watching_you | OOM: Suite 130

His eyes draw down to slits as he regards her. The thumb thing, really. Shouldn't being working as well as it is, he thinks. A languid smile ghosts over his lips.

Comfortable in his own space, he moves back into the kitchen.

"And it would give you time to ask impertinent questions. Beer?"

"I object. My questions are entirely pertinent."

She wanders over, leans her hip against the counter.

Skeptical, "You're going to start drinking again?"

Mills takes off his jacket, draping it over a kitchen chair, and slips his holster off, dropping it on the table.

"Good point," he mutters. He looks back into the fridge, frowning. "I guess you need your wits about you. For the interrogation."

"I have diet soda, on the off chance that Kim ever stops by. I have bottled water." Looking back up at her again.

"Water would be great, actually."

She marvels at the fact that he removed his gun without her even mentioning it. Interesting.

"Do you see your daughter often? Oh, that's --" She puts her hand over her mouth, looking sheepish. "Interrogating. Sorry."

He chuckles, reaching in the fridge and getting a bottle of water for her. "I'll let you know when you're out of bounds, all right? I see her as often as I can, actually. She's seventeen, so that's not as often as I'd like."

He leans on the bar, looking at her for a moment, and then shifts away, circling around the end of the counter. "Can I hang your coat up for you?"

"Mm, thank you, yes." She shrugs out of the red trenchcoat and hands it over, then leans back against the counter.

Seventeen seems young -- he must have become a father relatively late in life. She would have expected his daughter to be...

Well, to be a little closer to her own age. Um.

Veronica shoves that awkward train of thought right off the rails.

"What's she like?" she asks, uncapping the water.

Mills hangs her coat in the front closet and returns to the kitchen, all business. Cutting board, colander, greens into the sink for a rinse, some ingredients out of the pantry, olive oil, balsamic vinegar.

And her question brings him up short.

He leans on the counter, his expression pained. "I -- don't really know. I missed most of her childhood, and I've been playing catch up."

Veronica winces.

"Wow. From zero to foot in mouth in two questions flat."

She crosses the space, hesitant, and presses a hand on his back between his shoulderblades.

"I'm sorry. For asking. And for..."

She doesn't say it. She doesn't need to.

"It's all right," he turns his head, his body leaning towards her touch.

He gives her a little half-smile, looking into her face.

"What's done is done. The only way forward is through."

She mirrors his expression. Then, without moving away, she peers around him at the food.

"So. How can I help?"

Mills stands and turns, his hand resting briefly on her hip as he points. "Why don't you set the table? It's the perfect excuse for you to go through the cabinets and drawers."

"Sure. Which drawer holds your credit card statements and complete medical history? I mean forks."

She tries a couple, eventually saying, "Never mind. Found them."

The silver is downright utilitarian, probably purchased at a restaurant supply or a thrift store, judging by the mismatches. He does have a drawer with cloth napkins though, faded and worn as they are.

"You think I keep my records here?" He gives her a little smirk, retrieving a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall. He gives it a little twirl before attacking the cheese. "I've already gotten too comfortable here as it is."

As she clears the table, she can see the mailing address is for a post box.

The mail's not exactly thrilling, either, mostly junk, or misdirected notes intended for someone else. There is one package from the zoo, which makes her smile.

As she clears space, "You're used to moving around a lot, I gather?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

He takes a couple of plates down from the cabinet and begins arranging the mozzarella and tomatoes on the plate. She might recognise a caprese salad taking shape.

"Isn't it the same way for you? Always on assignment?"

A short laugh.

"I suppose it will be. I'm still pretty new to this whole thing." Whether by coincidence or otherwise, her back is to him as she arranges plates and utensils. "But I don't really have anything to tie me to one place these days."

He steps behind her, gently placing a hand in the small of her back as he leans around to put the plate down. She fits entirely within the shadow of his body, and when he speaks, his gravelled voice is close to her ear.

"What about the bar? You looked pretty settled there."

God. This man has ways of utterly collapsing her personal space bubble that, from anyone else, would be infuriating. And yet with Mills, Veronica can't find it in herself to mind.

"Bar's not a place to live," she replies thickly. "Not for me -- people have done it, but I don't think I could. You lose track of too much there.

"And anyway, that's not one place. I could just as easily get there from Neptune as, I don't know, Norway."

"Really? You'll have to show me that trick. Could come in handy."

He's moving back to the kitchen, retrieving the oil and vinegar, salt and pepper.

"Grab the bread, would you? It's right there." On the end of the counter.

"I mean, that's good to know. Knowing that I'll still see you no matter where you're stationed." His sentence tapers off a bit, his voice getting quieter at that little revelation. "I mean..."

She's brought up short, fingertips just touching the bread, all motion stilled. After a pause she bows her head, smiling softly.

"Yeah. You'll see me."

Then she clears her throat. "Um. Bread knife?"

"Bread knife," he echoes. "Try the knife rack."

She catches the glimpse of a smile before he turns his back, digging out a beautiful crystal pitcher. A handful of ice, some beautiful green and yellow citrus slices, and a bottle of sparkling mineral water later, they have something cool to drink.

"Of course," she mutters to herself.

With everything gathered she returns to the table, hovering as she waits for him to join her. Spotting the drink, she can't help but laugh.

"That's a better use for the limes than the one I'd been thinking of."

He brings the pitcher and clean glasses from the cabinet, gesturing with his chin that she should sit. He joins her and pours them both a glass.

"Agent Mars, I told you. I don't do karaoke, and body shots are right out. Capiche?" The impact of his growl is lessened by the tiny wink he gives her.

As she slips into a seat, "Say it all you like, but I'm not giving up. We'll have you singing something poppy soon enough."

"Isn't that a violation of the Geneva Convention? If it's not, it should be. Now eat."

It's simple fare, but it's fresh and he makes a bit of a show of drizzling olive oil over his, followed by a dash of balsamic vinegar.

He watches her take her first bite, anxiously waiting to see if she approves.

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