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jimminystewart · 8 days ago

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The Ghost of Her: 2.

summary: Lydia/reader helps the team get through the hearing after the events of 7x01. Then, she gets to know Emily better after hours.

wc: 2.6k

a/n:

tags: drunk emily, flirting, gay panic, snarky!reader

chapter one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lydia sat outside the hearing room in the best outfit she could think of in her morning panic, a plum scoop-neck and black heels, next to the remaining team members who were not currently being interrogated. For some reason, it felt like waiting on the principal to call her into the office to plead her case. No one was talking. They didn’t need to. Lydia could almost read their thoughts. This wasn’t the first time this team had been in some kind of hot water, she had gathered. The BAU was sort of infamous at Quantico. Lydia had heard fragments of stories-- even been the butt of some snide jokes and sideways glances at the news of her transfer. This was the first time, however, that this level of theatrics was at play. They weren’t playing teeball anymore, one look at Strauss’ face could have told her that. It was beyond even her. They were at the mercy of a group of old white men with an ego as old as Methusela.

The door opened, producing a very annoyed looking Spencer who took a seat next to her. She took a breath, knowing what that meant. Silently, she rose and made her way inside.

Lydia knew the committee was relying on her to be some kind of unbiased third party, being new to the team, never having met Emily before her “death,” having absolutely no stakes in this fight whatsoever, like some kind of scab. She could see it in their eyes-- studying her from the end of the room like she was facing God for permission to enter the afterlife. She looked forward to discreetly flipping the script. She sat down in the center seat of a long table, made eye contact with each man sitting in front of her, and waited for the onslaught.

“You were hired four months ago, is that correct Agent Clark?”

She bristled, barely, “Yes, sir, I was,”

“What was the nature of the position?”

“Agent Hotchner hired me to fill the SSA position vacated by Agent Prentiss,”

“What facts of the case were you told?”

“I was told the nature of her death, and the identity of the man responsible,”

“Were you instructed to lend your expertise to the case in any way, by Agent Hotchner or any other members of your team?”

“No, sir, I was not. They needed a full team for the caseload. The BAU has had an abundance of calls since I’ve been employed,”

“We’re well aware of the unit’s popularity these past few months, Agent,”

She decided not to rock the boat by any means, but she knew what was inevitably coming next: some kind of private psychological analysis.

“In your perception of your new team, do they strike you as committed to their jobs and the oath they pledged to uphold?”

“Yes, sir, completely,”

“How did they cope with the loss of Agent Prentiss?”

There it was. “In what way, sir?”

“Did their bereavement cloud their judgement? Did it make them unpredictable in the field?”

“Agents Jareau’s reports detail every case to the letter--”

“We’re not asking Agent Jareau, we’re asking you,”

“I corroborate those reports 100%. There was nothing abnormal or concerning about any of their behaviors. They all suffered a tremendous and unexpected loss, but the tenacity of the BAU has always been admirable. Their resilience and work ethic is their reputation,”

“And do you corroborate these reports? Do you approve of the methods used by your new team to solve this case? All of them?”

The corners of her mouth twitched, ever so slightly at the weight of the question, “I know for a fact that this team had nothing but Declan Doyle’s best interest in mind when we finalized this case. We caught and apprehended a dangerous criminal and saved his son. I fail to see how that’s not a victory,”

The men peered down at her, looking between each other like executioners ready to deal out a sentence. Finally, the middle of the table spoke up.

“That will be all, Agent,”

Lydia rose and walked back through the doors into the view of the team. Her heart was still beating out of her chest and she returned to her body, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. It was over.

Hotch nodded at her and she returned it, his universal sign of a positive outcome. Penelope’s anxious face swam before her next to Morgan’s concern, Reid’s simmering frustration, JJ’s determination, and Rossi’s comforting neutrality. They looked down the hall at the first sign of movement. Emily Prentiss was now talking to one of the court officers and then slipped into the room, closing the door behind her.

Surprisingly, it was Reid who spoke to her, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” she paused and gestured, “At least you have her back,”

Reid’s eyes flitted over and back again somewhat forlornly, “Do we?”

A few more agonizing minutes went by, Strauss and Emily returned. They all stood up, waiting to see who would speak first. Relief spread over Strauss’ features, and something like shock too.

She looked at each one of them and sighed,“The committee is not willing to support a rogue team. Agent Prentiss convinced them you were not that. They will be watching you closely, so I suggest you play by their rules, ”

“So we’re okay?”

“Suspension has been lifted for everyone,” Strauss made eye contact with each of them.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hotch broke in, and at his words the tension almost magically lifted tenfold.

“We’d be lucky to have you back if you’re interested,” she turned to Emily, as did the rest of them.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course,”

She looked around at the group, finally landing on JJ and not wasting a beat, “I’m in,”

…

The bar was crowded and Hotch had left early. Garcia and JJ had a silent bet on how long he would last, which Garcia had won at 42 minutes. A notable absence was Morgan, who according to Garcia, was usually the first to suggest an outing. Spencer had also left somewhat sullenly. Lydia knew something had been wrong with him since the hearing, since everything. She thought he would’ve been frosty towards Hotch or perhaps even Emily, but studying his interactions had concluded he was the most distant with JJ, which surprised her. She wasn’t sure if JJ, or anyone else had clued into this yet, but she figured they would in time. Garcia was off dancing, JJ was buying another round, which left Emily and Lydia alone for the first time since her return. The few words they had exchanged had been normal so far, but her outsider-ness was becoming a bigger elephant in the room by a second. Emily no doubt wanted the comforting familiarity of her team right now, and Lydia pointedly was not that.

“I bet this wasn’t what you signed up for when you thought about the BAU, huh?” Emily finally asked, breaking the silence.

“I really don’t think anyone could’ve come up with this if they wanted to,” Lydia replied.

Emily smiled. She was a few drinks in and Lydia could see the glassiness of her eyes cutting through the low lit bar, “Well, it shows a lot that you’ve stayed. A lot of what, I’m not sure, but I admire it,” she studied Lydia’s face, “Thanks for all your help at the trial too, you didn’t have to defend us the way you did,”

Lydia wasn’t sure what all Emily knew of her one off with the committee, “We’re a team, I’m with you… all of you,”

Emily’s hand drifted towards hers as an attempt to grab it, but it suddenly stopped. Lydia dismissed it as a mistake-- or wishful thinking for some reason. She eyed her own drink and pushed it away from her.

“I know you’ll be honest with me, because we’ve just met and you’re unbiased. How are they doing-- really?”

Okay, she wanted to do this, here… now, there was no reason to lie, “Morgan took it the hardest, at least outwardly. Penelope and the notion of revenge were the two main reasons he kept showing up. Reid will take his time, but he’ll recover. Hotch has been unyielding, and JJ… has only been back a short time, and her other assignment I gathered was very taxing on her. Rossi’s been the glue. They’re strong, resilient,”

As Lydia was talking, she noticed Emily’s gaze had grown more intense, constant. She suddenly became self aware and trailed off. Emily cocked her head.

“How old are you,”

She was used to these questions. She had always looked younger than she was, and her career path as it turned out didn’t help matters.

“I’m 29, this is my second full year at the FBI,”

“And you’re a doctor?”

“I have a PhD, just the one, I know it’s not as impressive as Reid,”

“No, it is,” Emily looked earnest, “You’re very young. Young, smart, and beautiful, the whole package,”

Lydia knew she was blushing, and hoped the darkness would hide it, “I-- thank you.” How drunk was Emily? How drunk was she? Did Emily like women? Was she hoping Emily liked women? Questions abounded, none could be answered because Emily Prentiss’ eyes were still piercing into Lydia’s very soul.

“I’m sorry,” she kind of laughed and scrubbed her hand over her face, “I’m not usually like this,”

She looked like she wanted to say more to Lydia, hopefully on the same subject, but a clatter on the table shattered the moment. JJ had returned with a round for all of them.

“I have no idea where all these people came from. Somehow the line got longer and I was nowhere closer to getting out of it,”

Lydia smiled at her sympathetically and took one of the drinks, anything to busy her hands and look at something other than the woman next to her.

“Thanks, JJ,”

She stole a glance at Emily and saw it again. She knew she couldn’t be crazy. The way Emily looked at JJ was not something to be ignored. She looked to her to find some sort of calmness in this recent chaos. Lydia had seen it at the office and at the hearing. But JJ was committed, she had a child. Emily had lost her chance, but the beacon was still shining for her. Lydia had realized that.

So maybe they were both a little too drunk, and Lydia was starting to sober up.

She watched them talk, a four year friendship, intense, meaningful, spring back to life like no time had passed… like nothing as world-shifting as a fake death could even begin to change the dynamic. JJ retold some stories, mostly for Lydia’s benefit, about past cases, inside jokes between the team, and she was grateful for it. She enjoyed watching JJ’s eyes sparkle as she reminisced about girls nights with Garcia (“Next time we have one, you’re coming. We’ll all be back together, so I’m sure Pen will plan something crazy,”). Furthermore, she liked seeing Emily smile genuinely for the first time since her return. It was progress.

It was late, later than she wanted it to be, but Hotch had made it clear they were expected to be ready to go the next Monday, and none of them had had much sleep the past three days.

Lydia stood up to go, “Well, ladies, that’s my time. Unfortunately, I think I might pass out if I stay much longer,”

JJ grinned, “Pass out? You’re like 25! You’re going to let us show you up like that?”

“Getting a doctorate ages you like ten years, look it up,” Lydia retorted.

Emily winked at her, “Great, we’ve got two people ready and willing to bring up their degrees at a moments notice,”

“I can’t speak for Reid, but I save it for special occasions, like this one,”

JJ laughed, “Be safe going home, you have a ride don’t you?”

“I actually live a block away. I’ll be alright,”

Emily and JJ exchanged looks, “Are you sure?” Emily asked.

Lydia nodded, “Positively, we’ve done a lot worse, right? Besides, I do have a gun, which Hotch insisted upon,”

JJ acquiesced, “Fair enough, see you monday, Lydia,”

Emily did not seem placated, but Lydia waved at them both and left the bar. The night was colding, flirting with freezing temperatures. She felt pleasantly warm from the alcohol, but pulled her coat tighter around her body. She was starting to regret walking, the joke about passing out started to seem like a reality. The image of making it home to a bed where she could sleep for twelve hours was keeping her going.

Then, a hand on her arm. Lydia whirled around, hand inching towards her waistband.

“Hey! It’s just me,” It was Emily, breathless and throwing up her open palms, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t love the thought of you alone out here, not be a chivelrous dick about it,”

Lydia shook her head, “I could never think of you that way.” She could tell Emily was anxious so she let her have it. They fell into step together. Suddenly it was too silent. Lydia was tired, and didn’t know whether to broach a new topic or circle back to the uncertainty of the previous one. She opted to stare at her shoes and occasionally sneak looks at Emily’s hair in the scattered moonlight. There were light flurries in the air now, blanketing them both.

“Which one’s yours?” Emily asked, gesturing to the buildings up ahead.

“Right here,” Lydia turned the corner and pointed, “Fifth floor, no elevator,”

“God, really?” She made a face and looked at her.

“Yeah, this job was definitely a promotion. Honestly, I kind of like it here anyway… reminds me of my first apartment on my own, a little rough around the edges but that’s okay because you’re independent now and can conquer anything,”

Emily smiled amusedly.

“Of course, that’s a lie, because you’re 18 and have no idea what anything’s like in the world, but the sentiment is there. It’s freeing,” Lydia stopped outside the door, “I’m rambling aren’t I?”

The woman laughed, “I think it’s great, keep going,”

“Well, now I have performance anxiety,” she quipped, “anyway, five floors… you don’t have to go up the whole way,”

“Can I?”

Lydia’s heart stalled in her chest and suddenly her mouth was very dry. She forced a swallow, “If you really want to, I won’t stop you,”

Emily paused, seemingly reasking the question silently.

“By all means, the company’s nice,” she kicked herself mentally. Why did everything sound so pathetic when she said it? Emily followed her past the small lobby and onto the narrow staircase, barely wide enough for two people side by side. Lydia’s foot caught a bad spot on the stair and slipped. Emily grabbed her arm, steadying her.

“Sorry, that’s the broken step. Everyone’s complained about it countless times but we’re pretty sure the management is ignoring us,”

“Sounds like shitty management,”

Lydia shrugged, “Could be worse, I guess. Here we are,” they stopped outside her door. She had a fleeting urge to ask her inside, but that was dumb of her. Emily shoved her hands into her coat pocket.

“I meant what I said back at O’Keefe’s. I’m glad you’re apart of the BAU,”

Lydia wondered if that was the only thing she had truly meant, “I am too,”

“Goodnight, Doctor,” she turned around and retraced their steps out into the night. Lydia’s thoughts were firing on all cylinders. Her increasing fatigue coupled with confusion and replaying the night in her head was achieving nothing but sending her in circles. Emily Prentiss wasn’t making anything easy, and as much as she tried to control it, fractured images of snow-kissed hair and warm brown eyes permeated her mind.

One thing was for sure, she was one of the few people Lydia absolutely should not be feeling this way about.

#my fics #emily prentiss #writing

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jimminystewart · 10 days ago

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know that it isn't right (but you could be my one and only) | e.p

Tags: oblivious!reader, bau!reader, pining longing yearning, emily is the majorest loser in love, a date that precariously toes the line between platonic and romantic, reader is insecure for unmentioned reasons, bar scene but it's not mentioned whether or not reader drinks, tipsy emily, miscommunication?, though emily tries reallyyy hard to get her point across, alas, to (nearly) no avail, unrequited love—or is it, gunshot wound (no detailed scene or injury), reader has a surgery and is mildly high after, use of petnames (yes, before they get together because....simp emily), the slow has burned it’s just taking a while to sink in for a certain someone

Summary: Emily is tired of being your friend. It takes more than a few attempts, endless flirting, and a minor surgery before you fully get what she means. Or, 5 times Emily tries to tell you she wants something more and the one time you finally get it.

Word count: 8.2k

Emily has a problem.

It’s by no means the biggest of her problems—she’s had worse, certainly, and compared to them this is child’s play—but these past months, especially, it has been the most pressing one. It eats at her, chews on her insides and chips away bits of her composure, crumbling her metal wall that keeps her and the outside world firmly separate.

She’s deteriorating, for lack of a better word. And you don’t seem to notice.

It’s not willful ignorance, it’s just…actually, she doesn’t know what the hell it is. You’re not this oblivious in other aspects of your life—certainly not in your job—but when it comes to this, she could kiss you flat on the mouth and you’d somehow think she meant it platonically.

She’d been less and less subtle by the day. Showering you in honey-sweet, superfluous compliments, skimming your exposed skin with unnecessary gestures, pressing unsolicited mugs of coffee and tea into your palms, sometimes with half of a treat she’d bought for herself.

She flirts outright. Presses too close and gushes about the durability of your perfume, the sheen of your hair and did you curl it today? Looks pretty. But heavy handed as she is, none of it seems to register through your skull. It doesn’t matter much whether her words are stumbling, starstruck or assured and smooth with confidence; you brush both off as if they were pollen dusting your skin.

The latest recurrence is still fresh in her mind: two days ago, when you walked into the bullpen in a distinctly new shirt. Emily still remembers the way her mouth had gone dry, eyes practically glued to you as you joined her in the kitchenette, buttons popped, skin gleaming, shirt teasingly skimming your collarbones—a hair’s breadth shy of sinful, toeing the line between professional and scandalous.

Your chirp of good morning went unanswered.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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jimminystewart · 21 days ago

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Oh my god… you’ve gotta be joe king…

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jimminystewart · 3 months ago

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The moment we’ve all been waiting for…

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jimminystewart · 3 months ago

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Two little concerned Em moments in 3x11 "Birthright"

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jimminystewart · 4 months ago

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The Ghost of Her

Summary: Dr. Lydia Clark is hired during a tumultuous time at the BAU. The ghost of Emily Prentiss haunts the team, until she's suddenly alive and in front of them again. Lydia and Emily plunge into an uncertain and intense connection, that leaves them both questioning what's really worth the risk of happiness.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: This is available on AO3 here but wanted a little teaser over here on tumblr too. It's basically a reader insert, so feel free to put yourself in Lydia's shoes. I just prefer to make a new character instead of using You or Y/N. Enjoy!

Chapter One:

Lydia Clark’s life was at a record scratch moment where the narrator suddenly breaks the fourth wall and asks the audience how they got into this situation. Then a tape rewind sound effect would sound and the story would start over from the beginning.

That was how she felt standing in front of the BAU’s currently most wanted suspect, Ian Doyle.

It had been four months since she started at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and they were four very tense months. She had been settling in fine, but there was a tension in the air that settled around the other members at all times. It was thick and nuanced, layers which she had only just begun to unravel, and it had a name: Emily Prentiss, the agent she had replaced, and the agent whose picture hung on the wall of the fallen. She passed the portrait every day on her way in. It loomed there, haunting the team that also walked under it every day. Lydia Clark was new, but not stupid.

The other day, she had passed JJ in the hall on the way to Morgan’s office carrying a stack of paperwork. She knocked lightly on the doorframe, startling Garcia who was in deep conversation with him. Morgan had looked up, annoyed.

“What’s up, Clark?”

“I have the final reports from Duluth,” she handed the folder across his desk, “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Garcia seemed to have no words, she looked back at Morgan who said, “Just going over a case,”

She nodded, pausing a beat to see if either would elaborate. She could guess what it was. Emily’s death was so fresh on all their minds, and Morgan didn’t strike Lydia as the type to let it go, ever, and if there was an angle to finding Doyle and ending this he would do anything to get it.

Lydia smiled at them, “I’ll leave you to it then,” she turned on her heel and walked out, hoping it would be sooner rather than later that they found the piece of paper she had hidden amongst her delivery. It contained five words.

Why the BAU? Domestic contacts.

It wasn’t her only job on the team to gather information about the death of Agent Prentiss. She brought more to the table. She came highly recommended with a doctorate in Psychology, specializing in cults and group crime. She was a licensed therapist, of course her client list had to be cut significantly to make the job work, which she regretted, but overall it was a good change of pace for her. It hadn’t taken her long to develop a sense of respect and fondness for all of them. And she didn’t expect to break ground with the team right away, she wasn’t even allowed to therapize them really, not in the traditional sense, and she wasn’t gunning for the opportunity at every moment. She was naturally curious, always had been, and was mainly attempting to endear herself to them, assure them of her dependability and loyalty.

It took Morgan three hours to corner her at her desk, carefully avoiding Reid’s hypertuned hearing.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” she asked.

He gestured to the hallway, and she followed. He was angry and confused, that much was clear. He finally turned on her, face set.

“You wrote that note, yeah? So what do you know?”

“Morgan, I’m only trying to help--”

“You never knew her, so why do you care enough to do all this?”

“Because you do,” she hissed indignantly, “It doesn’t take much to realize the weight this case had, still has over you. I know you might not be my biggest fan, because I’m here instead of her, but Hotch hired me to help while he’s in Pakistan. I’ve been there for every case-- let me be there for this one,”

Morgan sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face, “That’s not what I-- alright, you’ve done your research, I have Penelope focusing on local contacts. I’ll-- tell her to keep you updated too,”

She sighed and attempted a warm smile. She wanted to tell him that she knew how hard that must have been for him, to trust a piece of Emily with her, especially when he wouldn’t trust it with JJ, Reid, or Rossi. She wanted to convey that she appreciated it-- she understood-- but she hoped a light squeeze of his arm said it for her.

Local contacts led the trio to the evidence locker, going over the contents found in the apartment where Emily’s dead former Interpol friend had been found. ID’s hidden among the boxes showed a blonde child and an older woman, with an address in a nice cul-de-sac nearby.

They had found him.

But so had several others.

She was with Morgan and JJ when they raided Doyle’s building. Sweat and anticipation clung to the air as they ran up the staircase to the apartment. She felt Morgan’s anger, heard the yelling as he refused to kill Doyle then and there. He wanted him alive, to confront him about Declan and to once again look at the man who took his best friend away, the man they were sure had taken back his son, but his face… that face who had jammed a chair leg into Emily Prentiss’ stomach was so scared at the thought of being handcuffed to a table in front of Derek Morgan and Lydia Clark instead of finding who really had Declan. He was just as clueless as they were.

A text pinged on Lydia’s phone, she showed it to Morgan.

Suspect is Richard Gerace.

It was Hotch, who had moved through space and time at an alarming rate and had just landed. They had been at this a tragic amount of time and it was becoming clear. Whether he wanted to or not, Doyle had no more information.

There was a knock on the door. Morgan opened it and gestured to Lydia. Garcia was on the other side, flustered.

“Hotch wants us in the meeting room,”

The others were there already. Hotch, with a new beard, was standing next to JJ, face void of emotion. No one else seemed any less confused than Lydia.

“Seven months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle, but the doctors were able to stabilize her, and she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under covert exfiltration. Her identity was strictly need to know. And she stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris, where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to, for her security,”

The words began to sink in. Lydia scanned the room and watched as faces began to turn.

“She’s alive?”

“But we buried her…”

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me,”

“Any issues? Yeah, I got issues,”

“Oh my god,”

And she was there. Emily Prentiss was alive right in front of them.

…

“I vetted hundreds of resumes for this position,”

She sat there, waiting for him to continue. It felt like he had more to say, at least. There was a sliceable tension in the room, heavy.

“It’s a covetable one, sir,” she finally replied.

“I’ve heard, but this isn’t just an SSA opening,”

A pregnant pause, “What exactly is this?”

“You specialize in group crime, Doctor, that’s why I called you in for a second interview,”

Hotchner slid a file towards her. She could see a lot of redacted paragraphs and a picture of a middle aged man, hard lines on his face, weathered. A separate picture: a younger woman, long and wavy chestnut hair, “This was our former team member, Emily Prentiss, operating under an undercover alias. She was killed four months ago by this man, Ian Doyle. He is currently at large and we are no longer investigating this case.” He waited for her to take the file.

She opened it, scanning what little content she could read, “Sir, I’m not sure--”

“We are no longer investigating this case,” he repeated, pulling out a separate file and sliding it towards her. It was the same as the previous one, uncensored. She could see names: Lauren Reynolds… arrested in Italy, 2003, subsequently died in a car accident.

She took the file and tucked it away, to be perused later in private. This definitely was the first job she had ever been hired for in this manner. Hotch was staring at her, looking for some sign of understanding… of loyalty.

“I look forward to working with you,” she said.

Hotch nodded solemnly, “You start monday, 7AM in the conference room for case debriefing,”

Lydia stood up to leave, shook Aaron Hotchner’s hand and walked away from the BAU.

That night she dreamed of brown hair and the Italian countryside.

…

Having a dead woman in the same room wasn’t on Lydia’s bingo card for the day, or lifetime really, but she was beginning to realize the layers of this team went deeper than she thought possible. She could see the anger, shock, and hurt on the others’ faces.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Emily was saying from the doorway. She looked fresh off the plane. There was excitement, apprehension, and a healthy amount of fear, “You all didn’t deserve that, really--” she seemed at a loss, reaching out and touching everyone as if they were ghosts themselves.

Lydia sat silently as everyone examined Emily like a zoo exhibit. Penelope seemed to hug the life out of her. Morgan stood out of the way, guarding himself. Spencer looked horrified. She thought she could see tears in JJ’s eyes.

“We need to get started. Emily, this is Dr. Clark, I hired her while you were gone to help with our caseload,”

Emily looked at her for the first time, finally registering her presence. She scanned her up and down, gave her a half smile and a nod.

“Emily Prentiss,” she held out her hand.

“Lydia Clark, it’s a pleasure,”

“Pleasure’s mine, now, I’ve got so much to tell you, and I will, but right now I really need to find out what happened to Declan,” she directed her gaze to the team.

“Does the name Richard Gerace mean anything to you?”

“I know Doyle had some history with him, gave him some kind of scar-- before I knew him,”

“He’s on the pole cam footage tampering with it, scar and all,” Penelope piped up.

“The woman’s the alpha,” Lydia broke in, “Who are the women that have a vendetta against Doyle?”

“That list just got a whole lot longer,”

And it was. Lydia thumbed through the pages of women’s faces. She couldn’t ignore the resemblances to the Emily that was standing in front of her, and the Lauren Reynolds she had once personified.

“She would have to have a reason to want revenge this badly. Why target Declan specifically?” Morgan asked.

“Because he’s the only other person Doyle cares about,” Emily took the list and burst into the interrogation room, Lydia hot on her heels, “Which one is Declan’s mother?”

Doyle pointed to one of the pictures, and Lydia watched as Emily painstakingly drew the story out of him. Chloe Donaghy had been held captive, forced to carry Declan despite her best efforts. Emily seethed with rage as she faced him, voice dripping with venom as she explained how Chloe had taken back her son to use him against his father. She could see Emily imagining Chloe, bound and horrified in a bed for nine months, her body no longer her own.

Emily closed the door behind her, a tiny flicker of emotion entered and left her face in under a second. When she registered that Lydia was there, she felt compelled to speak.

“This woman prefers to work alone, she only sees these men as a means to an end. She wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of any of them.”

“She’s only using Declan too, has to be a money motive. So who’s paying?”

Garcia had an answer, “Apparently the Doyles have a feud going on with the McDermotts, going back years. He fits the bill to have enough cash worth Declan. There’s a warehouse not far from here in his name,”

Hotch’s mouth was set in a thin line. “We’re bringing Doyle, that might be the only way to entice McDermott to forget about Declan,”

The warehouse was empty. Gerace was dead. They converged on the nearest airfield like a swarm of insects. Lydia knew they were improvising… using Doyle as bait shouldn’t be the best option, but it was all they had to get Declan. She watched Emily grab Doyle’s arm and prod him forward. McDermott’s head popped out of the door. The rest happened in a blur: guns drawn, McDermott shoving Declan forward, and Chloe Donaghy’s eyes like fire as she fired as many bullets as she could. Lydia heard a sharp whizzing sound closer than she had ever heard it before. She felt herself lurch to the side and Morgan’s strong frame was moving her out of its trajectory. From the ground, she looked up at Doyle’s lifeless body.

It was really over.

…

There was one light still on, glaringly obvious from the pitch black bullpen. Lydia sighed and found herself at Morgan’s door. She knocked, nudging it open with her fist. He looked up at her, tiredness oozing from his face and surrounded by a mountain of paperwork.

“I hope you didn’t come in here to make me see a shrink, Clark. I know you’ve been checking up on me for a while now,”

She paused, “I wasn’t going too, although off the record I do recommend it,”

“Isn’t that kind of your job to recommend it?”

“Not necessarily, I know when it would be beneficial and when it wouldn’t be. That’s part of my job too,”

He kind of grinned at her, “Then, what can I help you with?”

“I just wanted to make sure you know I appreciate what you did on the tarmac,”

He stared back blankly, “What, blocking you from that bullet? You don’t have to thank me for that. You’re a member of this team, which means I would throw down for you, always, no question”

“Well still, thank you,” she turned to leave.

“Clark, wait— you’re doing great work. I know we’ve all been miles away since you got here, but your efforts didn’t go unnoticed.”

She nodded, not quite sure what to say. She could tell he felt badly for how all of this went down, but she also knew he still had a few of his own hurdles to get through that had been building for the past seven months and had increased tenfold just from today alone. She turned to leave again when Morgan’s phone vibrated and she heard him curse, throwing his phone haphazardly onto the desk. Whirling back around, she knew it was bad-- worse somehow than everything else.

“What happened?”

“We’ve been suspended,”

#emily prentiss #my fics #writing

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