watching_you | OOM: Suite 130

Mills takes in the sight of her, still very aware of the alcohol coursing through his system.

For some reason, keeping his distance doesn't seem near the priority it did just a half hour before.

He leans down to offer her his arm, his voice far more gravelled than he perhaps intended. "Somewhere it isn't raining."

She examines him for a moment. It's one thing to drink far too much tequila and maybe-almost-kiss; it's another entirely to wander arm-in-arm down the street to pick up supplies for a dinner together. This is starting to seem more and more like a date -- or, possibly, a date in reverse -- and Veronica's not sure what to think about that.

Well, it's just a couple of blocks, right? A couple of blocks never hurt anyone. To her mind, still buzzing as it is, this makes sense.

She slips her arm into his, and smiles. "Sounds perfect."

Mills has lived a spartan life for so long, moving from place to place, never having time to think about anything other than the mission. Her mere proximity here seems rather dream like, and he's not inclined to examine it too closely.

He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow and covers it with his own for just a moment.

"Just a few blocks, I think." He fishes in the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone to check the time. "Two o'clock. Plenty of time. They usually have a few live music acts, and the occasional celebrity wanders down from the Hollywood hills." He points back behind them.

They emerge onto the street and even on a sunny Friday afternoon, there isn't much foot traffic. This is LA after all.

"So the Bureau has you trapped in a little room, poring over mounds of data, straining those pretty green eyes of yours looking for that one clue, hmm?"

He's much taller, and his legs are much longer; her body somehow manages to rapidly calculate how many steps she must take for each one of his to keep pace.

"Mm-hm." Even here, in a parallel dimension, she's a little reluctant to discuss it. The liquor helps. "We have several suspects under constant surveillance -- phones, computers, the whole thing. Each day I collect new data and then mine for additional patterns or anomalies. It's thrilling, really."

There's a pause, and then she continues, some hesitation in her tone.

"Can I... ask a favour? That 'pretty lady' stuff -- and don't take this the wrong way -- but it's hard for me to hear it in the context of discussing my job. I know it's not the case with you, but there are plenty of people who will use phrases like that because they're not taking me seriously. You know?"

"I'm sorry," he answers, a touch chagrined. "I -- it was just a -- "

After a moment's stammering, he laughs, shaking his head. "I'd plead tequila, but it's still not acceptable. My apologies, Agent Mars. Analysis is a vital job and I'm sure you're one of the best in your field."

"Hey. It's okay." She rests her head against his arm for a moment, smiling to herself. "I'm glad you think I'm pretty."

Mills looks down at the top of her head, his elbow squeezing her arm against his body for a moment.

"Any man with eyes can see you're pretty. I also think you're smart. And funny. And -- I knew there was a reason I never drank tequila in the middle of the afternoon," he growls.

"Getting you to be complimentary was actually the motivation behind feeding you those shots in the first place. Lo, my evil plan is complete."

She cackles, diabolically, as they reach the street corner; the driver of a passing car shoots her a confused look as he speeds past.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, still amused. "Really? You could have just asked, y'know."

"Next time, save the liquor for when you have hard questions."

"What, you want hard questions now?"

The evil does not fade from her grin.

"Give me five minutes. I'll give you some hard questions."

"Nope. Too late. You wanted compliments. You got compliments."

He presses his lips together, mock stern, eyes on the wooden barricades that mark the end of the block, and the beginning of the farmer's market.

"Too bad. I bet you could come up with some interesting questions."

"You bet right." Lightly, "Fine. I'll save 'em up for next time."

She nods ahead. "Our destination?"

"You're good," he teases. "Yes, in fact."

Mills smiles and nods to a flower vendor, who waves back. He's been here before. He stops and fishes in his pocket, coming out with a money clip. "Yeah, gimme one of those."

When he turns back, he hands Veronica a bright yellow sunflower. "Roses are so passée," he deadpans, giving her a little wink.

She seems genuinely flustered at this action.

"Oh -- no, you don't have to do that. Really. I don't --"

Looking uncertain, she takes it from him anyway.

"Yes, yes you do." He takes her hand and puts it back in the crook of his arm. "Now, shush."

Veronica continues along mutely for a little while. This, she supposes, must be what being romanced is like.

It's not terrible.

"Um. So."

Beat.

"Food?"

"Right this way." He knows his way around the small market, and quickly buys the produce he was looking for.

"See anything you like?" He gestures vaguely to the baker's booth, piled high with fresh baked loaves and rolls.

As he proceeds through the market, she dawdles along behind, taking her time. She smells things, touches things. Watches the people. There's something energizing about being part of a crowd like this, and Veronica's going to enjoy every minute of it.

She catches up to him at last by the bread.

"You're going to make me choose? It all looks fantastic." She takes a deep breath. "I don't even want to eat it. I just want to smell it."

"Fine," he grins, pointing to a loaf of French bread. He pays the baker, and juggles his purchases as he tries to pocket his change.

"I never remember to bring a bag. Or a market basket, like they do in France. Have I forgotten anything?"

He shuffles the bags. Tomatoes, fresh basil, mozzarella, limes.

Limes?

She laughs.

"Planning something, are you? Because I'm not sure I..."

Her voice trails off as she looks past him, and frowns. Her demeanour instantly shifts, shoulders squared, spine straight; she pushes her purse and sunflower into Mills' arms, piling them on top of the other bags.

"Hold this for a sec, will you? Thanks."

Without waiting for a response she pushes past. She sidesteps a young couple, three teenage boys with skateboards, and a woman with an oversized handbag, until eventually she comes up behind a man a vintage army jacket.

In one smooth movement she has taken his wrist and pushed it up his back while shoving him against the nearest booth. Bottles of jam rattle, and one falls to the ground. From the surrounding crowd there comes a shocked cry, most loudly from the big-purse woman (who shrieks) and from the man himself (who shouts obscenities at Veronica).

To the panicked jam-stall owner, she says calmly, "I'll pay for that."

Mills watches intently, his mind cataloguing details like others might read a newspaper.

His first instinct is to move, but he checks that, barely. She seems to have the threat in hand, but he's ready to drop everything and assist if the guy gives her any resistance whatsoever. He watches as she retrieves a large leopard spotted wallet from the guy's pocket and hands it to the woman with the big purse.

Oh well done, Agent Mars, he thinks.

Handbag woman immediately starts freaking out for a whole different reason. Veronica ignores her.

"What the hell, lady?" the man shouts. As he attempts to struggle she slides his elbow a little higher up his back, just enough that his shoulder is straining in its socket.

"Haven't you heard? Crime doesn't pay, all that jazz."

Through gritted teeth, "What are you, some kind of cop or something?"

"As a matter of fact I'm --" Veronica cuts herself off. This isn't her world: waving a badge around might lead to a different sort of difficult question. "-- just a concerned citizen," she finishes lamely.

(Meanwhile one of the skater teens whispers to his friends, "Cool!")

At this point, Mills has handed off the armload of their stuff to the baker for safekeeping and is now joining Veronica.

"May I?" She passes him off like a pro.

He takes the guy by the nape of the neck and the locked wrist and leans in to speak in a low voice.

"I fall into the 'or something' category and you and I are going to walk the half block to the end of the market, and you're going to leave under your own power. And if I ever see you here again? We'll have this discussion again. And you won't leave under your own power. Are we clear?"

The man whimpers as Mills begins to move him.

"Good. I thought so."

As Mills takes over arm wrestling duty, Veronica finds herself facing a stunned crowd of onlookers. Oh my. Time to run interference.

The woman with the purse is still looking frightened, so Veronica takes her hand. Loudly enough to distract from any threats of violence happening behind her, she says, "I'm sorry that happened. But you're being very brave."

To the crowd at large, "Isn't she brave?" And she starts clapping. The collected group of people picks it up and turns it into a gentle round of applause, all attention now focused on the woman.

Now it's just street theatre.

The man at the jam booth waves Veronica off paying, so by the time Mills gets back she's attempting to juggle all of their bags again, purse slung over one arm, produce gathered in her arms, flower held between her teeth like she's an incredibly awkward salsa dancer.

Mills stalks back, eyes on the crowd, concerned that pickpockets never work solo. The air around him seems electrified as he returns to her side, taking the produce and smirking at her, shaking his head.

"Next time, a little communication?" He quirks an eyebrow at her, painfully aware of all the bystanders now gawking at him.

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