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grey-warden-commander · 2 months ago

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you come back with gravity | e.p

Tags: unit chief!emily, assistant!reader, brief mentions of blood, small injury, emily resisting reader (but not for long), reader's a rambler and just trying to let emily let them do their goddamn job, one bribery attempt in the form of coffee (it doesn't work)

Summary: Your boss isn’t your biggest fan. You spend precious company time trying to get into her good graces.

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: I've been so excited to write this dynamic and I know I advertised this as flirty reader but that will happen!! They just needed to get into emily's good graces first heh :p anyway, I'm pretty sure half the wc is just reader yapping, I've grown quite fond of them and they do remind me of myself....so if you hate them don't let me knowww. Anyway! More of this reader coming hopefully soon <3 (gosh we know where they got the yapping from)

Your boss thinks you’re entirely useless. Dark haired, sharp eyed, and beautiful, she keeps you ten feet away and flashes you tight-lipped, diplomatic smiles each time you try to get close to doing your job. From your first day you’ve been met with cool surprise at your arrival, then polite but ruthless dismissals of any and all attempts to help. Can you get her a coffee? No, she can get it herself. Can you help her organize her files? You sure as fuck can’t. Can she break down her schedule for you so you can take over the ropes? Yeah, keep dreaming.

You’re hardly what they call a profiler, but it’s clear as day to anyone: she doesn’t want you here.

It’s only been a week and the rejection is grating down on your bones. You hadn’t been aware that she didn’t know of—or approve—your recruitment, but two minutes into your first visit to her office and it had been made all too clear. It didn’t take long before the fog lifted, her jaw setting in a hard angle, lips pressed thin into a carefully neutral line. She had looked you dead in the eye, ignoring the five boxes of neglected case files sitting neatly on a forklift in the corner of her office, and very cooly dismissed any notion of wanting you.

It stung—it still does—to be so easily dismissed, swatted away like a bothersome fly. And it’s not like you’ve been dying your whole life for the opportunity to be some higher up’s assistant, but damn it, it’s in your hand now and you’re not going to let go.

You aren’t here by her approval, but by god are you going to stay.

“She hates me.” You moan to Penelope through a bite of flaky pastry, crumbs floating down to your sensible, neatly pressed slacks. “She hates me, and she’s gonna keep pushing me away until I’m useless enough that she has enough reason to fire me.”

“Sweets, she’s not gonna do that.” Penelope laughs as she types on her keyboard. Too late, you realize that maybe you shouldn’t be huffing and puffing about your boss to possibly one of her closest friends, but Garcia loosens your tongue like that. “Em just needs time to get used to you. She’s totally convinced she can do this on her own—and not that she can’t, obviously, she’s a super boss if I’ve ever seen one, but,” she spins her chair to face you, “it gets too much, even for the super bosses. You’re exactly what she needs, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

You sullenly wipe the crumbs from your thighs. “How do I make her know it?”

Penelope’s eyes gleam. Apart from your stingy, avoidant boss, everyone else in the BAU has welcomed you with open arms, apparently also glad that you’re there to lighten their unit chief’s load. JJ helped you situate yourself in what she told you was her old office and Reid welcomed you to his stash of sugar in the kitchenette, having heard your ramble to Tara about the painfully bitter kitchenette coffee you’d sworn off after a few mouthfuls. They’ve all been lovely, considering you’ve only known them for a few days; you’ve warmed up to Garcia the most, having known her for a few weeks longer while everyone else was on leave.

“Now we’re talking.” She nods approvingly. “To start with—”

The phone rings. She clicks on speaker as you chew through another mouthful of your croissant.

“Garcia, any hits on our unsub’s accomplice?”

You pause at the sound of Emily’s voice, sharp even as it buzzes with static.

“Facial recognition is still running, my sweet, I haven’t gotten anything yet.”

A low sigh blows through the phone. “Alright, well, try searching through the unsub’s friends and family in the meantime. Past school friends, colleagues—everyone.”

“Already on it.” Garcia says promptly. “I’ll hit you back.” She ends the call and turns to you again. Her brown eyes shimmer behind her glasses. You subconsciously lean in close, anticipating some wild secret to earning the way to your boss’ heart.

“You’re gonna need a vanilla latte.” She announces.

____

It takes four days before you come face to face with her again. Four days you’ve spent mostly in idleness, picking up the odd job here and there and helping Garcia behind the scenes, not quite brave enough to encroach onto your boss’ business while her claws are still out. The jet lands from Florida late at night, rather conveniently setting up your fresh attempt at sweetening her up.

You’re in early the next morning, a brimming cup of vanilla latte heating your palm as you head up the stairs. The bullpen is still fairly empty, its usual buzz tuned down low and sluggish. You absently tug your collar above your sweater vest, smoothing it down flat against your throat before knocking on your unit chief’s door.

She answers quickly. You shove one deep breath into your lungs before swinging the door open and walking in.

“Good morning.” You say cheerfully, smiling as you cross the floor to her desk. It doesn’t escape your notice how unfairly good she looks, dark hair blending into her navy blazer, bangs soft and shiny above eyes that track your approach.

“Morning.” She intones. You hand her the coffee and her expression softens, the corner of her mouth pulling just slightly. “Aw, thank you. What do I owe you?”

Four twenty five.

“Oh, nothing.” You wave your hand dismissively. She frowns, brows furrowing. “Uh, well, how about your calendar? Or a planner, if I can have a look at that?” You channel your brightest smile.

Emily tilts her head, idly tracing her finger over the plastic lid. “Calendar? Why do you need that?”

“Well, I’m a little…” out of my depth, “...lost concerning your schedule. There’s a few things I’ve written down that need to get done, but I can’t fit them into a time slot without knowing—”

“It’s fine.” There’s that tight smile again. It’s miles away from the easy grin she gives to her colleagues. “My schedule doesn’t need arranging. I’ve got it handled.”

Stupid, stubborn FBI agents.

“I’m not trying to imply that you don’t!” You blurt out. “Really, Chief Prentiss, I’m just here to make your life easier.” You force out a nervous laugh, swallowing the sour taste in your mouth. “Scout’s honor.”

Her hum is thick with something you can’t place as she looks away, her hand dipping into her bag. She hands you a crisp ten dollar bill and a look that says get out. “Thank you, Y/N. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it. Really.”

You want to argue that she doesn’t seem too appreciative, but the sharp tilt of her eyes makes you tuck your tongue under your teeth.

She’s your boss. Totally capable of firing you, with or without reasonable justification.

You bite down on a huff, take the money, and try not to shrink beneath her eyes as you see yourself out.

____

Admittedly, this does feel a touch illicit. But it’s her work calendar—or so you’ve been informed—so it’s not like you’re snooping through her underwear drawer.

You’re just doing your job.

You look down at your notepad, pursing your lips at the list of meetings and tasks your boss needs to get done by the end of—yep, this month. No biggie, except that less than half of them are actually written on the calendar. It’s blank, for the most part, excepting a few days with all-caps tasks filling up their boxes.

“This won’t work here,” you mutter to yourself, glancing at the full slot for Tuesday. You’ve already got three bullet points written down for it.

As you’re shifting it, a new icon comes to life on the screen, a glaring bold EP blinking next to your initials on the top corner of the page. The bubble crawls down until it’s in the Tuesday box, side by side with yours where you’re halfway through deleting the task Emily had already written down.

Shit.

You pause, twisting one of your rings around your finger as you wait for her to do something. Blue light burns itself into your retinas.

The bubble stays still for a few seconds. You watch as it moves, springing back the words you’d erased.

Well, fine. You’ll have to make do with Wednesday.

You start typing down the other assignments, one eye on your notepad and the other on the EP bubble. It stays still, so you continue.

“What are you doing?”

You startle, shoulders jumping at the sound of Emily’s voice. She doesn’t wait at the door, walking in and rounding your desk like she owns it.

You flash her a smile like your heart isn’t pounding. “Trying to organize your schedule.”

Disapproval carves itself in the space between her brows. “How did you even access it?”

“Penelope got me in.” You say brightly. “Don’t—I mean, I don’t know your password or anything, it’s just that I was kind of flying blind like I told you, so she helped me out a little.”

Way to throw her under the bus.

But she’s her best friend. You’re decidedly not.

“And,” you continue hastily, grabbing your notepad before she flicks you away like you’re a bothersome crumb on her suit, “this is what I’ve got so far. Cruz’s report is due by the end of the week, and you’ve also got a budget justification meeting—plus Penelope mentioned two PD’s that need your help with consults while you were away in Florida.”

You’ve had time to work things through while she was away. But unfortunately not much to do without her sign off.

Emily’s tongue drags over her lip. One of her brows arches—an irritated tick, you’ve realized.

“Fine. This has to stay on Tuesday. I’ll get someone on the consults tomorrow, if we don’t get a case, and the meeting…” her lips purse just slightly as she presses two fingers between her brows, massaging the wrinkle. In the low, dim lights of your office, she seems much less stiff. A lot more exhausted. “Do with that what you will, just don’t make it Friday.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And don’t call me Ma’am.”

A grin tickles your lips. She’s already walking away, unaware of your teeth biting down on your triumph.

“You got it, g—Chief.”

____

There’s an undeniable pep in your step when you walk through the dim BAU halls the next day. Part of your brain realizes that you’re being entirely ridiculous, but the larger, louder part can’t really care. Cracking through the hard shell of Emily Prentiss’ exterior is possibly harder than cracking ancient hieroglyphics. Maybe it wasn’t a clean crack, sure—and okay, you weren’t able to reach in too deep—but now you can feel faint warmth rather than rough-hewn stone under your fingertips.

You’re lightly chatting with Luke and Tara over a box of pastries you’d gotten when she calls you into her office, her voice low yet still carrying throughout the bullpen.

“Trouble?” Luke raises his eyebrows, his smile partially hidden behind a Danish.

Your stomach turns at the thought. You dust powdered sugar off of your fingertips, failing to muster a smile when Tara scolds him for it, a thud sounding beneath the desks which could mean her boot connected with his ankle.

All of your surety suddenly dissolves, your good mood churning in your gut as you climb up the stairs and hesitantly approach Emily’s office, as if she rigged the floor with land mines.

God, you hadn’t done anything, had you? All you did was fix up her schedule. Could you have fucked it up that horrendously? Made her miss a hugely important meeting with the director of the goddamn—

“Are these yours?”

She points to a pair of earbuds on her desk.

You blink. “What?” You say stupidly.

Emily picks up the earbuds. They’re marked with a swipe of nail polish at the base, glossy red and definitely yours. You needlessly pat your pockets, silently wondering when you’d misplaced them.

“Oh. Yeah, they are.” You can feel your face flame hot as you take them from her and stuff them in your pocket.

You wait. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. Well, not for a few beats.

“Is that…is that all?”

Emily nods. “That’s all.”

Your eyes drop to the multitude of files on her desk. “You don’t need me to do anything?”

“Not as of right now.”

You can feel the walls rising up, blocking you out. Your desperation rises similarly, bubbling up and spilling out when your eyes drop from hers and fall to the orchid pot on her windowsill. The droopy leaves catch your attention, wilting on top of each other and curving downward.

“These orchids are overwatered.” You blurt out, walking over to them and touching one of the yellowing leaves. You also note the way its white petals are turning golden, wrinkled at the edges. They catch the full force of the sunlight streaming in through the window.

“You shouldn’t keep them in direct sunlight, they get sunburned. Orchids are quite delicate. How often are you watering them?” You turn to your boss in time to see her brows tick up, bemused.

“Uh, every day.” She taps her pen against the desk, chewing on her lip. “The leaves have been turning yellow.”

“That’s because of overwatering. It can often look like underwatering. Orchids are difficult to care for, but they don’t need that much water—you were drowning them.”

The corner of her mouth twitches.

You clear your throat, neck ablaze, “I can fix them up for you. If you’d like. Uh, I do know a bit about plants.”

Emily tilts her head in a nod. “Okay.” She agrees.

“Yep. Great, I’ll just—” You point to the door and quickly follow your finger, an orchid pot tucked to your side like you’re smuggling contraband. “I’ll take care of them!” You throw over your shoulder, internally cringing as you go down the stairs, hugging your boss’ rotting plant.

____

“Nothing’s been deleted, the folders have just shifted. You can find them here.” You run the mouse down the bottom edge of the screen, prompting the taskbar to slide up. “See, just there.” You click on a partially hidden icon, and Reid’s files bloom on the screen.

He nods slowly, a little pinch between his brows. “I see. I just don’t get why they’re so elusive.” He mutters, “Or why they don’t attach user guides on how to operate the updates.”

You shrug, lips twisting against the smile trying to break free. It’s truly endearing how so thoroughly a certified genius gets stumped by technology. But it’s not like you can blame him in this case; the update really is ridiculous—and wildly unnecessary.

“Do you have any idea why they keep doing these?” He runs his fingers through unruly, golden brown curls.

“Well, tech’s gotta have something to do, right? I think they try to hide them more with each update so they can confuse the hell out of anyone trying to break in.” You laugh. It prompts a smile from him, a little bashful, soft as his cardigan. Idly, you think maybe he should meet one of your girlfriends.

He takes a sip from his coffee. “You should help Emily out with that too, she’s been complaining about it.”

You tilt your head. “Has she?”

“Have I been complaining about what?” Emily’s voice curls around the back of your chair, spiking your heart rate as you spin to see her.

“The new update.” Reid pipes up. “Y/N just helped me figure out where my files and emails went.”

Her eyes slide to you. It’s a slow drag that leaves heat in its wake, your blood simmering with the full force of her attention.

You fidget with your ring, offering her a smile. “I can show you how it works.”

Her fingers flex around her coffee mug. “It’s your lunch break.” She hedges.

“I don’t mind.” You’re strangely breathless. “It won’t take long. Unless you’re busy.”

She considers you for a beat, then shakes her head. You jump up from Reid’s chair, trying not to look like an overeager puppy following at her heels.

“Thanks, Y/N!” Reid calls out.

You do something with your hand, half dazed. “Sure thing, doc.”

The rush of air that Emily leaves behind smells like coffee and sugar and something like caramel. The scent tickles your nose as you follow her across the bullpen. You’re not quite sure if you should lengthen your stride, walk next to her, but she outpaces you anyway, nimbly climbing the stairs and offering you her chair as you walk through the door.

“Have a seat.”

You decide not to protest. Spinning to her desktop, you wiggle the mouse and bring the screen to life, then walk her through the steps you’d shown Reid. She hovers over your shoulder as you ramble, the smooth scent you’ve now discovered is her perfume clouding your lungs. It’s that caramel; something warm, silky and sweet, almost entirely cutting off the airflow to your brain.

The distinct weight of her hand presses down on the back of your—her—chair as she grips it, giving the occasional hum in response to your instructions. You jiggle the mouse, double clicking more than necessary in an attempt to hide the gravel in your voice. You almost lose your train of thought more than once, but you manage to hold it together.

“That’s it.” You end lamely, letting go of the mouse. The rich brown of her eyes is only a few inches from yours when you look up.

Jesus.

“You could’ve told me, you know. I’m”—just here to help—“pretty good with computers. I took a few coding classes back in college—and Garcia’s been showing me the ropes, too! So I think I’m proficient enough. If you, um, ever need anything. Computer related or otherwise.”

You realize that you should stand. You do, hands automatically smoothing over your blazer. “Anything else I can help with?” You ask hopefully.

Emily shakes her head. “That’s all, thank you. Enjoy your lunch break.” She softens the words with a smile, a hint of a dimple rendering you unable to push back.

You walk out as dazed as you were when you walked in.

____

You’re wincing as you shoulder your way through the bathroom door, one hand cupped under the other to catch the drip of blood from your palm. It’s not a deep cut, you don’t think, but it stings like hell. At least you can’t see any shard of ceramic lodged beneath the blood.

Well, not yet.

The door swings shut behind you, but you’re not alone.

Drying her hands at the sinks is none other than your boss. She immediately notices your hand, her brows drawing together in sharp lines.

“What happened?”

“Chief Prentiss!” Your voice echoes loudly against the tiles. You bite down on another wince and shove your hands under the tap. “It’s nothing. Just a small cut, it hardly hurts—”

“That’s not what I asked.” Her heels click against the floor. Suddenly she’s there, right at your elbow, her fingers closing around your wet wrist. The blood washes clean under the water, but it still forms up against the flow, rushing to escape your veins. You barely notice the sting as Emily tilts your hand, observing the thin line running from your middle finger to the base of your thumb.

Her eyes flick up to yours, obsidian dark. Her brows raise expectantly.

“Uh. Reid dropped his mug. I was just helping him clean up, but,” your shoulder touches your ear, “I was a little clumsy with it. It’s fine, really, doesn’t even hurt!”

A displeased hum cuts through your ramble. “Cleaning up after Spencer isn’t part of your job description.”

“What is?” You ask, tired from her hot and cold, your tongue loose from the press of her fingers on your wrist. You snap your mouth shut too late, internally cursing.

Emily is quiet as she tilts your hand under the water. “Rounding up last week’s reports.” She says eventually. Your head snaps up. “Spencer hasn’t turned his in yet and Luke’s backlog is at least three cases behind.” She glances at your hand. “If you can, that is.”

“Yeah!” Jesus, dial it down. You clear your throat, nodding, “Yes, definitely can do, Chief.” You would salute, if your hand wasn’t held in hers beneath the water (why is she still holding it?).

A sharp dip of her chin is all the reply you get back. “A bandaid won’t hold.” She murmurs, dropping your hand and grabbing the first aid kit hanging on the wall. “You’ll need to bandage it.”

“That seems excessive.” Directly disagreeing. “Ma’am.” She told you not to call her Ma’am. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

“No one will appreciate it if your blood’s all over the paperwork.” She says wryly, placing the kit on the counter.

“Right.” You snap your mouth shut. “Of course not.”

“And don’t call me Ma’am again.”

“Does gorgeous work?”

She blinks.

“Oh, Jesus. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what—” you clamp your hand over your mouth. “I’ll just leave now.” You mumble, mortification weakening your knees.

Emily shakes her head, the corner of her mouth tilting as she walks past you and out of the bathroom. Her perfume washes over you, lingering with your stinging hand and the boiling heat of shame crawling all over your body.

____

You’re heading to the elevators, coat slung over your arm, when you glimpse the light on in Emily’s office. It’s not terribly late, but there’s no one else on the floor, either. You make a detour to the glass doors of the bullpen, swinging them open and walking in.

Even before you reach her office your breath is catching, a dampness in your palms that you hastily wipe away on your clothes. She’s past the point of tossing you to someone else, you try to tell yourself, but the voice in your head is weak. You’ve been getting her to bend more, widening the crack and worming yourself through the gap, but she still makes your insides flutter nervously.

Maybe Emily Prentiss has resigned herself to your help. You don’t think she’s reached the point of liking you yet.

Still, you knock on her open door and poke your head in. The orchids sit pretty on her desk, warmed to a faint yellow beneath the lamplight.

You’re usually a confident person. But the second her eyes lock with yours, your knees just about turn to jelly.

“Hi.” Your voice is soft. “It’s, uh—it’s late.”

She sets her pen down. “Didn’t know you set a curfew for me.”

“Oh! No, of course not, that’s not what I—”

Her low laugh makes you freeze in place. It doesn’t last long, but it washes over you like a faint glow, warmth kissing the surface of your skin. Too late, you realize the teasing in her voice—silk soft and pliant, the way it is when she’s talking to Reid or Garcia.

“I’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. You venture deeper into her office, feeling her eyes track your steps. “What I mean to say is you shouldn’t have to be here longer than anyone else.”

Emily’s lips press together into a pitiful smile.

You fiddle with your coat, shrugging a little. “Sure, you’re the boss, but…I can help.”

If you’d gotten a dollar for every time you’ve spoken that phrase over the past two weeks, you’d be swimming in money. Still, you clear your throat.

“I can go through the paperwork with you, and I can help organize your schedule to make room for it when you’re not on cases, and I can help you prioritize everything so you don’t fall behind. It’s not much, and I know you can do it all on your own,” your hand flaps at your side, “but you don’t have to. That’s what I’m here for.”

The remnants of your voice echo around her office as Emily laces her fingers together and sets her chin on top of her fists. Your heart skips as she looks you over, the sharpness of her gaze softened by the warm light of the lamp at her elbow.

“You’d be in for a late night.” She says eventually.

Your eyes widen. “That’s fine! I mean—not too late, obviously, but”—you shrug, fiddling with a loose string on your coat and forcing nonchalance in your voice—“it is my job.”

It’s an electric zap up your spine when you glimpse both her dimples. “Tomorrow.” Emily says. It holds a shade of promise, not as airy as her other dismissals. “Go home for now.”

“I will if you will.”

She softly clucks her tongue. “Don’t push it.”

Your body flushes with heat.

“Y-Yes, Ma—yes, Chief. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

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