I do not own Standoff, or anything else, so please don't sue.

There was just enough time for a quick shower.

Normally, she didn't bathe at her victim's house, but by judging the blood stains on her arms and all across the middle of her shirt, a quick shower was in dire need.

The bathroom was just down the hall from the living room; in adjacent to the bedroom. She turned the water knobs on the bathtub, stripped, and jumped in. Scalding hot water greeted her, but the temperature was of no matter. At least not right now.

Once finished, she peeked in his closet to find something suitable to wear. Her blood stained clothes wouldn't do; someone might ask questions if they saw her.

And questions were dangerous.

She donned a pair of ripped jeans, no doubt one of American Eagles most expensive, and a tattered work shirt that had the sleeves ripped off. To finish the outfit, she pulled his slick leather jacket on and rolled her hair into one of his many baseball caps. She frowned at the hat; it made her look like a middle aged construction worker. But someone was bound to notice a man with such long hair, and they might ask questions.

She went back into the living room, where his body lay. He was somewhat handsome, in that rocker, grunge way. She never got attached to her work, but a sense of remorse grew in her abdomen, and she frowned slightly.

I'm never going to get over you…

She shook her head, clearing it of all thoughts. Now was not a time to feel elegiac.

His keys were on the hook right beside the door, but before she forgot, she carefully withdrew from her purse a note, using a handkerchief all the while of course. She shuddered at the thought of being caught.

She placed the note a few centimeters away from his open right hand, just like she'd been taught, and looked at him for a few seconds. Once satisfied with her work, she grabbed his truck keys off of the key hook right beside the door, shut the door behind her, and locked it.

Mission complete.

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The soft pit-pat of the rain on the roof woke Emily up first.

Not to say that was surprising, of course. Out of the majority of the nights they spend together, she was the one who was usually woken first, and Matt was the one with his head under his pillow, trying to catch a few more moments of precious sleep.

Emily didn't mind, though. In fact she rather liked it, in a way that baffled Matt beyond belief. She stretched her arms and legs, grabbed his shirt, and made for the kitchen.

Usually if they were at her house, she would have made breakfast for them both. But seeing as they wound up at his, Emily stuck with the ritual morning coffee. It was a solemn rule that was created sometime ago; if they were at her apartment, she would make breakfast, and he the coffee, and vice versa with his apartment.

She changed the filter and exchanged it with a new one, filled the machine with water, and turned it on. Now that the coffee was brewing, she expected Matt to be up within twenty minutes, if not ten. It really depended on the strength of the brew. Today, she expected fifteen minutes tops.

Emily grabbed one of his magazines, Sports Illustrated but hey, you couldn't have everything, and flipped through the pages checking the clock every now and then. Sure enough, no more than ten minutes later, Matt came stumbling out of the room, clad only in his boxers. Emily flashed him a golden smile from the couch.

"Morning Sleepyhead," she greeted cheerfully.

"So that's where my shirt went," Matt mumbled. He placed a swift kiss on her check. "Morning. Coffee smells good." He noted.

"Oh, yeah it's that brand that I bought for you at Starbucks, the French Roast brand. Don't know why you've never used it before…" she trailed off, a note of curiosity in her voice.

"Oh, um, yeah, been saving it for when you would be over here," Matt quickly lied as she poured a cup. He shuddered as she took a sip. Coffee, he believed, should be served in two ways: black or with half and half. No other way.

This is why he poured his cup down the sink when she wasn't looking.

"You want some more?" she asked, offering the pot, taking note of his sudden empty cup.

"Ah, no thanks. Trying to cut down on my caffeine." He answered. He changed the subject. "Hey, don't we have work at eight?" he asked, checking the clock on the microwave.

"It's Sunday," she answered coolly, eyes never leaving the article she was reading.

"Oh, well, in that case, we can do whatever the hell we want," he said, plopping down next to her. He placed his head on her shoulder. "Jets lost last week," he stated.

"More like last year," she said in a bantering tone.

"Hmmn," he said, suddenly kissing her neck.

"Matt," Emily said, dropping the magazine on her lap.

"Hmmn," he replied in a questioning tone.

"Every time we start something like this, it usually ends up in a phone call from Cheryl or something worse," she mumbled as his lips grazed her earlobe.

"Mhmmn," was the answer, and no more was said as his lips captured hers. Matt ran his hands under her, or rather his, shirt and Emily arched her back into him, moaning. Matt grinned into their kiss, deciding to take it one step further… when his cell phone went off.

Emily broke their kiss and fell back into the pillows on the couch as Matt reached for his cell. She flashed him an 'I-told-you-she-would-call-but-no-you-didn't-believe-me' look.

"Flannery," he said in a dull voice. Sighing, Emily grabbed her coffee cup and poured the now cold contents into the sink. Such perfect timing, her thoughts echoed sarcastically.

"What?" Matt asked in disbelief. Emily turned to him and saw a dumbfounded expression etched on his face.

"I said get down here A.S.A.P. I don't care about traffic; just get your asses down here, now."

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It's going to get better, I promise. This was just a small chapter to get the story going.

Also, this story IS going to get darker, probably border lining 'M'. So I hope that won't freak any of you guys out.