefully inlaid the green bells with the white lilies.

Rigsby grinned. "You know what? I do. And she does."

Now the flowers waited expectantly on his table as he started cooking in the kitchen. He continued to listen to the mystery voice, which told him to make ratatouille and salad. Filling, but good for you. Grace enjoyed being healthy, but preferred big flavors and—occasionally—indulgences. Hence, he'd also picked up chocolate ice cream.

More gunpoint about how he knew these things. More cluelessness.

He whipped up their meal with laidback confidence, as if he'd been cooking for her for years. It was nearly ready when the doorbell rang and nearly made him jump out of his skin.

It was 7:30 already?

His heart hammered crazily in his chest as he walked into his living room and opened the door.

It stopped beating when he saw the woman on the other side of it.