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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: WHEN IN VEGAS ( aka 04x07: memoriam )
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DALLIS WAS PRETTY SURE her brain had turned into a slot machine after her long night out in Vegas. From the second her head hit the pillow just shy of 3am, the repetitive flashing colours and percussive sound effects of the casino had followed her into her dreams. The noise refused to leave her even when 3am came and went and she woke up ten minutes after she was supposed to have joined the rest of the team.
"Shit," she swallowed against the cotton-dry feeling in her mouth, massaging her fingers against her pounding temples. "Oh, it's too early for this."
Just the thought of moving a muscle made her stomach churn but the idea of Hotch showing up on her doorstep and dragging her ass to the jet was even worse. She wasn't sure how she did it but she managed to crawl out of bed to the nearest bottle of water, then she packed her things, changed her clothes and tried her best not to look like a stray cat the FBI had picked up on the side of the street.
When she limped her way downstairs, Morgan was the first person she found. He was sitting in front of another blasted slot machine -- of course the hotels in Vegas had their gambling areas right near the main entrance, that explained the persistent sounds -- while nursing a steaming cup of coffee.
"Hello, sleeping beauty." Even the quick flash of his teeth was much too bright. "Nice sunglasses."
"Shut up," she muttered, fully aware of how ridiculous she looked wearing her Raybans inside, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "How are you not a walking disaster right now?"
Morgan shrugged effortlessly. "Coffee and charisma, Cohen."
Dallis couldn't deign that with a response. Dumping her suitcase beside him, she shuffled towards the couch where Rossi sat on one end reading the newspaper. On the other was Emily. Her purple shirt needed a good iron and she'd seemingly forgotten that hairbrushes existed. Dallis was just glad she wasn't alone in her suffering. She slumped down beside her, resting her chin on the other woman's shoulder.
"I hate Vegas," Emily muttered into the cushion pressed against her face.
Dallis grunted her agreement. "I second that."
"Come on, ladies, how could you hate Vegas?" Morgan's eyebrows shot up. "This is a grown-folk's playground."
"So you said last night," Dallis scoffed, thinking back to every club Morgan had taken herself and Emily to. Was this his plan all along? To point and laugh at their misery. "And look where that's got us."
"You want some of my coffee?"
"No," she muttered, clutching her stomach. "I want to go to sleep and never wake up." Rossi's hand started to rub soothing circles into the ridges of her spine. Dallis' body immediately slackened with a sigh. "Oh, Dave, you're the best. Thank you."
