huge, if true.

“Nice shirt,” she’d rasped, hands clenched deep in her pockets to stop herself from doing something stupid. Her eyes were free to roam, though—and Christ, did they roam.

“You think?” You beamed, smoothing a hand down the material where it lay at your waist. Emily hummed thickly. “It was on sale. I wasn’t too sure about the cut but I loved the color.”

The color was nothing short of glorious. It complimented your skin, brightening the vivid hues in your eyes. As for the cut…

Emily chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“It’s beautiful.” She said honestly, magnetized. Immediately, the next part slipped out—“You are”—and Emily wasn’t even ashamed that it did.

Your laugh bent the air. “Thanks. Woke up on the right side of the bed today, huh?” You playfully patted her cheek, your hand warm. “You’re not too—oh, this is gorgeous.” You cut yourself off, and she was briefly too dizzy to notice it’s because you were thumbing at her earring. It dangled, pulling gently when you probed at it with a careful fingernail.

Have it, she almost told you. Never mind that it’s 21 carat gold, dotted with milky pearls and worth half a month’s paycheck. Each. 

“Doesn’t compare to you.” She murmured instead. Her voice dipped lower, lined with a rasp that practically gave her away.

“Tease,” you rolled your eyes, swatting at her even though she meant it. It didn’t escape her attention how both compliments rolled off your back like water. Emily choked on your perfume as she breathed out a forced, half hearted laugh, already reaching for your usual mug of choice.

“Coffee?” 

“Yes, please.”

Her memory is brimming with similar encounters. Sifting through them is what gives her the push, she thinks. JJ and Garcia are all too aware of her ever-growing crush—she’s willing to bet everyone is, except for you—and while they had both pushed and prodded for her to make a damn move, claiming that you like her back just as much, she’d refrained. 

Now her composure is crumbling.

It could also be because of your head currently cushioned on her shoulder, numbing her arm and doing strange things to her pulse. You’re not asleep, just tired of holding your head up; a game plays on your phone, lights occasionally flashing in the corner of her eye. 

When we land, Emily decides. Dinner, somewhere warm, with good hearty food. God knows you all need it.

She mulls it over as she watches the sun cast its last rays across the clouds, its warmth long gone but replaced by the weight on her shoulder. She makes a speech and promptly discards it, and by the time she stands at the junction of your desk and hers, watching you pocket something from your drawer, her head is buzzing loudly.

You throw your coat over your arm and slide your drawer shut. Her time is running out. 

Emily steps around her desk, leaning over to bump your shoulder with hers.

“Hey.” She bites her tongue before she can call you something sweet. It’s baffling—she’s never been one for pet names or anything of the like, but when it comes to you, she wants to drown you in them. 

You look up with a hum, eyes expectant.

Heaven help her.

“Do you want to go out to dinner?”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, she has to chew down on the urge to cringe. It’s all so clinical, she realizes, so wildly unromantic, but you’re chained to this place. Life hardly exists outside the BAU—at least, life with you—so she has to make do with this shitty bullpen bearing witness.

Emily braces herself for the impact.

But, miraculously, you nod, smiling like she’s offered you the world on a platter. “Oh, sure! I’ve been starving since we left the precinct. Morgan and Reid were complaining earlier, let’s tell them too.”

Emily frowns.

“What? No—”

“I’m starving,” Reid agrees. He pops up out of nowhere and sits himself on the corner of your desk, lanky figure cutting between you and her. “Morgan’s been talking about this new Mexican place nonstop—”

“Ooh, are we talking Mexican?” Morgan creeps in behind her, suddenly doubling the size of their party.

No, Emily glares at him. She knocks his shoulder with hers when he gets too close, widening her eyes to say stay the fuck away.

He raises his hands, brows furrowing.

“Butt out.” She hisses, but it all goes down the drain.

Garcia—sweet, traitorous Garcia—gambols over to them, helplessly out of the loop and always looking to fit herself in it. “Are we going to dinner?” She asks, unaware of the curdling acid in Emily’s gut.

It all slips from her hands then. You fill Garcia in, Morgan side eyes her then shrugs and launches into high praise of the restaurant, and before she knows it you’re being swept away, nestled in the midst of nosy, ironically clueless profilers.

Emily could kill them all just then.

She hangs a little behind as everyone heads to the elevator. Surely this could have been prevented, she thinks; maybe she should’ve dragged you aside somewhere, waited until it was just the both of you in the elevator. Could she have been more discreet? There was no one in the bullpen but her incessant, prying team. Maybe she should’ve been quieter.

Frustration balls up into a knot in her throat. Emily knows you need a heavy hand, a clear and unmistakable intonation of her meaning, and yet she still fumbled. The words slipped from her mouth like water, a stupid, casual, do you want to go out to dinner rather than something unmistakably amorous.

JJ pops up next to her as she wallows, grinning something more amused than she’d like. “You’ll get there one day.” She sympathetically pats her shoulder.

Emily flips her off.

2.

She’s still pissed at Reid. 

Naturally, the invitation had snowballed to include the entire team. Emily had had to spend dinner keeping her scowl to herself, seated across from you, right in the middle of Rossi and JJ as Reid rambled in your ear. You always listen to him, more interested than the rest of the team usually is, and while Emily usually loves you for it all she could think of was grabbing him by his scrawny neck and hauling him from his seat.

Any attempts at asking you again are thrown out the window; Garcia called with a case the next day, and now here she is, four days later, cross legged on a stiff motel bed with you across her knee. You left the precinct about an hour ago at Hotch’s order, the unsub in cuffs and case files boxed neatly away. The jet won’t leave until tomorrow morning—meaning, you’re stuck in nowhere city, Kansas. 

Takeout has been ordered and the money laid out; nothing occupies Emily’s thoughts other than the damp curl of your hair after your shower, the slightly jutted curve of your lips as you flip through the channels on the TV. She can smell every single one of the products you used in a heady concoction: light coconut from your shampoo; something faintly clinical from the antibacterial soap bar in the bathroom; the silky warmth of your cocoa butter lotion. It makes her relax, oddly enough, her tired muscles slumping onto the headboard next to your own.

The fact that you’re on her bed isn’t unusual. Emily draws from the comfort of your touching knees, hers bare and yours encased in cotton sweatpants.

“I’m pretty sure you’re looping back to where you started,” she drawls, though her eyes are more fixed on you than they are on the flashing TV.

You ignore her comment. It wasn’t particularly helpful, so she lets it slide, but it’s not long before her head works again. She’s desperate to talk to you; it’s an itch that can’t be scratched by your mere presence next to her. 

“Hey, how long did the restaurant say it’d take?”

Your hum is lazy, eyes narrowing at a cartoon channel. Skip. “…Twenty minutes?” You murmur. “Twenty five, maybe. Shouldn’t be long now.”

“Hm.”

You lapse into silence again, flipping through more channels. News, sitcom reruns, cooking tutorials. Her brain goes into overdrive.

The bell rings. Saved.

Food naturally opens up conversation. She lays it all out, and you find When Harry met Sally.

“Good choice. I saw it in the theater just before I left for Yale.”

A spark lights up your eyes. “Oh, so you’re old old.” You tease.

Emily bats her lashes, tongue honey-sweet. “It doesn’t show, does it, baby?”

“Now you’re just fishing.” You shove her shoulder, your laugh gracing her ears, light and easy. A smile of her own pulls at her mouth as she opens up boxes and distributes the food between you. Some part of her feels guilty for not involving JJ, but she doesn’t feel particularly forgiving after last time’s debacle.

She’s going to ask you out tonight, with no one to butt themselves in and extend the invitation.

“So,” Emily starts when you’ve both shoveled some food in your mouths, quieting the hunger in your bellies, “what’s your idea of a perfect date?”

You turn away from the movie, brows lifting slowly.

Emily rolls her eyes. “Indulge me.” She toys with her food and takes the opportunity to slide her gaze away for a moment. While used to openly flirting with you, she’s scared of you seeing the longing in her eyes—in the bow of her lips wanting to meet yours, the spaces between her fingers entirely empty without your own filling the gaps, unadulterated and all consuming.

She collects herself then looks up, a smile tugging at her mouth. Watching the thoughts race in your head delights her far more than it should. You hum through your mouthful of food, jaw sharpening as you chew, eyes darting from one spot to the other as if this shabby motel room holds the answer.

“Ice skating.” You say after a while.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been.” You shrug. Your eyes meet, and you smile sheepishly. “Bit childish, I know.”

“No, not at all.” Emily very nearly trips over her tongue and professes her love right then, her chest warm at the uncertain tilt of your lips. But she refrains. “Would you like to go with me?” She asks instead, head on and blunt and forward and nothing you could misunderstand. Nothing you should misunderstand.

A beam lights up your face. “I’d love to!” You grin, your voice rising several octaves.

Tentative hope curls in her stomach. Emily doesn’t return your smile just yet, not joining in on your laughing at her. “No Reid or Morgan or anyone.” She stresses, almost desperately. “Just us.”

“Duh,” you roll your eyes. “It’ll be fun!”

Emily can’t explain why her heart starts to sink.

“No, listen—” She can feel you slipping through her hands. She swallows, remembers last time’s mistake, reaffirms. “A date, me and you. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling. A relieved sigh climbs up Emily’s throat, drowned out by the sound of your voice when you speak again, “We’ve never been on a gals date before, have we?”

Emily blinks. “A gals date?” She echoes back, the words clumsy in her mouth.

Maybe this one’s on her lack of experience. She’d never exactly had friends enough to go on…gals dates. 

But that’s exactly what supposed friends do, isn’t it? It was never named as such when she went out with JJ and Garcia, but that’s no doubt what it was.

She can’t seem to shake off the sticky title of friends.

The press of your gaze is still on her, heavy and shimmering, even as Emily avoids it. Static rushes in her head, desolate black and white; she doesn’t even remember what your question was.

“Y-Yeah,” she says dumbly, a faint throbbing at her temples. Should she push it, drive her point home? Maybe you’re not looking to date right now. Maybe you’re just trying to let her down easy. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Gals date, huh?

Somehow she doubts it’d end the way she expects.

3.

You go on the “gals date”.

It takes a while, with work stealing away the weekends, but it happens, and Emily is entirely helpless when it does. Her hand twitches at her side when she picks you up, empty of romances she wanted to shower you with. But she can’t very well buy you flowers without risking looking like a sorry idiot. She can’t take your hand and hold it in her own, slowly filling the spaces between your fingers with hers. 

But she can open the car door for you. She can sing praises about your outfit and the way your hair frames your face. However this goes, she tells herself, she’ll be spending time with you, and that’s enough no matter her unrequited, carnal desires.

It has to be.

It is and it isn’t, she eventually finds out, when your cheeks are numb with the cold and your feet have gone sore from the tightly done laces on your skates. It’s enough for you to hang on to the back of her coat with a squeak, the sound nearly drowned out by metal cutting across ice as she slowly circles the rink. It’s not enough to feel the contour of your hand in hers, your fingers tightly clenched around her knuckles as she gently glides the both of you around. Not enough to feel your hand without warming it. Enough to see the delight spark in your eyes, brighter than the winter lights strung above the rink.

She’s at war with herself, and you’re entirely the reason.

“See, you’re a natural!” The stupid grin hasn’t left her voice since she met you at your door. “Sure you’ve never been before? You’re lucky there aren’t any talent scouts watching.”

For once, her silver tongue seems to hit the mark. Your skates, gliding smoothly on the ice, twist and screech beneath your wobbly legs.

“Shut up, Emily.” You yelp, crashing into her ready arms.

“No need to be shy, beautiful.” She laughs softly, turning the tumble into a graceful spin, your clenched fists loosening in her coat. It takes all of her self control not to tilt her head and kiss your sigh from your lips.

The rink entertains you for a good while. By the time you’re taking your skates off, you no longer need to hold Emily’s hand or the railing, your smile joyful as you speed atop the ice. But both your stomachs have started rumbling. Emily has to hold herself back from grabbing your hand as you walk through the surrounding market, stalls brimmed with food, vendors moving fast to battle the long queues lined in front of them.

When you’re cold, she wraps her scarf around your neck and splits half her hot chocolate with you. Cream smears on your nose, she laughs as she wipes it off, and the sickening realization that she’s practically living a Hallmark movie date doesn’t even bother her. You loop your arm through hers and muffle a laugh into her coat; Emily knows she’s too far gone.

It’s so wonderful her chest aches. Her heart physically hurts, throbbing under her sweater, and she knows the remedy is bumping shoulders with her, right here and yet completely out of reach. 

But she lives with it. She pushes it down and pretends this is just another outing, another dinner as you sit down across from her and press your knees into hers. You could be JJ. You could be Garcia.

But Emily doesn’t feel physically sick with holding herself back from them.

Giddy and intoxicated and tortured all at once, she feels like a fumbling teenager. As you’re walking back to the car, arm in arm, Emily is cleaved with the reluctance to let go. Of your arm, of the night. Of the fleeting hope that yes, you could agree if she asked—again, properly. 

After all, surely that all wasn’t nothing. She’d seen your eyes dip down to her mouth when she talked, your own tongue dragging across your lip as you nodded in agreement. She’d seen the way you flustered the first few times she caught you on the ice, inches between your noses, the white cloud of your breath staggering as she caught on to your waist. You’d mouthed a sticky-sweet kiss to her cheek after she wiped whipped cream from the tip of your nose—surely unnecessary and not entirely meaningless, right?

Maybe one more push wouldn’t hurt.

“I love you,” Emily tries, her heart in her throat.

But you don’t even blink. “Aw, Em.” You beam star-bright, looping an arm around her shoulder and dropping yet another devastatingly careless kiss on her cheek. “I love you too. I had the best time tonight.” You murmur, heat soaking into her skin where your voice touches. “Let’s do it again, yeah?” 

Emily swallows a sigh. Her cheek burns.

“Yeah, sure.”

She can’t delude herself anymore. Emily Prentiss has been friendzoned. Brutally, undeniably friendzoned. If that’s not a hint for her to take her love and go fuck herself, she doesn’t know what is.

It’s safe to say she begins to spiral after that. All of your interactions are run under a magnifying lens, all the clues she thought you were giving her balling up into a wad of delusion. She sourly ignores any more of JJ’s advice and Garcia’s prodding. She backs off, cuts down entirely on the flirting, firmly fits herself back into the box of coworker and nothing more. Her stomach turns to acid when she hears you talking about a date the next week, your voice lazy in her ear as you ponder what to wear.

Cashmere or wool, do you think? We’ll be indoors, so maybe not something too warm.

Emily stays silent. Garcia chimes in with an outfit choice, though she’s less enthusiastic about it than she usually is about things like these, her nose scrunching the slightest bit when she hears you go on about your date. Even JJ seems confused about it, but she smiles nonetheless and wishes you a good time.

Emily can’t say she does the same. No, she’s very much wallowing the night of your dinner, sulking at home and cuddling a moodier-than-usual Sergio as she waits for her takeout. The bath she’d taken doesn’t ease you from her thoughts; every so often her eyes would dart to the clock, spinning baseless assumptions as the hands move and drag her further into the night.

7:22; you must be getting ready now. Curling your hair maybe, sorting between wool and cashmere.

7:47; has your date picked you up yet?

8:14; surely you’re at your restaurant by now. Nights like these get busy.

8:36; appetizers? Drinks? God, she needs to get a life.

8:43—

Her ringing phone shatters the silence. Emily starts, she and Sergio both jumping at the noise. But her surprise doubles when she picks up her phone, her eyes tracing the letters of your name before her brain catches up.

Trouble, she thinks immediately. No other reason you’d be calling her on your date.

She picks up before the first ring dies out.

“Y/N?” She all but demands. “What’s up?”

Your sigh may as well be a whisper. “Hey, Emily.” The wilt is obvious in your voice, drooping like warm taffy. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this, but—can you…can you come get me? My date is a no show and my phone’s about to die, I don’t wanna grab a cab in case it—”

“Text me the location.” She’s already moving, Sergio meowing low when she stands and he tumbles from her lap, her muscles already wired to action. “Stay put, alright? I’m coming.” 

“Thanks.” You mumble. The silence hardly registers when you hang up with a quiet beep, the phone pinging seconds later with a link to an Italian restaurant. Emily scrolls through the map as she absently throws her coat on, her fingers grabbing for keys, switching off lights and opening doors. She forgets being your coworker then, forgets all the distance that struggles to take up space between you.

Emily does what she always does when you need her. 

She shows up.

____

It’s easy to spot you. You sit on a bench in front of the restaurant, backlit by the glow of lights, your spine wilting into something dejected. You look beautiful, dressed to the nines, clothes neatly pressed and face drawn in self-pity. 

Emily smiles lamentingly as she approaches, though a hidden fury boils in her blood. Your lips stretch into a flat line, just pulling up at the corners.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She murmurs, taking a seat next to you.

You wrinkle your nose. “Yeah, I already did that once tonight, didn’t I?” A half groan leaves your lips, drawn out with self-deprecation as you pinch the bridge of your nose. “God, I don’t even know why I agreed to it.”

Because you deserve something good. Something better than her.

Emily shoves it all down—her own wretched heart, the bitter taste of anger at the asshole that left you hanging. She pushes it all away and focuses on the one thing that matters. 

She takes your arm and tugs gently. “You haven’t had dinner.” She says. “C’mon, you must be starving.”

You’re not usually the type to sulk, but your frown is firmly planted as you shake your head.

“I don’t think I have much of an appetite left, Em.”

The anger flares again. She swallows the thick heat of it in her throat, feeling it curl in her belly as you look at her dejectedly. The streetlights reflect particularly well in your eyes; her heart clenches, fury and torment waging war against each other.

Her hand slides down to yours. She chooses you. She always chooses you.

“Hey, c’mon. You can’t let an asshole like that do this to you. Look at you! You’re gorgeous. You’re smart. You’re—you’re a total catch.” Her voice goes traitorously soft. Your brows lift, a sardonic curl dragging your mouth, as if to say, really? Emily aches all over. “Don’t give me that look.” She says quietly. “I mean it. And you deserve more than that.” 

And she can give it to you. God, can she give it to you. She’d never let you sit out in the cold. She wouldn’t stand you up if the sky was collapsing in on itself. 

But you’ve made your stance clear. Romance isn’t welcome from her, so she keeps her mouth shut, love trapped sticky between her teeth, and tries to keep it spilling from everywhere else.

“You deserve more than that.” Emily says again. “That asshole doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.” Gravel seeps into the words, turning them jagged. 

Her eyes drag back up to yours again, traveling over every curve and every line, cataloguing the shadows where blues pool. In the depths of your iris, the corner of your mouth and the wrinkles between your brows. Her chest constricts, ribs pressing tight against her heart. Emily almost swears bone pierces muscle; the blood pools out and smears on her sternum, protector turned aggressor.

You smile, lovelorn and entirely unconvinced with what she’s saying. Emily’s mouth opens, but the words dissolve on her tongue when your fingers thread through hers. You squeeze and her mouth snaps shut. “Thanks, Emily.” You murmur, your chilled fingertips on her knuckles. “You’re a good friend.”

God, this could just kill her. 

But Emily just swallows and stands, your arms stretching as she tugs. “Come on, I know a place.” She forces a smile.

“As long as it’s not Italian.” You say dryly, glancing back at the glowing restaurant behind you.

“Definitely not.” Emily theatrically scrunches her nose. “What would Dave say if he knew we were eating Italian out and not at la villa di Rossi?” She lays on the accent thick and grins when it hits the mark, your chest collapsing in a laugh. It’s small and real and music to her ears, a pocket of warmth enveloping her more effectively than her coat ever could.

This time when she tugs, you follow. The tension loosens in your arms as you stand and lean in closer to her side, fingers slotting out of place and letting the frigid air take their place. Emily tries not to wallow, because your smile is more genuine now, softer at the edges. You loop your arm through hers and let her lead you back to her car.

Emily’s glad you called her, she is. But the thought lingers in the back of her head: why you called her of all people.

4.

Emily’s in a sour mood. She perched herself on a bar stool half an hour ago to block out the sight of you in yet another stranger’s arms, dancing and catching the light like a shimmering diamond in a pool of rocks. Her knuckles had almost split through her skin when you got approached by the smiling, pearly-toothed brunette with a willowy figure, all lean lines and charming one-liners. Now she sits with her back to the dance floor, glaring down at her drink as the ice in it melts and waters it down. 

She can’t make head or tail of you. It’s a weird feeling, one she decides she doesn’t like. 

She doesn’t stumble around when it comes to things like this. Well, usually there’s never anyone to chase for longer than a night. But ever since she started pulling back, you’ve been lessening the distance she’s actively trying to keep—kissing her cheeks goodbye every day, pairing up with her before anyone else gets the chance to, sweeping touches and borderline flirtations in the space between your lashes. The whole length of your thigh had been pressed to hers at the booth, warmth pooling between you before the brunette came and swept you away. 

Emily knows she’s too far gone to make any sound decisions, but all of it feels intentional. Whether you’re laughing at her or trying to tell her what she’s stopped believing a few weeks ago, she doesn’t know.

Maybe she should just go home.

“Em.” Your voice in her ear briefly makes her tense. Your warm hands find her shoulders, squeezing lightly. “You haven’t danced with me. C’mon, we always dance.”

She turns as you step next to her shoulder, her eyes dipping to the undone buttons of your shirt. Hungry, lecherous, her pupils eat away at the skin bared to her, faintly glimmering with sweat and the lights above. Electricity crackles along her spine, wild, untamable.

Emily doesn’t want to dance. She wants to get things straight with you.

“Do you like me?”

“What kind of a question is that?” You laugh.

Emily doesn’t find it funny. “Do you like me?” She presses.

“Yes.” You say, easy albeit confused.

The answer doesn’t appease her. God, this is so high school, she thinks. This floundering and flustering isn’t her, but you’re scrambling her brain. Making her lose her footing.

Emily shifts on the stool until she fully faces you, chest to chest. The bar lights kiss your skin, illuminating it with warmth. Her heart picks up its pace. 

“If I were to kiss you,” she murmurs slowly, loud enough to be heard above the music, “would you kiss me back?”

Your eyes widen.

Now you’re on the same page, she thinks grimly.

Your lovely mouth hangs open. You close it only to let your jaw drop again, a wordless stammer working the bob of your throat. In probably the nicest way, you’re a fish out of water. If Emily weren’t so nauseatingly in love with you, she’d have laughed.

“Emily.” You finally stammer out, the tone of your voice faintly chiding. “You’re drunk.”

“I want to kiss you,” she mumbles. Longing is threaded into every syllable.

You give a small shake of your head, brows furrowing above your eyes. “I don’t think you do.” Your lips press into something like a smile; the corners are tilted downward. They sink like hooks into her flesh.

“Why?” Emily breathes. “Why’s it so hard to believe?” 

Your eyes flit away from her. 

She immediately misses them. Emily stands, the space between your bodies kissed away by hers. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Tell me.” She tilts her head, voice velvet soft. “Why wouldn’t I want to kiss you?”

“Stop it, Emily. You’re—” you shake your head, a heaving breath inflating your chest as you press back against the bar, “you won’t want to tomorrow.”

“I will.” She insists. “Tomorrow and every tomorrow after that.”

She should back off. Instead she cradles your soft cheek in her palm, inhaling a rush of sticky air when your lashes flutter. That’s not nothing. She knows it’s not.

Emily just needs a reason. To back off, to lean in.

“Would you kiss me back?” Her voice is frayed now, desperate. It cracks with the weight of her longing—too much to bear, too heavy to keep on carrying for much longer.

She can’t read the look on your face. Your eyes are dark, your hand veering into too hot as you place it on top of hers. For a moment her breath catches, but it quickly releases in a huff as you take both hands down from your cheek and let them drop listlessly to your sides.

“How about you call it a night?” You smile, tight and strange and everything you’re usually not. 

Emily backs away. Her body flushes hot and cold all at once, wanting for your heat yet crawling at your dismissal. 

The sound that escapes the back of her throat is bitter as she reaches into an oft forgotten pocket—muscle memory—pulling out a pack of Marlboros and sticking one between her lips. It’s funny, she hadn’t carried a pack in ages; her subconscious must’ve known. Her teeth close around the dry, papery cigarette, relief just on the tip of her tongue. Emily rolls it to the side of her cheek.

“Don’t concern yourself with me, sweetheart. Your date’s waiting.” She neatly steps past you, without even a brush of your elbows, and makes her way to the door, already reaching for her lighter. It’s in the same pocket, warmed from sitting so close to her body, a familiar weight in her hand. Not even the flicker of the flame loosens her spine.

The cigarette smoke is acrid, the chill biting and vengeful when she presses her shoulders against the wall and inhales a deep, damning lungful. The nicotine doesn’t come close to warming her up the way you had. 

Emily supposes both are wearing her down similarly enough.

5. 

Emily walks into the break room and immediately pivots when she sees you, grimacing as her heels sound on the floor. As if she’s got two eyes glued to the back of her head, she can feel it when you turn, the sticky heat of your gaze latching onto her back.

“There’s coffee for two.” You say after a too-long pause, your voice quiet and a little uncertain. She tilts her head just enough to see your forced smile. “And enough Splenda to make your teeth rot.”

Emily hates this. She hates herself and, if she’s being honest with herself, she kind of hates you, too.

She still remembers the night at the bar; she wasn’t totally wasted. It’s almost worse that she wasn’t.

The sting of embarrassment, of rejection, of her own stupidity—it all stacked up to form one giant bruise, tender and spread over the entirety of her skin. Anywhere you touched hurt. The briefest thought of you is a prick through her flesh, blood pooling steadily out of her veins until she drained. She’d apologized to you the next day, stiff with formality—and, miraculously, you accepted it—but she can’t get herself to close the distance, completely swerving past any room that might hold you in it. You’re not trying to maintain it, almost forcibly undeterred as you, for some reason unbeknownst to her, bridge the gap with your usual jokes and closeness, going on as if nothing had happened.

But it had, and she can’t get over it. Last time was more bearable, an internal shame that was entirely hidden from you, but now? Now it’s written in the air between you, weaved into every stiff exchange where her eyes struggle to meet yours—Emily Prentiss wants you and made a fool of herself trying to convince herself that you’d want her back.

Your endless olive branches hurt more than reciprocal silence. Emily would just prefer it if you didn’t. She embarrassed herself, she embarrassed you, put you on the spot and ruined both your nights. But you’re still here, offering her coffee and Splenda, the edges of your smile dragging down the longer her silence stretches out.

She can never have anything without ruining it, can she? 

“Thanks,” she says crisply, her words stilted. “But I already had my cup. I shouldn’t be—”

“Prentiss, L/N.” Hotch materializes next to her. Emily has to hold herself tight against wilting in relief. “Garcia got him.”

Routine stiffens her bones. Emily is already stepping in his shadow as he turns, her forefoot to his heel, her ear cocked to the clink of your mug down on the counter. She doesn’t turn—not as you follow behind, a distinct presence at her back, and not as she trades her blazer for a bomber jacket and grabs the vest JJ is holding out for her. Emily fastens it walking, dragging velcro to velcro as she bursts through the door Hotch flings open and out into the parking lot.

Your footsteps get lost behind her. Emily climbs into the passenger seat. Reid clambers in the back, and the door shuts behind him with a distinct finality. She exhales a rickety breath, her focus narrowing down to the words Hotch is barking.

This is easy. Focusing on the unsub is easy. You’re hardly anywhere in her head as Hotch races between cars like a maniac, adrenaline pressing ruthlessly on her heart rather than your presence. When she gets out of the car, gun already sliding into her hand, impractical heels making no sound on the floor, Emily hardly thinks to look for you.

Then a shot rings, and your voice is unmistakable as you cry out.

____

Emily crumples up the cheap plastic cup in her hand. 

The worst is over now, she supposes, but the aftershocks still linger. Her hands don’t smell like your blood anymore. But her eyes are tricking her into seeing red between her fingers, slotted and cracked around her knuckles. 

It had gushed at first—a warm, metallic, dark red geyser, soaking your sleeve and her palms and dripping fast enough for you to stumble into her. The color drained from your face as she clamped pressure on your arm, shouldering your weight with Morgan and absently murmuring reassurances while everyone else apprehended the unsub. She’d been reluctant to let go when the paramedics came; Emily had sat next to you on the back of the rig, hands sticky with blood, lightheaded as if it were her own, all but holding you upright as the EMT worked on stopping the bleeding. 

Your head was heavy on her shoulder. Warm breaths fanned over her jaw, uneven with exertion. “Don’t go,” you’d murmured, your hand flexing around hers as the EMT pulled the bandage tighter. “Please.” 

Emily had swallowed. “I won’t.”

And she didn’t. When the bleeding had slowed and everyone had been checked over, she’d shared half your weight with the EMT and eased you into the ambulance, each of your ragged breaths white-hot in her chest. She was warm all over with the adrenaline, the hair escaping her ponytail curled with sweat, jacket pushed up her forearms as you sunk into her side with a grimace.

“Is it cold?” You panted, slurry and dazed. 

No, she was burning. Sweat dampened her skin and it beaded on yours. She shoved her jacket off and draped it over your own, tucking the sleeves into your sides and rubbing her palms over your back because it did jack shit. 

“A little.” Emily murmured. “Better now?”

“Mm. Y’smell good.” You mumbled, the words fading out in a hiss as the ambulance jolted. You cursed, your voice cracking, and Emily muffled frantic shushes into your hair.

Her hands are scrubbed clean now. Knuckles, nail beds—she got most of it, exempting the thin red crescents lodged too deep beneath her nails. 

There was plenty of time while she waited for you to get out of surgery; her skin reeks of cheap lemon scented soap.

She breathes in. Grabs another cup. Fills it, for you this time, alternating between cold and hot water to turn it tepid. The moment she steps into your room, the weight of your gaze settles familiarly on her shoulders.

There you are.

For the first time in weeks, Emily relishes it. 

“Hey,” she sits on the chair next to your bed, feels the sticky trail of your eyes down her face. “How are you feeling?”

She tracks the bob of your throat with your swallow. Your gaze drags up, your eyes meeting hers. Emily doesn’t shy away from them now, keenly observing the wet shine of your irises. She recognizes your sluggish haze, molasses-thick, everything sticky with morphine and anesthesia.

“I got shot.” You say slowly.

She gnaws on her lip, nodding. “Yeah. They had to take the bullet out. Are you in any pain?” You think about it for a beat then shake your head. “Want some water?” She suggests.

An owlish, faraway blink. Then you nod. Emily stands and adjusts your bed so you’re sitting up. She brings the cup to your lips, her hand settling on the nape of your neck. 

A small frown creases your forehead. Even half drugged, you recognize her hot and cold. 

“What?”

“Did I get shot in both my arms?”

Emily’s brows furrow. “...No?”

Your blink drags. “I can drink.” You mumble. “On m’own.”

Emily knows that. She knows that. She doesn’t know why she wants do to this for you. (Or, rather, she knows but can’t make herself look further into it).

“I know you can. Just,” she licks her lips, “just let me, please.”

Her pinky rests on your shoulder, just past your hospital gown. You tilt your chin after a few blinks; Emily slots the rim of the cup between your lips with an internal sigh. Something in her quiets, dies down into still placidity. The bandage wrapped all the way to your elbow is stark, but it’s better than a freely bleeding wound, blood seeping between her fingers.

You drain the cup. Emily contemplates filling it again as you wipe your mouth, lips hydrated back to their usual color. The thought doesn’t linger in her head before you chase it away.

“You look mad.” You say, voice clearer now.

Emily shakes her head, frowning. “I’m not mad.” She says softly. “I was worried.”

“’M okay, though.”

“I know you are.” That doesn’t make it any easier. “It was just…sudden. And you’re important to me.” She cups your cheek. It’s all done unthinkingly, on autopilot. Her tongue slips, her hand moves, her fingers part on your jaw. Emily is used to loving you, and used to letting it slip.

She freezes in her place a little, spine stiffening when she remembers, belatedly, that you don’t want any of that. Her hand just about drops but is held in place by your cheek; you nuzzle into her palm, lashes fluttering under the harsh light.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that,” you sigh. A pout curves your mouth, pulls it into a sulk. “’S mean.” You mumble, lips brushing the base of her thumb.

Emily’s heart is in her throat. Her fingers twitch on the shell of your ear, too scared to move. “M-Mean? How—why is it mean?” 

“’Cause.” Your brows pinch. “You sound all…sweet and romantic when you say that. Like…like you’re sayin’ like you mean it.” You say accusingly.

Emily inhales sharply, air rushing to her lungs. Your small voice stings, but not more than the disbelief that sticks to it. “Baby, I do.” She says quietly, adamantly, her thumb pressed to your jaw. “I do mean it, all of it. I’ve been trying to tell you for so long now.”

You shake your head haltingly. “You haven’t.”

“Swear I have.” She murmurs. “I—I tried to ask you out on dates. I tried to flirt with you. Fuck, honey, I told you I wanted to kiss you. I don’t—” a shaky laugh tumbles from her lips, “I don’t think you like listening to me.” 

You’re in disbelief—eyes wide, mouth parted, brown drawn. It pinches at her insides, sharp pinpricks lining her skin. Emily wants to massage away the scrunch of your frown, smooth your confusion away until what she’s saying is unmistakably clear. 

“No, but—you were drunk.” You stammer.

“I still meant it.” Her thumb smooths over your jaw. “I wasn’t wasted. I knew what I was saying.”

She just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

You look doubly dazed. “So, you…you like me?” You reaffirm quietly, your mouth barely moving around the words.

Emily nods. “I do.” She says.

“That doesn’t make sense, though. You’re you,” you stress the word like it means something, “and I’m me. It just doesn’t…We don’t fit together like that.”

Emily’s stomach turns. She leans back to put a little distance, the weight of your jaw lifting from her hand.

“Wait, what? Says who?”

“C’mon, Emily.” You mumble. You’re not looking at her anymore. “You could…y’could never like me, not like that. Our date…I haven’t been treated like that in years. Haven’t felt like that in years. But I couldn’t start to hope. You were going to break my heart if I let you.” You fiddle with the blanket at your hips, eyes shuttered away. “I couldn’t let you.” You say quietly.

Emily can’t breathe.

“Y/N—”

“I went out with that guy to make myself face reality. I couldn’t have someone like you, there was no use just wallowing over it.” You shrug.

Her mouth is dry. All at once she’s nauseous, acid churning in her gut. Surely you don’t believe that. Surely you can see, even somewhat, the way she bends to your will, kneels at your feet—even under the guise of friendship. 

Surely you don’t think that about yourself.

“You’re wrong.”

You flash her a small, bitter smile. “I never am about things like these.”

Emily shakes her head firmly. “No, you are. And I’m gonna prove it to you—I swear I will, but—” But now’s not the time. You’re hazy around the edges, and she’s not sure which words stick. She needs you totally here for this, though Emily would repeat it again and again and again until it clung and fused with your bones, as unmistakable as your heartbeat. 

You still look doubtful. But she’s gonna fix that. She’s gonna fix it. 

Emily licks her lips, “Listen, you need to rest up now, okay? But we’ll talk about this. I promise.” She hesitates for a beat, then it slips out: “I love you.”

Your lashes droop with your blink. “You’re adamant about it.” You mumble.

Emily swallows her heart, her hand twitching at her side.

“I always have been.”

+1

Emily carries groceries into your kitchen, a Pyrex of casserole in one hand and plastic bags clenched in another, striding through your apartment like she owns it. 

To be fair, she has been here a few times.

“You really didn’t have to do this.” You say again, fiddling with your sling as you follow in after her.

Emily sets the casserole down with an eye roll. “For the last time, Y/N, I wanted to. Your dominant arm is incapacitated—I can’t have you starve on my account.”

“Whether I starve or not is not really on your account,” you argue, reaching over to take some of the bags in her hand. She doesn’t let you, moving them from your reach and settling them down on the counter. You peer behind her; Emily swats at your free hand, tilting her body to shield them from you.

“Honey, get used to it. Soon enough I’m gonna be doing a lot more than just getting you groceries and casserole.”

She doesn’t exactly mean for the words to slip, but Emily is not too torn up about it either. Ever since the hospital, the two of you have been testing the stability of the line between you—toeing it, going a little past crossing it, all too aware of the gentle rounded curves of the elephant in the midst of your every conversation. The way you get her meaning now, flushing a little with a dazed look on your face when she murmurs something undeniably flirty, is a high she can’t get over.

It happens now. You briefly get this startled, deer-in-headlights look; she half expects you to point to your own chest and mouth, me? despite there being only the two of you in your kitchen. You’re getting better at composing yourself quicker, but Emily secretly relishes the tiny moments she gets to catch you off guard.

“Oh?” You clear your throat, leaning against the counter and tilting your head to better catch her eyes. “Like what?”

Emily knows you’re not thinking about the groceries now. 

“Like taking you out on a date.” She murmurs softly, voice like velvet as she straightens, turns so you’re nearly chest to chest. “Doing some…really not platonic things with you.” Her hands settle on the cool countertop behind you.

You inhale sharply, your chest briefly touching hers. Heat blooms across her skin. 

“What kind of things?” You ask. Your back presses against the granite. A small shiver goes through you; Emily doesn’t know if it’s from her or the cool tiles against your back.

“I can show you.” She says. Your pupils go wide, and she smiles against her beating heart. “It’s a bit more effective. Uh, gets my point across more…clearly.” Her fingers absently drum against the counter, itching to get closer and smooth over the soft material of your sleeve where it lays over your arm.

“Silver tongue finally failing you, Emily?” You whisper, lips dragging, your weight tentatively leaning into hers.

“No.” Emily smiles. “I just think you might like it better somewhere else.”

There it is again. Your eyes widen, a sharp breath inflating your chest. Her palm cushions the line of your jaw, fingers hooking behind your ear and tilting your dipping chin toward hers. “Can I? Can I kiss you?” Her thumb traces over your bottom lip, your exhale fogging warm on her nail, “Can I take you out?”

Her heart pounds so loud she barely hears your whisper. “Yeah.” You swallow; her eyes spy a similar pulse in your throat. “Yeah, yes. All of it.”

“Thank you.” She says politely, careful and entirely tender even as she—finally—devours you with her kiss.