Elora°○☆

Twelve years ago…

"Honestly babe it's insane that you're already like two sems away from graduating. Like the three of us just got here," Sydney said as you took your seats at Professor LaTorre's class. You signed up for his Business Laws & Documentation class purely as an elective so you could at least still have a class with your friend. 

The same went for an introductory C++ Programming course so you could spend time with Shane and Isaac. 

"Don't worry babe I'm drawing it out," you said casually. "I'll be damned if I can't manage to actually graduate with you guys this time around, especially since I have control over how many classes I take in a semester. Besides…might be fun to have a lighter class load. I signed up for the cleaup initiative that Stark Industries is leading after the big alien invasion last year." 

"Ooh! Maybe you'll meet an Avenger! The god with the hammer and the lightning is smoking hot," she gushed. "If you do, best believe I'll sign up that same day. I'll cut class if I have to."

"You know what, I'm gonna fully support you there. Even if Mr. Asgardian Barbie doesn't really do it for me." 

"Oh, and what pray tell is doing it for you? The Captain? The Archer?" Then she gasped, her eyes lighting up as she teased, "The redhead? It's the redhead, isn't it? 'Cause like I get it she's hot." 

"Not exactly…" You took a moment to brace yourself before answering. "More like…the other god? Thor's brother?" 

"Girl, what?!" 

You covered your face with your hands. "I know," you groaned. "I'm starting to get why our classmates thought I was a freak now. Like how fucked do I have to be that I see a hot guy in armor towering over a town square in Germany wielding a glowy magic staff and scaring everyone into kneeling submission and my first thought was Damn wish I was there?!" 

"Okay you're not a freak for that, we all have a bad boy phase. It's just that this specific bad boy?Babe he destroyed like half the city."

"No," you argued, bringing your hands down and looking at your friend dead on. "Those ugly looking aliens destroyed the city. He destroyed like what, maybe two letters out of the sign on Stark Tower?" 

"Okay fair, but he was leading those aliens destroying the city. He was in charge."

"Uhh…no. He wasn't. You saw how his mind controlled minions in Stuttgart had these creepy glowy blue eyes?" She took a moment before nodding. "He had them too. He's not the one in charge. He was the one put in front by the guy who was actually in charge. He was the fall guy." 

"Okay maybe I can see where you're coming from…but still babe, really? Him?" 

"What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants, I guess," you told her with a shrug. "And anyway even if I do end up meeting Thor during my volunteer work, it's not like I'll ever get anywhere. Like what, I meet him and go Tell your brother I think he's cute?" The mere thought had you both breaking out into laughter. 

Just then, the door swung open and Professor LaTorre walked into the classroom, taking his place on the dais and standing on top of his little soapbox. "Ladies, if you could stop with your giggling about…what is it this time? Vampires? One Direction?" He took a moment to let the jab marinate, a self safisfied smirk pulling at his mouth as some members of the class laughed. "Regardless, that's enough of that. Settle now, class." 

He set down his briefcase, pulling out a stack of yellow legal size pad papers and waving it around. Like he was taunting you all. 

"Here are your latest quiz papers. I looked over them all and I have to say, most of your ambitions are…respectable. Admirable, even. Working in local government, internships at local shops. You know…reasonable. Some of you though…" he trailed off, making an awkward expression before doing a pseudo-dance. "I don't like using inflammatory words but…little bit delusional." 

"Respectfully, Sir…delusional how?" you spoke up, challenging him. 

He ended his pseudo-dance, straightening his stance before answering you. "Well some of you apparently have your sights on working for Anna Wintour and organizing for the MET Gala. Another one said they want to manage an NBA team. Ohh and get this." He took a moment to let out a ridiculing laugh. "One of you even said they want to collaborate with Tony Stark."

You dug your nail into your palm to keep yourself from reacting. He was talking about you. 

"Not work for Stark Industries, not intern at one of their child companies. But collaborate." He laughed some more before putting on a mocking voice. On a whim, you whipped out your phone and sneakily started recording him. "I would like to collaborate with Tony Stark on his efforts to create sustainable energy. Maybe even on research and development for the Iron Man suit."

The class broke out into laughter. Well, almost the whole class. Neither you nor Sydney found anything funny about how he was behaving. 

"I mean, I understand that you all had big shiny reputations in your respective high schools. You had guidance counselors who held your hand and tell you you can be anything, and parents who bottle fed you and told you to shoot for the stars. But you guys are in college now; we're trying to prepare you for the real world. 

"Keep your goals proportionate to your potential. Chances are, maybe a handful of all the students in your graduating class will make it big. If that. So no, you're not going to work for Vogue or probably even steam clean the carpet for the MET Gala. No, you're not going to be the next NBA superstar. And no, you're not going to be an Avenger. Stop shooting for the stars and wondering why you keep falling on your asses. Aim low. That way you can still celebrate even your tiny victories." 

You stopped recording him, and made another split second decision, emailing the recording to the Dean. 

A message from Syd came in. Where the fuck does this dude get off?

He told the class to approach his desk and retrieve your papers, telling you to look for your student number seeing as he was making a show of making his treatment seem impartial. 

"I think he wants to keep us small so he doesn't feel too bad that when he hit every single branch of the Ugly Tree when the stork dropped him on his head as a baby, it took his height, too. And his hair," you said in a low voice, making your friend grab on to your arm for dear life as she tried to control her laughter. 

When it came your turn, you and Sydney looked at the remarks he left on your papers. You had to fight the urge to roll your eyes as you read his comments in red ink.

Wow! So ambitious! right there next to your grade of 90. And he put the same thing on Syd's paper next to her paragraph about wanting to be involved with Vogue. 

"What a mega cunt," you grumbled in unison, already shoving the papers in your bags. 

After the last of the students grabbed their paper from his desk, Professor LaTorre dismissed you all for the day. The second the words left his mouth, you and Sydney were already on your feet, making your way to the door. 

"Uh oh, we know that look," Isaac said as he and Shane waved you over to their little gondola at the student square. "What's the sitch?" 

"The sitch?" you shot back, and the boyfriends gave you a carefree shrug. "Well, Kimberly Ann, we just got our quizzes back from LaTerror." You both slapped your papers down on the table, letting them peruse your answers for a minute.

"This 'so ambitious' sounds passive aggressive," Shane observed, squinting his eyes at the red ink like he was waiting for it to confess.

"Oh no, he was just aggressive aggressive," you shot back. "Before he had us get our papers from him, he made sure to launch into a whole tirade that had both of us catching strays. Basically telling us to 'keep our dreams tiny'."

"Yeah well fuck that," Syd screeched, her voice going a bit 'gremlin mode" towards the end. "Not only are you going to collaborate with Tony Stark, babe. You're gonna be a fucking Avenger. I can see it now."

"Jury's out on the whole Avenger bit, but I'll happily take the support on working with Iron Man," you told her, taking her hands and speaking your vision for her out into the universe. Manifesting it, really. "And you, girlie…not only are you going to the MET Gala, you're gonna design a gown that'll be worn to the fucking MET Gala. You're gonna make it and make it big."

"The only time we're aiming low is if we're aiming a dodgeball at LaTerror's family jewels," she said with a cackle. 

Today

"Ohh good God, Shane nooooo," you groaned the second you opened the garment bag he brought you, catching the quickest glimpse of the gorgeous dark emerald silk inside. "I remember telling you to put in the order for the black one."

"And I told you that much as you slay in black, this is your color, babe," he countered, pushing the garment bag back into your arms. "What is it exactly that's keeping you from wearing a dress that's gonna have you looking like a million bucks at your party?" 

"I told you, there are certain colors these days where you need…permission."

"To what? Wear a color?!" 

You simply nodded at him, the scientist's eyes widening from how absurd he found the concept. You took it upon yourself to try and explain. "You notice how people in the building try to avoid wearing like dark red?"

"Yuh huh…"

"Well that's because dark shades of red are Thor's color. The only exception he makes is for Stark's suits. And that's just because the Iron Man suit leans more stoplight than maroon, you know?"

He nodded, trying to follow along. "Okay I'm really trying here, babe, I promise. But last I checked, nobody owns a whole color. We're not in Riverdale and we're not dealing with Cheryl Blossom."

"Sure, but things were…different back in Asgard. There, when you wear a royal's colors it's like you're declaring yourself to the whole kingdom, you know?" You motioned toward the dress he brought you again. "So this dress…gorgeous as it is, isn't something I can just throw on. Because dark shades of green? That's Loki's color."

"What about my color, darling?"

Your heart started skipping at the sound of Loki's voice filling the dining area.

"Uhm…well, last weekend Shane and his husband took me dress shopping and we found something. But I don't know, I think the store made a mistake and gave me this instead of black." You opened the garment bag to let him glimpse the dress.

The god couldn't help the way his breath hitched as he saw the light hit the silken fabric, perfectly set in his color. From the image that was placed upon the garment bag, he could tell that the dress itself was something not far from what women would wear at a ball back in Asgard.

A stray thought even hit him that there were wedding gowns in their realm that were cut in a similar way, and he had to shoo away the image in his mind before he became tempted to lose himself in the fantasy. Picturing you in the same dress and walking toward him, only this time in the Royal Hall. Adorned with a gold that matched his armor. To swear yourselves to the Norns.

He took a step toward you, reaching out to lightly touch the fabric. "Well darling, if you truly wish to change it to black, you only need ask."

A sputtering sound came out of you as you looked upon him with visible disbelief. "What? Like you'll use your magic to--"

"Precisely. If that is what you wish." He took the garment from your hands, gently placing it down on the table before taking another step toward you. Just barely enough to be within your personal space. Close enough he could see the quickening rise and fall of your chest as you breathed. He lightly touched his fingers to your chin, urging you to meet his gaze. "But if it is my assent that is hindering you from wearing this dress, then you have it."

A frantic look entered your eyes and he could feel a slight tremble in you under his touch. "Hang on, you've thrown an absolute fit before just because some junior agent wore a green sweatshirt." 

"There are always exceptions to the rule, little mortal." He moved his hand to wrap around yours, running his thumb across your knuckles. "The choice is entirely yours." The god brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles as he held your gaze. "You would make the most captivating sight either way." 

Had another moment passed precisely like this, Loki might have been moved to relinquish his self control and press his lips to yours. The moment seemed so perfectly quiet, and far too many images of what a life together with you would look like were bombarding his mind. However, he also knew far too well that doing so would most definitely cause you to put as much distance between you and him as you could manage. 

So perhaps it was a quiet blessing from the Norns that at that precise moment, Stark had walked into the sitting area, the tinkerer's grating voice doing the work of breaking the tension that was quickly thickening between you two. 

"Jellybean, I had someone reach out to your professors and some of them are coming to your party," his voice filled the room.

"Aaaaand pop goes the bubble," your friend Shane muttered. "Damn it."

Your eyes blinked rapidly, as if you were coming out of a stupor, and something sunk in the god's chest when you stepped out of his hold with an apologetic look in your eyes. "Sorry," you murmured, the ache worsening for him as he begun to ask himself why in the Nine were you apologizing when he had been the one to approach you. 

His brother had relayed to him a story your scientist friend told him about a callow, short-sighted boy named Justin. About how he had taken advantage of your kind nature, and how he was now more than likely the reason behind the walls you'd built around yourself. Why you chose to put so much distance not just from him, but from everyone in the Compound, with the exception of Stark's daughter.

Thor told him he needed to ready himself for the possibility that he would be chasing after you for a long time, given how horrendous prior situations turned out for you. That every sliver of affection might be met with more distance, and if he truly cared for you then he would have to put in even more effort just to close the distance. That if he truly thought you were worth it, then pursuing you would require a different approach from what he'd normally done back on Asgard.

No games, no illusions, no mischief. Just his heart, laid bare. For you to either take or spurn.

And you were more than worth that risk.

You smoothed your hands over your shirt before facing Stark, and Loki took that as his cue to subtly sidle closer to you once more, in an attempt to at least close the physical distance you put between you. "Which professors?"

"Right now I've got your thesis advisor, Louis Doherty?"

"Ohh, I remember him. Pretty cool guy, but I'm willing to bet he RSVP'd more so that he could see Natasha in the flesh," you said with a strained laugh. "Who else?"

"Ethan Sy? Said he was your academic advisor."

"Yeah he was. Strict dude, but fair. And he never gave off any creeper vibes, so he's good people. It'd be nice to see those two again."

"And then there's another one. Boy this one loves to talk. Sent over a long performative ass-kissing note along with this RSVP. Pulcifer LaTorre?"

That name brought out a rather visceral reaction from you, your face contorting into a rage that was simmering just beneath the surface. "LaTerror?!"

"Ohh Boss I can tell you right now, anything he said in that note was a thousand percent performative as all fuck. He was a bitter tyrant of a prof," Shane spoke up, moving towards the pantry to open a small bag of candy popcorn, as if he knew what was coming next.

You took a deep breath, once again side stepping away from the god as you started off with a raised tone, "That fucking shiny bald headed miniscule manchild had the audacity to make a mockery of me and Sydney because he didn't like our answers in one of his stupid generic motherhood statement quizzes. Called us delusional, even."

"What was his question?" Stark asked you, clearly engrossed in where this story was going.

"What are your long term career aspirations?" you quoted, shifting your voice in a way that Loki surmised was to mock your former instructor. "I said, and I quote, I would like to collaborate with Tony Stark on research and development for the Iron Man suit."

"And collaborate you did, Jellybean," he affirmed, raising a glass in your direction. "And not just that, you're family. Maguna loves her princess godmother Auntie Y/N."

"You have to tell her one of these days that I'm not a fucking princess, Stark. But anyway, he quoted my answer word for goddamn word and then proceeded to tell us all that high school was the time for guidance counselors to lie to us and tell us that we can be whatever we wanted, but we're in college now. And fuckers like him are here to prepare us for 'the real world'."

It was at that moment that Thor walked into the common area, hearing only a portion of your story. "And pray tell, my friend, what exactly does your instructor think is this 'real world'?"

"Beats me, Barbie, but he went into a whole spiel about how not a single student in his class will end up organizing for the MET Gala, or playing for the NBA, or become an Avenger. Told us to 'aim low', so we can still celebrate the tiny victories in life."

You'd gotten so animated that your face began to go red from how flushed your cheeks were. It took the god a considerable bit of effort to stop his thoughts from wandering into a fantasy of seeing you in a similar state again. Only in a more private setting. And under more pleasurable circumstances.

"He was a halfwit," Loki told you, stepping toward you once more.

"More like a none-wit," Stark quipped. "Makes his whole message about I'm so proud of Miss Y/L/N, I always knew she was destined to be great a steaming pile of bullshit. Jellybean, you better have something ready for your speech that puts this abysmal excuse for a professor in his place."

"Nah, Tony, I couldn't possibly. I don't wanna make a scene." You'd retreated back into your quieter, more reserved demeanor, picking at the skin of your fingernails.

"Babe, listen to me, if there's ever any time to make a scene, it's at the party that's being thrown to celebrate you," Shane said, a knowing smile pulling at his mouth as he kept going. "Sometimes you gotta make like your old college self and…choose the chaotic path?" For a fleeting moment your friend's gaze flickered in Loki's direction before going back to you.

"Shane? Don't." You kept your voice low, hesitant even. As if you were pleading for him to stop talking rather than tellinghim. 

"I concur, Lady Y/N," Thor spoke up, grabbing his own snack from the pantry. "If this past instructor made a mockery of you in your youth, then it seems only right that gets to learn how bitter that form of ridicule tastes." 

"Look, just--can we drop this?" you addressed the room, a dismissive, almost defeated tone to your voice. "Just because I'm a veteran at receiving it doesn't make me an expert at dishing it out. Besides, I remember reading somewhere that 'living well should be the best revenge', so I'm just gonna do exactly that." Then you turned toward the blond Asgardian, addressing him directly. "Ohh by the way, my plus one? Sydney? She's got a thing for you. Had it bad for over a decade. She'd be over the moon if you took a few minutes to, I don't know maybe talk to her? She's smart, she's gorgeous, she's creative, and it's not gonna be a dull conversation, I promise." 

He simply nodded at you, accepting your request, and you took that as your cue to leave the room. 

Before you could reach for the garment bag that held your gown for the gala, it disappeared with a flash of green magic, and you turned back to see Loki with his gaze trained on you, a playful smirk gracing his features. "Give it back, please." You couldn't help but smile back as he shook his head at you.

"Only once I have escorted you back to your chambers, darling." He closed the distance between you, gently taking your hand in his as he led you toward the apartment complex. 

Once you were both out of earshot, Tony got to work, firing up a tablet and instructing for FRIDAY to put together everything she could find on that awful excuse of a professor of yours. "What're you doing there, Boss?" 

"Well, Jellybean might not be well versed in dishing out a hefty serving of humble pie, but lucky for her, I wrote the book," he answered Shane, creating a new file in his system simply named LaTerror.

Thor walked over to where Stark had begun his work, peering over his shoulder to see what exactly he had in mind. "How can we help?" 

A/N: Whatever Tony's up to, I fully support it. Also once again, yes…I can confirm that LaTerror is based off of an actual professor I had in college, and he really did mock one of my answers in his quizzes in front of the class. Like bro, how was I supposed to know you had a limit for what you wanted to read as an "ambition"? Fuck all the way out of here.

Anyways, I'm working on part 3…and I'm planning on putting a mango ride in there somewhere. I'm also working on phase 3 planning for RTC Season 2 and a whole bunch of other stuff that are kind of refusing to get to the top of my head despite (or maybe because of) the energy drinks I've already slammed…we'll see how this goes…

"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.

You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.

You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.

She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.

"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."

Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."

You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.

As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.

Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.

"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."

Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.

Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.

It still hasn't stopped either of you.

"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.

"That's all?"

Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.

"No," she concedes.

In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.

She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—

"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.

Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.

"You're mean," she murmurs.

"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."

Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"

"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.

Alvez.

Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.

Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.

"What?" She demands.

"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."

"The team." Emily says flatly.

You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.

"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.

Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.

"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."

Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."

Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.

"And no detours to Penelope's."

His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.

"Yes, Ma'am."

She runs incredibly warm, bundled in thick pajamas and a sweater over her top, fuzzy ankle socks pressed to your own bare skin where your pant leg had ridden up. All of her heat bleeds into you; you burn in your entirety, all the places where she has you trapped and everywhere else where you're not.

You find, even so, that you don't want to move.

It's all so different to the arctic, lonely spread of the king-sized bed back in your bedroom. Here, your space is not yours. It's hers, claimed in her sleep, and you don't do anything to take it back. You just listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Even asleep, she's—grounding. Solid.

The rooms don't feel the same without her. The air is too empty, the silence, somehow, too heavy, even more than it would be if she was there, just quietly. The way she takes up space…you're constantly attuned to it, her absence taking a big claw out of your chest, a gaping hole left behind.

Ridiculous. You don't remember ever being so attached to a partner—a person—this strongly before. It's not healthy, it can't be.

She shifts in her sleep and your heart lurches, promptly proving your own point. You hold your breath but she stays asleep, her eyes closed, face lax, knee slipping down from your hip and worming into the part between your legs.

Slowly, you let out your exhale.

At least you know your attachment isn't one-sided.

She doesn't let herself show it, too focused on not overstepping, considering and reconsidering her every move to make sure it won't set you off. (It won't. It won't.) This side of her is one you're fairly enjoying. It's nice, to see—feel—her like this, wholly unguarded. She's usually so careful around you. Here she's entirely unaware of her own boundaries, just giving in to instinct.

Pins and needles begin to numb up your hand. They creep up from your fingers, spread to your forearms, up your shoulder. You hold still for another minute before the feeling becomes unbearable.

Slowly, carefully, you try to slip your arm out.

But her sleep is light. You hear the hitch in her breath, a long, deep inhale before she starts to shift, burrowing into you, her forehead rooting into your collarbone with a sound like a whine. The action is so thoughtlessly tender you briefly stop breathing.

Emily doesn't notice. She wakes slowly, like a flower unfurling, all lazy hums and slow shifts of her limbs. A yawn against your shoulder, her cheek rubbing against the meat of your bicep. It's a slow, sweet eternity before her head tips up, her sleep-hazed eyes meeting yours.

She blinks. A smile spreads across her face, small, close-lipped.

"Hi."

Jesus, her voice. It sends a trail of goosebumps down your skin.

"Hi," you breathe. "Sorry I woke you."

Emily shakes her head. "No, no—" She pauses as she takes in your current predicament. Realization creeps up in a faint blush, staining her cheeks. "Sorry I trapped you." She mumbles, shifting back, freeing your arm.

You find your mouth tugging, find your thumb reaching over to brush off a fallen lash from her cheekbone. It's okay, you should say, but you don't. "You're—really clingy." You hum instead, sweeping the lash from your thumb.

The words unfurl something: her head on your collarbone, your legs entangled on a couch—You're clingy, your voice teasing, fingers threaded though her hair. The indignant huff of her breath, buried beneath your laugh.

Warmth flutters through you.

Emily smiles again, her eyes nearly squinting closed, still soft around the corners.

"I've been told. Sleep well?"

You nod. "Warm," you admit.

Maybe a little too warm, but.

Her gaze sharpens as you carefully shift onto your side to face her. There's a little breathing room between you, your head on your pillow and her head on hers, the sheets rumpled, loose with your movement.

"How are you feeling?" She checks in, her eyes sweeping over your face. "Any soreness?"

"No, I'm fine." You've gotten used to the dull pain in your shoulder. It's more manageable than it was, sometimes quieting down for long enough that you forget and pull an abrupt move, sending it flaring again. It's the only thing giving you trouble, apart from your lingering headaches.

You ignore the pins and needles in your arm and adjust the strap of the sling so it doesn't bite into your neck. Emily notices. She shifts an inch closer, tugs up the collar of your sleep shirt and shifts the strap onto the fabric instead of your raw skin. You exhale, warming under the gentle touch of her fingers, the brush of her knuckles against your throat.

"We should get some aloe—"

"I want you to come back." You blurt out, catching her wrist, keeping her hand there on your shoulder.

Emily pauses.

"To the room," you clarify, softer. The words are clumsy in your mouth, heavy with plain want. "You don't have to stay here. I don't want you to."

Her eyes are dark, impossible to read. You drop your gaze.

"I mean—unless you want to, of course—"

"Honey," she huffs, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Come on." She says it so softly, so matter-of-fact, you feel your blood start to boil beneath your skin.

You swallow, leaning into the hand she cups to your cheek. Every inch of you winds a little tighter at the contact. You can feel the slight rush of her pulse under your finger; the faint cloud of her exhales over your jaw.

Soft as down feathers, Emily's thumb draws slow strokes over your cheek. It catches the corner of your mouth as it comes down.

"Are you sure?" She murmurs, earnest, achingly careful.

You nod. Squeeze her wrist. "I'm sure."

It's like watching a sunrise—seeing her face as it softens, melts, totally, with the pleasure. Her lips press together against a smile and there's the faint shadow of a dimple in her cheek; you itch to touch it, smooth your finger over the dent, memorize its spot, press it in—

"I hog the covers." She warns.

"Hog them all you want."

Emily laughs, and it's soft, it's yours, the gauzy cotton of a cloud draping over your skin, wrapping you in it, your ears reverberating with the sound.

"Yeah?" She whispers. "Okay, then."

-

It comes without warning as you're slipping out of bed. Emily suddenly goes still, her hands curling around the edges of the mattress, head ducking down into her chest. Her voice abruptly tapers off into silence.

You frown at her hunched figure. "Emily?"

She makes a faint noise in her throat. You round the bed over to her side, already knowing before you see her swallow hard, inhale sharply through her nose.

"Nauseous?"

"A little," she says, her voice strained. Her grip is so tight, it turns her knuckles bloodless. She squeezes her eyes shut and shoves in a few more deep breaths, her jaw set. "It's fine. It'll blow over."

You don't get a chance to do anything before she jumps and makes a beeline for the bathroom, her hand clamped tight over her mouth.

You wince and follow her in, try your best to hold her hair back with your one hand, offer some semblance of something. But there's little you can do. Her body wages violent war against her; her skin beads with sweat, bruises standing out under her eyes.

It itches in you, drags under your skin. You've never felt more useless.

You're murmuring nonsense when she finally quietens, her skin damp, chilled where you sweep your fingers. You brush the sweaty bangs away from her face and feel her shiver with the motion, shoulders tremulous. Instinctively, you tug her into you, your lips brushing the skin of her temple.

"You're okay, Em." You murmur, rubbing her arm. "You're okay, honey, you did good."

She slumps into your chest, muffling a weary noise in your shirt. Your heart twists. Pulling up your sleeve over the heel of your hand, you dry the sweat on her temple, feeling it wet the fabric.

"I've got you," you say. The floor is hard and cold under you, your back aching from the awkward position, the added strain of her weight, but you force yourself upright and as steady as you can muster.

You'd already left her once. You're not going to do it again.

-

"It's really not that—"

She dies down at the look you give her. It thrills you a little, the way her jaw snaps, but it doesn't last long before she's giving you a look, imploring.

"Sweetheart."

"Emily. I'm not going to die if you don't make me breakfast. I can make it myself—"

"I know you can—"

"—and anyway, I'm not hungry. So just." You make an impatient gesture with your hand. "Stay put."

The sweat has dried from her forehead, her usual color back in her cheeks, but you're still uneasy. You can still feel the way she'd gone limp against you on the bathroom floor—tremors along her shoulders, the harsh staccato of her breath echoing on the tiles. You could see her heart beating fast under the thin skin at the base of her throat.

On some level you think you know you're overreacting—overcorrecting, flooded with guilt because you'd left her, you'd seen her go through it but you still left her, too absorbed in your own grief—but the image of her pale and drained is too clear in your head for you to care.

Emily seems to have forgotten the whole ordeal. She looks at you with her eyes soft. Too used to it by now, probably.

The thought makes you sick.

"Y/N," she says gently. "I'm okay. I'm not going to die just because I got sick a few times, it's fine."

"A few times," you echo. "Remind me again, it's been how many weeks of this?"

How far along is she? The question briefly unsettles you, a big blank throwing your head into silence.

It's like she reads it on your face.

"I'll be going into my second trimester next week," she says, her smile small, just a press of her lips. "It should ease up by then."

You don't know how many weeks that is, exactly, but you do know it's in the double digits. Early teens, maybe.

Just a couple of weeks now, and she'll start to show. Your stomach cramps at the thought. Just a couple of weeks, and she'll start to show, and then a few months will blur by and you'll have a baby between you, and you'll raise a kid with her even though she still doesn't fully trust that you will, she still doesn't let you in, she doesn't believe that you can or want to—fuck, you want to—she doesn't—

Emily sits up in bed and takes your hand. Hers is warm, her fingers skating over your knuckles, squeezing. Your eyes snap back to hers.

"Sweetheart, I'll be fine," she reassures. Slowly, as if she's explaining it to a kid. "I am fine. I'm"—she huffs out a laugh—"I'm hardly the first person to get pregnant."

A stone sinks low in your gut.

Just pretend I'm the old me. Please just pretend I'm the old me and stop pretending with me, stop lying, let me in, let me help, I want to help—

"Not the first," you say, "but you're mine, and it's—it all feels so—" You break off, losing your grasp on the words.

It's all jumbled in your head, everything you want to say, everything you don't know you have the right to ask. You inhale roughly, eyes fluttering closed for just a second—"It's so much, Emily, god. It's so much and it's all on you and I just—" The desperation rises in you, "I don't want you to pretend with me. You keep up these fronts and you think I don't notice. I do." Your voice goes thin, bending. You swallow it down, queasy at the way her face collapses back into its familiar guilt.

Her eyes flit away from yours; you cup her jaw, bringing them back, bringing her back.

Let me in, let me in.

"Hey." You say raggedly, holding her gaze. "You can admit that it's overwhelming," you whisper, "or that you're exhausted or just—just sick of it all. You're allowed to be, and you can tell me. This can't just all be on you, Emily."

You're startled at how fast her eyes go shiny, brimming with tears. Your chest collapses in on itself. It's too much, for anyone.

And she keeps taking it all without a word.

You speak past the lump in your throat. "I'm here for you," you mumble. "I'm not going anywhere, but you're not being honest with me."

Emily blinks, swallowing hard. It's like all her indifference drains out of her; she grows uncertain-looking—her face sobering, posture curling small, like a scolded child. She doesn't move, doesn't say a word, the room so quiet you hear the silence ring.

You lean your forehead against hers. "Please, baby." You murmur, pleading—for what, you don't know.

Emily sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "I'm—this isn't easy for me."

Your eyes flood with heat. "I know it isn't."

"Not you," she rushes out, grabs the hem of your sweater in a fist. "I don't mean you."

Her voice goes cracked, desperate. It gnaws at you, hearing her like this, seeing the glaze of tears in her eyes, but you want her to just stop burying it all.

I could've waited. I wasn't hurt, I was just uncomfortable. I could've waited.

It becomes harder to swallow. "You're not alone." You stroke along her cheek, just as desperate. "Do you know that?"

Emily's eyes close. "I do. I do know that. Fuck, hon, I—"

"You can trust me."

"I do," she breathes. "I swear I do."

"I don't have one foot out the door." The words crack, and Emily's eyes shoot open, go wide and round—and fuck, you're making it about you again, twisting it all to bring it back to—

"I'm not leaving you."

Her face crumples, a sharp sob gasping out of her. She clamps a hand over her mouth but it's too late, the sound is already echoing, her tears are tipping over fast, trailing down the length of her cheeks.

You can feel your own tears wetting your face. Emily's shoulders are heaving silently as you bring her into you, wrap your arm around her shoulder and bring her close—still far, too far—your neck tipping forward into the top of her head.

"I'm not leaving you," you whisper into her hair. "Get the thought out of your head, okay? It's not happening." You say hoarsely, damp patches growing on the front of your sweater. Emily sniffles and everything trembles—her hands, clutching your sides, her shoulders, your strained, pounding heart. The sound of her sobs cleaves through the rush in your ears.

You palm the nape of her neck, smoothing over the the taut muscles there.

"It's not happening."

-

"You can't just not tell me this shit." You're crying, tears pattering down onto the floor like rain. Emily is blurry, but you can still see the bruise staining her side, the bandages cutting across her ribs. "Jesus, Emily, do you think no one cares? You think I don't?"

"I didn't want you to worry." She says, almost desperately. "See, you're worrying—"

"Of course I am! I fucking love you, I'll always be worried!"

Emily sucks in a breath. You barely even notice what it is you've said, never mind that it's been on your mind for weeks now, taunting you. You can only stare at the bruise, her skin marred, marked, violent.

"I'm sorry." She cups your face, thumbs at the wet slip of tears. "I'm sorry, honey, fuck—don't cry. Please don't."

You can't not. You're not a crier, not really, but it's all you can see—someone with a boot to her ribs, an elbow, a gun, a knife splitting her skin open. Someone wanting her harmed. Dead.

You still see it as she brings you into her chest.

"You can't keep doing this."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I love you. I love you."

-

The near-empty jar of Will's granola balances precariously on your thighs as you sit in the living room, your neck craned down at the phone in your lap, eyes burning from the strain and everything else. Sergio purrs at your side, warding off the void. He's a welcome companion as the sky darkens around you and leaves you with a time capsule of memories.

You wade through it all with bated breath.

You keep your phone's brightness turned low, your eyes still sensitive to too-bright light. You've been combing it through for nearly an hour now, reading back text threads, searching through the photos in your camera roll, gathering bits of your life like an ant collecting crumbs. It's a bit surreal, to be able to poke around. The person in your phone is clearly you; you haven't changed enough in three years to become unrecognizable to yourself. It's more of a relief than anything, but you still find yourself factoring in the newer variables, wondering how they came about.

Your habits are the same. You text dryly, keep few pictures of yourself, have a hundred more or less useless notes taking up space in your notes app. Your social media accounts are as sparse as they've ever been. Your call log consists of the same three people—Emily taking up most of it.

There's no rhyme or rhythm to your searching. You jump from app to app—your photos to your messages and back, opening up a new text thread, scrolling through another album. There's things you ignore: texts asking after your health, some from people you recognize, others whose names are fuzzy; Christmas well-wishes, continuations to conversations you don't have the context for, fourteen new messages from Pen🩷, three missed calls from Emily—11:17 P.M., 11:18, 11:19, December 16.

You're briefly queasy again.

Some of it comes back, the fog drawing thin. Your high-school best friend is still in your life—you're still just as close—though no longer as easy to see. Your eyes glaze over when you read the latest message, dated six days ago.

I'm here for you, anytime you want.

There's a few more from that same vein. Texts from Emily's friends, in varying degrees of familiarity—none from her mother, which doesn't surprise you. (Your lack of surprise, however, does). A name you vaguely recognize turns out to be a coworker you go out with on occasion; you dig through your camera roll and connect the face to the name when you find a picture, shadowy from the weak lighting of a bar.

Pictures of you and Emily, you find, are laughably rare. It's mostly her, or Sergio, or both of them together. They're sickeningly domestic—blurred, or in warm lighting, or posed up close. Emily mid-laugh, mid-yawn; deep in concentration with a book in her hands, Sergio sprawled across her legs.

It feels like you're intruding, somehow. You're not able to go through half the photos before you click back into your messages, an incessant gnawing in your stomach.

You have two new texts from her. Her name sits a few rows down (Em, the contact photo one of her with a beach splayed behind her). You tentatively open up the thread, not knowing what to expect.

December 16, 10:47 P.M.

You

Want anything else?

Em

My wife back.

You 

T-minus ten minutes

Em

That's a little more than ten minutes.

Honey, where are you?

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

December 13, 10:04 A.M.

Em

Are we out of Advil?

You

There's a strip in my bag

What's wrong?

Em

Mother called.

You

Jesus

Em

Good news, though, she'll be out of state this Christmas.

You

Sweeeeet

December 11, 2:36 P.M.

You

Hey

Do you have a minute?

Em

Tell me.

Voice call

December 8, 7:23 P.M.

Em

Boarding.

It's around five hours, don't wait up.

You

Don't tell me what to do

Em

Seriously?

You

My bad for missing you

And for being a good wife

Em

A perfect wife, you mean.

You

Flattery will get you everywhere

Em

I love you.

Please don't wait up.

December 7, 8:14 A.M.

You

How's the nausea, baby

Em

Not so bad. I at least made it through breakfast today.

JJ caught me, though.

You

Better her than Pen

Em

That's what I thought.

December 3, 6:53 P.M.

You 

Okay so

Does anyone in your office happen to like peanut butter cookies?

Em

Babe.

How much did you make?

You

Well

Emily

I'm still waiting for an answer.

December 1, 5:18 P.M.

Em

In the store, you want anything?

You

Takis!!!

Em

Those things will genuinely kill you.

You

Two takis :))

"Hey."

Your head snaps up at the sound of Emily's voice. You turn the phone off. "Hi."

She sits down next to you, close enough for your arms to brush. Sergio trills and eagerly migrates onto her lap. She gives his chin a few lazy scratches, the sound of his purrs taking up space in the silence.

You notice, as your fingers itch to smooth out the reddened sleep lines on her cheek, that she sits on your good side. She always sits on your good side.

You set your phone down and reach over to stroke an idle path down Sergio's back. With the movement, your shoulder gently presses into hers. She turns to steal a glance at you, her wayward bangs brushing your cheek, lightly ticklish on your skin.

Her free arm shifts against yours and you feel her reach into your lap, pick up the abandoned—depleted—jar of granola, the few grains left inside rattling as she turns it over.

"Hungry?"

"Very." You sift your fingers through Sergio's fur, only a slight bit embarrassed. His purring cranks louder, seeping into your bones.

"What do you say to takeout?"

Her voice is so close, brushing your jaw, that you have to fight not to shiver. You take your hand back and keep your shoulder pressed against hers and suddenly feel it, all around—the stillness, in you, in her, in the house.

There's too much grief clouding you.

"Why don't we go for dinner?" You venture. "If you're feeling up to it."

Emily's eyes snap up to yours. "Yeah," she says, eager if a little surprised. "Yeah, sure."

"Sure?" You reiterate.

"Yes," she insists. "Anything particular in mind?"

You shake your head. "Just nothing fancy. Take me…" your arm loosely hooks around her hers, "take me somewhere I like."

Emily smiles, then. It still throws you off—how it softens her face, the shine of unadulterated pleasure making her glow. Beautiful, your stomach twists, tying itself in knots. Beautiful even with her eyes still shot through with red, the skin around them puffy with sleep, with tears, the heartache clinging to her even now.

"Okay."

-

The neon lights of a 24/7 diner glint off of her hair.

"Is this okay?" She asks, a thread of hesitation ringing in her voice.

You can't fathom the warmth flowing through you. You yourself hadn't known what to want or expect, but standing in front of the restaurant, a sense of rightness clicks. And, warmer than the weight of your hand in hers—

She knows you. Even when you don't.

You turn to kiss her cold cheek and feel the doubt slump out of her. "Perfect." You murmur.

Emily blushes a faint pink, pleased.

Inside, the lights are warm, the leather of the booths soft and worn. The whole place smells like sticky maple and deep-fried chicken. It's familiar, sugar and grease, setting off the hunger in you again.

A young, bored-looking waitress seats you.

"You sure this won't upset your nausea?" You ask Emily as she settles opposite you.

"I don't think so, this place is tried and tested. We've been a couple of times," she shrugs, "seems to be okay. What are you feeling?"

"Breakfast," you say resolutely, picking up the menu and skimming the options. "You?"

"Anything with maple."

Your mouth quirks. Much the same, your eyes skip over the egg combos and head straight down to the griddle dishes.

Belgian waffles, strawberry French toast, cinnamon roll pancakes…

"We missed pancake Sunday." You say idly. The image blooms in your head: your sun-drenched kitchen, Emily in just a t-shirt, humming some aimless tune and stirring pancake batter. You cutting up fruit, dotting chocolate chips on the still wet puddles she scoops out onto the pan. It's a ritual of sorts, implicitly sacred. Yours and hers.

Surprise washes over Emily's face. "Oh," she says. "Yeah—right. Slipped my mind."

"That's quite a serious offense, Mrs. Prentiss."

Her eyes go pinched, smiling. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, velvet-soft as she leans across the table. "How do you want me to make it up to you?"

She's teasing, you can distantly tell. But her voice, already low, drops lower, pours over your skin like honey. She looks at you from under her lashes and it sets you on fire, your wife toying with you, flirting.

"Are you guys ready to order?" The waitress comes over, clicking her pen, saving you.

You lean back into your seat and nod a little too quickly, the heat of Emily's eyes still on your face. You can hear the barest hint of a smile in her voice as she places her order—her menu still closed, hands folded neatly on top of it. You—a few degrees above your normal temperature, the words on the menu blurring before your eyes—go for the pancakes.

Outside, flecks of snow start fluttering down. They streak through the dark backdrop of the evening, sweep up against the window, stick and melt on the glass. A bell chimes as the door of the diner pushes open, a belated gust of wind rushing past you.

It cools your cheeks enough that you can pick up the conversation again.

"So." You look back at your wife. "How did we find this place?"

Emily's mouth softens, pulls up into a half smile. "It's not anything special, really. We were going out for dinner, but we didn't make it in time for our reservation. My flight was delayed coming back," she explains. "But we were starving and everywhere else was packed, so..."

As she talks, threads of memory start to connect.

It was a weekend. You'd been annoyed with her, but—I'm not the one flying the jet, babe.

"Our old complex is close by." You mention.

This earns you a proper smile. Dimpled and all. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." Emily says.

There's a new weight to her gaze, a heavy fondness, her eyes bright with it. It warms you up on the inside as she takes your hand from the table and lifts it up to her lips. "You're doing good," she whispers, kissing the ridges of your knuckles.

Air thins in your lungs, a swooping feeling rushing through your gut.

You're doing good.

You carefully twist your hand in her grip and reach over to cup her cheek. You see the breath rush in her, fast, then slower, quieter, like she's trying to pace herself. The table edge digs into your ribs as you brush your thumb over her cheek, not quite where her dimple lays—too high up.

Her eyes are so dark you can see tiny, twin reflections of yourself in them, pulled over her irises.

"How can you stand it?" You ask quietly.

She doesn't need to ask what you're talking about. She knows, squeezes your wrist, ghosts her thumb over your pulse.

"Because I love you, and you're my best friend."

She says it so plainly. It's near laughable—almost childishly simple. Still, your eyes grow hot, a lump expanding in your throat as Emily keeps her hand over yours, lightly skates her thumb over your skin. "I've always been alone," she murmurs. "Ever since I was a kid. I never had many friends, and the ones I could make—" she shrugs, "it was impossible to stay in touch. That kind of stuck, I think." Her voice seeps into your bones, through muscle, through skin. "Even as I grew up, I wasn't exactly popular. It was hard to…connect."

Your chest twinges. Emily rubs absent, soothing circles on your skin, almost like she can feel it.

"The BAU was my first time feeling like I belonged. Sappy, I know, but—I'd never really had friends, much less family." She says softly, passively. A tiny bit amused, like she's laughing at herself.

"And then, you came along." Her lips tug, brushing the heel of your hand—not quite a kiss, but not quite not. It's enough to send your heart in a tailspin, but then her eyes pin you in place, impossibly dark, brimming with such focus you nearly squirm. She exhales heavily, warmth fogging over your skin. "I've kind of been waiting my whole life for you."

The words burrow deep. There's such a palpable tenderness to them that you have to look away, catch your breath.

You. All of this is for you. Somehow, for some reason.

"Charmer," you muster out.

Emily smiles. She clasps your hand between both of hers and gently lays it back on the table. You barely notice the strain that loosens in your arm, your head overfull with her. She lets you stay in it, a little dazed, but before long she's nudging your ankle under the table, trapping your leg between both of hers, your knees knocking into each other.

"So, does that mean you'll let me sleep in your bed tonight?"

You're surprised when you laugh, so loud you have to clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle it.

-

With a sling, every normal activity takes about ten times longer. Changing; eating; showering; even sleeping is tedious. Brushing your teeth and washing your face take an eternity when Emily's not helping you—she insists, but so do you, that you've got it. Because you have. It just takes about two hours to get through what used to take you five minutes.

You flick open the cap on the bottle of aloe gel and squeeze out a cool dollop. Emily had gotten you the squeezable bottle after you'd struggled with the jar—you don't know when she'd gotten it, only that it was there on your nightstand the next time you needed to switch out your bandage. At the reminder, you find yourself biting down on a smile as you spread the gel on the half-healed burn.

Sweet. She's sweet—in a way that makes you fuss and flounder and go hot despite yourself. It's nothing overly loud or frivolous, just deeply earnest. You've never met anyone so thoughtful.

At least, you think.

Every day, it just becomes more surreal—the fact that she's yours, unwavering and entirely devoted. Funny. So beautiful it physically aches in your chest. You feel like you've done nothing to deserve her, like you just woke up and she was there, hovering over your hospital bed, her eyes glazed with tears.

Honey. Talk to me, please.

Honey, breathe. Honey, you're killing me.

Honey, I'm kidding. Honey, let me in, honey I love you, fuck, honey, there you go—

You wipe off the excess gel with a towel, somersaults in your stomach.

It's a strange thing, to be falling in love with your wife. You love her, you know you do, you feel it. It's dormant, living inside your bones.

But this, it's different. It trips along your insides, burning hot and growing hotter, glowing, in your chest, the pit of your stomach. You look up at yourself in the bathroom mirror, eyes bright, the ghost of a smile lingering around your mouth, and you think—yes.

You're falling in love with her.

-

"Oh—god, I'm sorry—"

"Hm?" Emily turns, to you, topless—nearly entirely topless, a shirt clutched in her hand, and that's—

That's a tattoo. Arched over her hip, curling to wrap around her waist.

A tattoo. She has a tattoo.

"I—" You mouth goes achingly dry. You swallow, hard. "Fuck, sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were changing. Or that you have a tattoo," you blurt out, cringing as the words echo in the silence. Your back is still to the bathroom door, your feet firmly planted on the ground even as your eyes rove, heat ripping through you.

Your first thought is: she's not as soft as she feels. There's lean muscle in her arms, toned and firm even from afar, her shoulders strong, chest rounded and soft. Your eyes are gluttonous, eating across every inch of her pale skin. They skate up the plane of her stomach, to her exposed collarbones, to the curve to her neck, down to the ink splayed on her side—

The corner of Emily's mouth ticks up. You're still glued in place as she steps closer, much to the dismay of your poor, weak knees.

"I have a couple," she says easily. "You like this one?"

You tell yourself not to look—don't look, don't, don't, don't—but you fail yourself.

Your eyes drop to it.

Up close, it's even more catching—a little faded, worn into her skin. The inkwork is elegant—a string of lilies, arching up, curving around to cup her waist. Pale white stretch marks ripple through it. Loose, curling tendrils of stem reach up just to her ribs; the rest of the tattoo dips below her waistline, snaking down her hip, a petal peeking over—

You avert your eyes, too late, the ink already burned into your brain.

"Sorry," you mutter belatedly, blood rushing to your cheeks.

"What for?"

Your eyes snap back to hers. Emily's smile is now a full-blown grin, more than a little pleased.

"You can look, honey, it's okay." Her voice is faintly teasing. "Touch, even. I won't bite."

You swallow, feeling your back press against the door. "I'm sorry." Your voice is embarrassingly ragged. Her gaze is impossible to hold; you flick your eyes away, rubbing skittishly at your brow. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot."

"So polite," she murmurs, unbearably fond. "Sweetheart, you're my wife. I'm not on any spot."

Your brows scrunch. You look back at her to find a similar look on her face. It fades into a smile when your eyes meet, her shrug easy and careless. "You get what I mean. Really, it's okay." Her voice softens. Coaxing. "If you want to."

It feels like uneven ground. You're bared open, every inch of your want out on display and it's—it's new to you but it's not new to her and even though, in all technicality, she's the one stripped to her skin but you feel exposed down to your bones, falling after she's already fell, her feet steady on the ground while you're still tumbling and tripping over yourself.

Unfair.

But you still can't help yourself.

Swallowing your heart, you let your eyes drift lower.

"Twenty-year-old me was onto something, huh?" She murmurs.

Twenty-year-old you would have straight fainted at the sight. Current-age-you isn't faring much better, really.

"It's pretty." You manage.

"You think?"

"Emily," you inhale, swallowing to dispel the dryness in your throat, "I mean this in the nicest way possible—please put on your goddamn shirt."

She laughs, ducking her head. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"No, you're not." You mutter, relieved and disappointed in equal measure when she shrugs her shirt on. It becomes marginally easier to breathe, a relentless flame flicking out.

Her smile is in her eyes as she pulls out her hair from under the shirt. "Want me to help? You didn't ice your shoulder today, did you?"

"Didn't, no." You finally find the strength to push off of the bathroom door and make your way to the closet.

You pick a considerably lighter pair of pajamas to account for the clinginess. (King bed, yes, but can you really trust her to stay on her side?)

There's no good reason to let her help you, but you hand her the shirt anyway.

It's become a routine of sorts. You sit down on the edge of the bed and take your arm out from your sling, carefully holding it stiff. Emily kneels down in front of you and reaches for the hem of your sweater, bunches it up to help you get your arm out of the sleeve.

It's easy to pull your good arm out, but the other one needs more maneuvering. Emily guides the collar over your head and gently tugs the sleeve down your injured shoulder.

"Bruising's getting better." She murmurs, eyeing the discoloration around the joint. She sets your sweater aside. "Have you been doing the exercises?"

You wince a little.

"Honey."

"Forgot."

She sighs. "Can we do them now, do you feel up for it?"

You're not sure she realizes it, but her voice does the thing. Sweetens, almost, goes softer than it already is. She doesn't push, but she does this. Gently coaxes and poses it all as a question, gives you the illusion of making a choice when, really, she makes it impossible to refuse.

"Fine."

Emily squeezes your knee, pleased. She helps you slip your pajama shirt on then shifts closer to your left, picking up your hand from its perch on your thigh.

"I've been doing the finger ones." You allow.

She hums. "What about this one?" She keeps your arm supported with one hand and takes your wrist in the other, gently bending it down.

You shake your head. She holds the position for a few seconds then switches, pushing your wrist up until your hand hovers in a high-five. Your head quietens as you let her guide you through the motions. It's nothing tedious or painful, but having her do it is strangely relieving.

Her hands are warm, the room quiet but for the shift of her knees on the floor, the springs in the bed as your weight eases and settles. You feel every thud of your heart in your chest.

Emily is quiet as she moves on to the other exercise—this one to help you bend your elbow. She gently guides your arm, searching your face for signs of pain, a faint crease between her brows. You're not really thinking when press your thumb to it, but she huffs out a sound like a laugh, her skin smoothing out, the crease disappearing.

As she brings your arm back down, she lays a soft kiss to the side of your wrist.

You're acutely aware that she has all of your hurt in her hands. Your biggest physical vulnerability, entirely in her control. She could pull an abrupt move, push or pinch or grab where it hurts, but she doesn't. You don't know why the thought even creeps up; she's almost unbearably cautious, sitting, on her knees, for you. Everything she's done has been to ease your pain. You don't even believe that she'd do anything to hurt you, but she just.

She could.

"You seem well practiced." You remark quietly.

Emily hums. "I've dislocated my shoulders enough for a lifetime."

You frown.

"How many times?"

Her lips purse. "Two on my right, I think. Three on my left."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." She smiles humorlessly. "Perks of the job. They heal a lot faster after that first time, though."

Your nose wrinkles. "It's still awful."

She gives a little hum. "It's not something I ever wanted you to know the feeling of." Her brows draw together, lips thinning as she sets your hand down. Quick and nimble, she grabs the sling and eases your arm back into it, careful to adjust the strap so that it sits on your pajama shirt.

"How's that?" She checks in.

"Perfect," you nod. "Thank you."

She straightens, takes your face in her hands and kisses your forehead. "Bed?"

"Bed."

-

You dream of her.

"Don't be mean, honey," she murmurs, palpably fond. "It's not like you. You know I haven't been home."

You let the fridge door fall closed. Her voice rumbles through your skin, making you wilt.

"You've been back for three days."

"Been busy." Emily says. You open your mouth to protest, only to slam it shut when your stomach rumbles right into her hands. You flush, though you know she doesn't care. Emily hums and tightens her hold when you try to wriggle free. "The diner's open. You like their waffles."

You do like their waffles. But that's not really the point. Again, you open your mouth to argue, but then Emily uses her extensive knowledge of you to her best advantage; she lightly drags her teeth, soothes with her tongue, and you're liquid in her arms, the argument crumbling, her poor eating habits taking a backseat.

It's not fair.

"Want the ones with the pecans? Extra syrup?"

"I—yeah." You manage.

Her smile is pressed to your skin. "Okay."

She's so, so good to you. You've hardly done anything other than wake up, and already she has you spoiled, soft from her mouth and slow, devastating rolls of her hips. Every inch of you still buzzes. Last night you'd done the work, sat on her lap and gave her a show—almost instinctively, really, gone desperate with her absence—and now she's treating you for it. Rarely does she need a reason, and often there's none; but today, she'd warmed your skin with whispers of so good, perfect, you were so good to me, baby. Still so good, look at you. Angel girl.

You'd basked in it.

The truth is, you've always been a sucker for praise. A job well done, a pat on the back—yeah, it got to you. And from her, it's ten times as potent, floating straight to your head and making you go woozy. There's just something about her voice, low and smooth—her approval—that flips a neat switch in you.

God, if you could bottle it up.

You're hopelessly far gone, you know that. Emily places the order, coaxes you back into bed, and you let her. You let her hike up your shirt, press her mouth to your hipbone, skirt your underwear out of the way. You couldn't stop her for anything.

You sense the same desperation in her as she cradles the backs of your thighs. She'd murmured how much she missed you, last night, and she does it again now, nearly sighing it out. "I couldn't stop thinking about you," she admits, hushed into your skin. The thrill burns in your veins, electric.

"What about me?" You breathe.

Her mouth curves. You feel it everywhere.

"This." A soft kiss. "Your voice. What you were doing."

A tight spring coils in your gut. You reach down and tangle your fingers in her hair, feeling the warmth of the sun in it.

"You have a phone."

"Didn't have the guts." She murmurs, so close to your skin you feel rather than hear it. Her eyes flick up to yours, warm, glittering brown. "Funny, right? You'd turned me shy."

There's a tenderness to her voice, I love you scrambled and stretched across different letters, poorly trying to conceal itself. You hear it. It's there in her eyes, the heat of her touch.

You'd guessed, earlier, that going for someone older would treat you well, but Emily's better than just well. She's everything. Too much, sometimes, all her devotion cramping your lungs, but you're getting better at breathing through it. Letting yourself be taken care of, be loved. She has no shortage of love, and you're drowning in it.

You're already struggling against a breath when her mouth replaces the hush of cotton. Your heart jumps, slamming into your chest. Involuntarily, your eyes close; under your eyelids, you see faint yellow, its heat finding the part between your legs. Slowly, as if she has all the time in the world, she builds you up. Her hands are gentle when you fall.

You love her, you think. Your already frantic heart kicks into a frenzy.

You're breathing hard in the wake of her attention, your exhales still puffing loud through your nose and into the faintly ringing silence of her room. Emily coaxes stillness into you, her hands warm as she trails them up, down, in long paths, wide circles. Your fingers unfurl from her hair. She dots small kisses over your bunched t-shirt.

"I was thinking," she murmurs when you've caught your breath, "I could take a few days off, too. When you get your vacation days. We could go somewhere." She lays her head on your hip.

You blink against the faint blurriness in your eyes, sunlight haloing her in gold.

"Somewhere." You echo.

"France," she says.

You laugh without meaning to. It's a mellowed sound, pliant and hazy, pulled long like a string of toffee.

"France," you repeat, "how am I gonna manage that?"

"You won't." Emily says. "I will."

As if it's so easy. Nothing at all. You're staring at her as she crawls up by your side, settling onto the pillows with an elegance that seems unfair.

Her face begs.

"No." You say.

"Why not? I have an apartment." Emily tilts her head, dazzling you with the slice of sun illuminating her eyes, "In Nice. It's just a matter of plane tickets. I've got the miles, more than enough of them. It'd practically be for free."

"Not really."

You know she's—lightly putting it—rich. She's not very subtle about it, and neither does she seem to care about preserving her wealth. More about insisting to spend it.

Let me spoil you, she often sighs. Let me let me let me, I swear it's nothing, I want to. It makes you feel like a fraud. As if it's all transactional, your presence for her money. You know what anyone would call this if they saw it.

Emily presses closer, chin to the hinge of your shoulder, eyes soft. "I want you to see it," she says gently. "I want to show it to you. Let me."

You look away, to allow yourself firmer ground beneath your feet. "What's in Nice, anyway?"

"Come with me and I'll show you."

Your lips twitch. Emily shifts to meet your eyes and you spy a singular gray hair running from her scalp to her roots. It glints, nearly swallowed in a sea of surrounding black. You lift your hand, trace your thumb over it.

"I'll think about it."

Her eyes roll. "You're unbelievable," she mutters, shaking her head. The movement is fond, free of any and all heat. "Who else would refuse this? Practically all expenses paid and you're still so…" Her lips quirk, "stubborn."

She might as well have called you an angel.

"I just—" You swallow down a sound. Your body stews with heat, from her proximity and her generosity and just…everything, all of her. "I just don't want to…take advantage of you." You mumble, grazing over the faint dimple in her cheek.

Emily wilts.

"Honey," she sighs, placing her hand over yours. "I'm offering. There's no possible way you could twist this into me being taken advantage of."

"Mmm." You let the sound linger. Her skin is warm; your hand is trapped, heat on all sides. "I'll think about it." You concede.

Emily's nose scrunches in that soft way. Childlike, almost. "Stubborn girl."

"You like it when I put up a fight." You smile, sweeter than you can help.

You can see her crumble, right there. It's nothing short of astonishing, even after all this time. You—measly, timid you—having such an effect on her. It's inconceivable, and yet it happens regularly enough.

"Yeah, baby." She turns her head, presses her smiling lips to the heel of your hand. "I do."

You swarm with nerves, flushing.

The doorbell saves you. It rings, and you perk up, pulling yourself upright. "Food."

Emily laughs.

-

You slip into the bathroom and she rifles through her wallet, pulling out a few bills. It's obvious, she thinks as she catches her reflection in the mirror, that she's been drowning in the unholy. Her lips are swollen with it, her eyes bright and gently lidded, a tangle to her hair that comes from fingers burying themselves in it, knotting, tugging. Emily smooths it down behind her ears, her mouth quirking.

For the sake of propriety, she ties the knot of her robe, hiding the thin slip under it. Opening the door a crack, Emily sticks her head out and mutters an instinctive greeting, the money held in her hand.

In her haste, she hadn't thought to look through the peephole.

It's a costly mistake.

The usual delivery guy doesn't stand in the hallway, no; Garcia takes his place, surrounded by—to Emily's glitching brain—an army. Frankly the last people she wants to see. Tara, Luke, JJ, all hover close to her door, all wearing frowns that range in severity. Garcia's is the deepest.

The slow fog of the morning promptly burns off, Emily's mouth parting in bewilderment.

"What the fuck?" She gapes.

They briefly gape back in turn. Then, one by one, the worry leaves their faces. Smirks creep in, smug and too loud. Emily feels the hot trail of too many eyes on her.

"Oh, hello." Tara crosses her arms, eyes sparkling. They drag over her, leisurely tracking up and down and back up, her grin widening on the way. "Did we interrupt something?"

Heat blazes over her skin. Emily tries to force her voice down flat, but it betrays her. "What are you doing here?" She hisses.

Garcia snaps out of her stupor.

"What are we—we thought you were dead! We tried your phone, like, fifty times." Emily winces at the reminder of her dead phone. "I sent you a dozen emails. Where have you been?"

"With who have you been?" JJ's brows lift.

"Nobody." Emily lies, ignoring the blush searing her cheeks. "With no one. Did we get called in, is that why you're all here? It's the weekend, for fuck's sake." Her dirty look hits Luke square in the eyes, and he shirks away, raising his hands in surrender. "And all this hardly warrants a search party. Jesus. I could've been sleeping—I mean, I literally was, until—"

"Em?" You call out. "Did you open the door? What's taking so long—"

She goes still.

Garcia gasps so big it sucks the air out of the hallway. Emily doesn't have time to call out before you're there in the doorway, your frown giving way to a startled, deer-in-headlights look. Her mouth opens too late. You look over her shoulder at the entourage clogging the hallway and let out a squeak.

Emily doesn't really think; she just shuts the door, blocking the hungry sets of eyes still lingering on her doorstep. Through the wood, she can hear Garcia's ohmygodohmygod and Tara's laugh, Luke's sheepish looks like she's doing fine. JJ's voice blurs as Emily moves away from the door to where you're still frozen.

"Who are these people?" You tug at the hem of your shirt, as if you could get it to stretch down any farther. Emily finds the effort ridiculously endearing. She's plagued with the urge to take your face between her hands, feel the heat of you through her palms.

Her next words, she knows, will make you flame even hotter.

She wets her lips, briefly dragging them between her teeth. The racket still continues outside, and she takes you by the elbow, tugs you away from the door. You step into a pool of sunlight streaming in.

Emily's chest tightens. She's had you to herself for as long as she could, a warm, blossoming secret tucked between her ribs. It honestly lasted longer than she could've hoped.

"Those," she nearly sighs, "they're…my team."

Your eyes blow wide.

"Your—your work team? FBI agents?"

Emily's chin dips once. "The BAU, yes. My—subordinates," she scratches the back of her neck, "if you will."

The color drains from your face. "Oh my god."

"It's fine!" She hurries to say. "I swear, if any of them even says a word—"

"Oh my god." You hide behind your hands. The heat almost emanates from you. "Oh my god, Emily. This can't be their first impression of me! I'm—I'm half naked, the FBI just saw me half naked, oh my—"

"Honey," she coaxes, trying her best, for your sake, not to laugh. "Baby, I promise it's okay. The door wasn't open that wide, I'm sure they didn't see you." She kneads up your arms, your tense shoulders. The muscle is stiff everywhere.

You make a vaguely dying sound into your hands and this time she does let herself laugh, wrapping her fingers around your wrists.

"Come on," Emily murmurs, lightly tugging your hands away. "Let me see that pretty face."

"They're your friends," you mumble, miserable.

"I wouldn't go that far."

Her consolation attempts are unappreciated. You're groaning as she tugs your hands away, visibly flustered. Emily takes each knuckle to her lips, kissing the hot ridges.

The doorbell rings again. You jump, letting go of her hands.

"It's your pancakes!" Garcia yells through the door.

You cringe, rubbing at your cheek. Emily sighs, mourning the loss of your quiet morning.

"I'm firing them all."