A/N And so here's the last chapter! Thanks for reading, folks, and I hope you enjoy!

They made it all the way to the hall outside of Dave's room before either of them spoke again. He hadn't removed his arm from around her waist, not even as they crossed the foyer in front of a receptionist who knew for a fact that they had both checked in alone and so was looking rather too interestedly at the sight in front of her. Emma blushed scarlet as the young woman's eyes followed them into the elevator but Dave looked determinedly ahead of him; if he knew the woman was watching them, he didn't let it show. On the fifth floor, outside of his room, he turned to Emma and noticed that the red colouring had not completely left her cheeks.

"You don't have to come in," he murmured, his words allowing her freedom even as his arm defied him and tightened around her waist, "But I hope you do, even just for a while."

Emma's eyes met his just for a moment as she silently searched his face for a hint of what he was thinking. There was nothing, as she had feared.

"I'm married, David."

"I know."

His reply was inscrutable and impossible to interpret. They were in dangerous territory. She knew this. She knew what she should do. After a beat more, interrupted by nothing more than the faint sound of traffic on the street, she did the exact opposite. She nodded her ascent.

Dave's room was one of the smallest that the hotel had to offer, thanks to the recent budget cuts being made by the Bureau, but there was still room for an armchair to be wedged in between the window and the bed. Emma's sigh as he opened the door was testament enough to her relief at this fact, even before she moved to sit in it. He knew why she was so pleased to see the innocuous looking chair; it meant that she didn't have to sit on the bed. Almost unconsciously, she ran her hands over the lush, deep red fabric that covered the arms of the chair, only stopping when she became aware that David was watching her keenly from across the room. As deliberately as she dared, she stopped and turned to gaze at the artwork above the bed, hoping that he would get the message. It seemed to work; he slipped off his suit jacket and threw it onto the bed, before hightailing it into the bathroom.

He stood for a while, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, and ended up splashing cold water on his face. He wasn't sure why, other than the fact they did it in the movies during moments of intense emotional stress. It didn't help, and as he patted his face and neck dry he ended up feeling hotter and more uncomfortable than he had done before. He loosened a couple of buttons on his collar and tried to breathe deeply, to force some air into his lungs.

Emma.

His Emma.

Here.

Waiting.

Waiting to see why he had asked her up to his room. Oh, he was certain that she had a fairly good idea, but how to tell her that – that he – what she –

Thoughts battled for dominance, tumbling, weaving inside his head, and he felt disorientated enough to grope for the edge of the bathtub and sit down heavily, his head cradled in his hands.

What the hell was he doing? She was married, for Christ's sake. He could just imagine the look on his mother's face if she ever found out that he had even contemplated – And with Emma too, who she had always adored. No. No. He couldn't.

But then –

She had followed him. Willingly. It was her choice…wasn't it? And it wasn't as though it would be a drunken one-night stand, something that meant so little they wouldn't even remember each other's names. This was Emma. Emma, who had loved since he was twelve years old. His mother knew that. She wouldn't begrudge him that, would she? The woman who had held him the one time he had ever let himself cry over his own sorry heart, hushing her great hulking twenty eight year old and stroking his hair, like when he was young and –

"David?" Emma knocked gently on the bathroom door, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered gruffly, standing too quickly and swaying on the spot, his eyes screwed up as he fought to quieten his mind and will himself more quickly to sobriety. Emma must have moved away from the door, because the faint creak of bed springs crept into his ears.

The sound seemed to rouse something within him and he tore the door open before the alcohol could regain control and change his mind. Emma's dark eyes followed him fixedly as he crossed quickly to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached out and took her hand.

She was trembling.

"Em, I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"You shouldn't be here. I know you don't want to be, not really-"

She opened her mouth to interrupt but he cut her off, his grip tightening.

"I don't ever want you to do something you regret, Emma. Not on my account."

And then he went silent, the earnestness on his face continuing testament enough that he meant what he said. Mixed feelings fought for control in her belly and, for one horrible moment, she thought she was going to be sick. The warmth in the room, and that emanating from David's body pressed so close to her, was almost unbearable. And she felt guilt, because now only she would know that she had stepped through his door with the intention of doing exactly what she had always thought herself incapable of. She was going to-

David's hand was hot and dry, trapping her own, and as the guilt wriggled inside her - a tiny spear of ice in a pit of fire – his body and his hand and his face were the only things she could bear to think about. David, who she hadn't seen in so long. David, who she loved so much.

David.

She knew then, what she had to do. Just once. She pulled her hand free from his and shuffled even closer, until she could feel his breath tickling her face. Reaching up, she stroked his hair, still thick despite the grey. His whole body tensed the moment she touched him, his sad dark eyes widened in surprise. He'd always had sad eyes; it was one of the first things she remembered noticing about him when they were kids. She allowed her hand to trail down from his hair until she was cradling his cheek and then, before she could change her mind, she leaned in and kissed him. Gently. Sweetly. Almost chastely really, but he relaxed and responded accordingly, allowing his own hand to brush her face, just once.

And then it was over. She pressed her forehead to his, eyes slightly downcast towards their joined hands. She hadn't even felt him reach out for her again.

"Are you sure you won't regret that?" he whispered eventually, running his thumb over her knuckles.

"Never."

He took a deep, if slightly shaking breath and pulled his head reluctantly away so that he could look at her. She smiled, for the first time since the bar, and he resisted the urge to kiss her again. It wasn't his choice; that much he knew. But there was one thing he could do, on this night that he knew was the closest he would ever get.

"I love you Em," he blurted, "I always have. I'm so sorry that I said it too late."

"I love you too," she leaned forwards, her arms around his neck, and whispered, "And I think I always will."

His stomach flooded with an unfamiliar sensation; warmth? Regret? Bittersweet? No – it was peace. Something he had been without for so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like. He kissed her forehead as she pulled away and stood up as if to leave. It didn't hurt though, not like he expected it to, and he joined her for one last embrace.

"Thank you."

"Don't be a stranger, David. Please," she said, her voice catching, "I don't want you not to be around anymore."

"I'll do my best," he nodded, opening the door for her to leave, "He's a lucky man. Anytime he forgets that, send him my way. I'll remind him."