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mrsines · 27 days ago

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Fault Lines || Emily Prentiss x Reader

Oneshot

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

You didn't want to believe that. But when you finally met her, you understood. There was something about Emily that clashed against your skin like sandpaper. She walked into rooms like she already owned them, and when she looked at you, it wasn't with curiosity. It was with a distant, almost annoyed interest, like she was cataloguing a threat she wasn't quite ready to confront.

And from the very beginning, you clashed.

It started small. A look. A correction. A disagreement in the middle of a briefing over a suspect's psychological profile.

"Your theory is a little... optimistic," she'd said once, while Hotch looked on with tired neutrality.

"And yours is bordering on cynical," you replied, trying not to let your voice bite the way you wanted it to.

You had expected a raised brow, maybe a flicker of amusement. But instead, she just stared. Cool and unreadable.

"Realistic," she said. "That's the word you're looking for."

From then on, it was war.

Not the kind with slammed doors or raised voices. You weren't that immature, and neither was she. No, this was colder. Sharper. Like two swords meeting in silence, over and over again, every time you were forced into the same room.

The worst part? She was brilliant. You couldn't deny it. She saw patterns in ways you didn't. She picked up on behaviors you missed. And when she called you out, it wasn't petty—it was always right. And that made it worse. Because even when you hated her, you couldn't stop... admiring her.

And maybe that was the most infuriating part of all.

⸻

It was during the Boston case that everything shifted.

A string of disappearances. All young women, all gone without a trace. By the time you were flown in, the team was already fraying at the edges—too many variables, not enough patterns. The local PD wasn't cooperating. Hotch was tense. And you? You'd barely had three hours of sleep in the past two days.

"Maybe if we focused on the locations, not the victims," you argued, standing by the whiteboard, red circles drawn around each abduction point.

"We've been over the locations," Emily said without looking at you, flipping through a file. "There's no pattern there."

"You said that three days ago. But what if you were wrong?"

Her head snapped up.

Rossi muttered something under his breath and stepped out for coffee.

"I'm sorry," you added quickly. "I just mean... things change. And maybe we missed something."

Emily walked toward you slowly. Not threatening. But not relaxed either. Like she was measuring you.

"You think I missed something?" she asked.

You hesitated. "I think we all could've."

A pause. And then, softer: "Show me."

That surprised you.

You walked her through your theory. Slowly. Carefully. You expected her to interrupt—she usually did. But this time she just stood there, one arm folded across her chest, the other holding her chin. Her eyes tracked everything you said. She asked questions. Pushed back once or twice. But mostly... she listened.

And at the end of it, she said, "You might be onto something."

You stared at her.

She gave you a half-smile. "Don't look so shocked."

And just like that, something cracked. Something subtle. But it was there.

⸻

The truce didn't last long.

By the next morning, you were back at it again—arguing over the suspect's psychological profile. But it was different now. Not quite hostile. Competitive, maybe. Like something in both of you had woken up and was now testing the air.

Then came the motel.

You were sitting on the edge of the lumpy bed, files spread out like fallen leaves. Emily leaned against the dresser, her arms crossed. You were both exhausted, both frustrated.

"He's escalating," you said. "The last victim was left in a public space. He's not hiding anymore."

Emily didn't answer right away. She looked at you, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You know, I used to think you were just defensive for the sake of it," she said. "But you're just... stubborn."

You looked up. "That's rich, coming from you."

Her lips twitched. "Maybe we're both stubborn."

You looked at each other for a beat too long.

And then she said, "You have a good instinct for this. Even when you're wrong, it's not because you didn't think it through."

You didn't know what surprised you more—the compliment or the fact that it felt sincere.

"Thanks," you said, too quickly.

Silence. You felt it settle between you, thick and strange. Your heart was beating too fast for no reason at all.

"Don't let it go to your head," she added.

There it was. The familiar edge. But now it was laced with something else.

⸻

The shift was slow. Painfully slow.

You started noticing the little things. How Emily always brought you the stronger coffee when you looked like death. How she'd glance at you when the suspect started talking, like she was waiting to see your reaction. How she'd challenge you, yes, but never cruelly. Never to humiliate.

You caught her watching you once, in the middle of a late-night debrief. The others were talking, exhausted, their voices blurred. But her eyes were locked on you, sharp and quiet and thoughtful.

When you looked back, she didn't look away.

You didn't either.

⸻

It was storming the night you cracked the pattern.

The air outside was thick with rain, thunder rolling in the distance. You were sitting on the motel floor, laptop on your knees, the others half-asleep or checking out.

Emily was in the corner, flipping through case files. The only light came from a desk lamp, the glow soft and warm.

"Emily," you said, suddenly. "Come here."

She looked up, slightly irritated, but stood anyway.

You walked her through your findings. One of the abduction sites had been overlooked—a small alley between two storefronts, off the main grid. There were surveillance cams. A timestamp. A man in a red hoodie.

Emily's face changed as she processed it.

And then she smiled.

"Nice catch."

You didn't smile back. Not yet. The moment was too heavy for that.

She sat beside you, cross-legged on the floor, her shoulder brushing yours.

It felt like fire.

You didn't move away.

Neither did she.

⸻

You didn't talk about it.

You didn't talk about the late nights spent reading files inches apart. The growing electricity between every glance, every too-long silence. The way your arguments were starting to feel like foreplay, like you were both pushing and testing and daring the other to break first.

No, you didn't talk about it. But it was there. In every word you didn't say.

And when she brushed past you at the precinct and her hand grazed your back, you didn't imagine the way your skin burned after.

And you didn't imagine the way her fingers lingered just a second too long.

⸻

It came to a head the night they found the body.

She was young. Blonde. Folded neatly in a construction site just outside city limits. It was raining again. Always raining.

You stood beside Emily in the field, both of you soaked to the bone. The others were behind you, murmuring, documenting. But you two were quiet.

"She's the last one," Emily said. "I can feel it."

You nodded, teeth clenched. The cold was biting, but it wasn't just that. It was the sight. The brokenness of the girl. The way her limbs had been posed like a doll. You felt your throat tighten.

And then Emily touched your arm. Barely. Just a gentle brush of her hand over your sleeve.

You didn't look at her.

But you didn't pull away.

⸻

Later that night, back at the motel, you couldn't sleep.

You sat in the lobby, alone, a coffee in your hand and the storm still raging outside.

Emily found you there.

She didn't say anything at first. Just sat down beside you, her coat draped over her arm, her hair damp.

"Can't sleep either?" you asked.

She shook her head. "Too much noise."

You weren't sure if she meant the storm or the thoughts in her head.

Silence stretched between you again. But this one wasn't awkward. It was full. Heavy.

"I was wrong about you," she said quietly.

You turned. "About what?"

Emily looked straight ahead. "About thinking you didn't belong here. You do."

The words hit you like a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

You swallowed hard. "Thanks."

"And I was wrong about thinking I didn't want you on this case," she added. "You've been... good."

You smiled faintly. "That's as close to a compliment as I'm gonna get, huh?"

She looked at you then. Eyes dark and unreadable.

"No," she said. "It's not."

Her hand brushed yours on the table.

You froze.

But you didn't move away.

The moment passed.

Or maybe it stretched. Maybe it tangled itself into the air around you, twisting and catching on your breath. Emily didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But her hand remained close. Too close. You could feel the heat of her knuckles like they were pressed against your own.

You wanted to say something—anything. To crack a joke. To ask her why she'd suddenly shifted so far from distant and cold to... this. But your throat had gone dry.

And then her phone buzzed.

She looked at it, and the spell broke.

"They found a print match," she said. "Let's go."

⸻

The suspect's name was David Callan. Mid-thirties. Lived alone. Previous assault charge buried in a sealed juvenile file. The match came from a partial print found on one of the victims' shoelaces—faint, but there.

You and Emily took the lead on the arrest, riding in silence through Boston's soaked streets, the sirens distant behind you.

When you arrived, the house was dark. Too quiet.

Your heart was racing, but you focused. Emily was already in motion, gun drawn, stance solid.

You followed her in.

The house smelled like mildew and something metallic. Old blood, maybe. Your flashlight cut through the darkness. Each step echoed.

"He's not here," you whispered.

"Basement," she said, her voice barely audible. "There's always a basement."

You didn't ask how she knew. You just followed.

The stairs creaked under your weight. Every sound felt louder in the dark. At the bottom: rows of boxes. A stained mattress. A workbench with zip ties. Photos pinned to the wall—each victim, labeled and catalogued.

He'd been watching them.

He was meticulous.

You felt bile rise in your throat.

Emily moved toward the photos, her hand brushing one of the pins.

That's when the trap sprang.

You didn't see him at first—he was hidden behind the shelves. A blur. Then he was on her.

You heard the struggle before you saw it—Emily's grunted curse, the crash of a shelf tipping over.

"Emily!"

She was on the ground, fighting him off. His arm was around her throat, his knee on her ribs.

You aimed your weapon but couldn't get a clear shot.

Emily twisted beneath him, trying to grab the pepper spray from her belt. He slammed her head against the floor. Once. Twice.

You didn't think. You dropped your gun and lunged.

The tackle was messy. You grabbed his collar and yanked him off her, throwing your weight backward. You hit the floor hard. He scrambled up, but you were faster. You drove your elbow into his ribs, felt the crunch of bone or cartilage.

He swung a fist, caught your cheek. Your vision blurred.

You kicked him—hard—straight in the knee.

He fell.

And Emily was on him in an instant, dazed but fueled by something furious and sharp. She wrestled the cuffs from her belt and pinned him, panting, blood dripping from her mouth.

Silence followed.

Then her voice, ragged:

"Don't ever touch me again."

⸻

They took him away.

And you took Emily to the ER.

She protested the whole time, of course. But her ribs were bruised, her lip split, and you'd seen the blood in her hair.

"Concussion," the doctor confirmed. "Not too severe. But she'll need rest."

You sat in the waiting room while they bandaged her up, adrenaline slowly draining from your limbs.

Your hands were still shaking.

When she emerged—tired, pale, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail—you stood.

"You saved my life," she said.

You blinked. "You would've done the same."

"Maybe," she murmured. "But you didn't hesitate. You didn't even think."

You smiled faintly. "Guess I'm not that cynical after all."

Emily stepped closer. Her eyes searched yours.

"You scared me."

"You?" you teased, trying to lighten the mood. "You don't scare easy."

"I'm not talking about the fight," she said.

And suddenly the air was thick again.

She was close. Closer than she needed to be.

You felt her breath against your cheek.

"You came for me," she whispered.

And then she kissed you.

It wasn't desperate. It wasn't soft, either. It was precise. Confident. Like a line being drawn—this was happening, and you both knew it.

You responded instantly.

All the tension, the arguments, the friction—it spilled out in that kiss. The fire of months of biting remarks and narrow glances. Her hands in your hair. Yours on her hips. She pulled you closer like she'd wanted to do it for weeks.

And maybe she had.

When you pulled back, both breathless, she didn't smile. She looked serious. Flushed. Alive.

"I don't know what this is," she said.

"Neither do I," you replied. "But I don't want it to stop."

She looked at you like she was trying to memorize something. Like she was seeing you, not just studying you.

And then she said, "Me neither."

⸻

Back at Quantico, things didn't change immediately.

You didn't hold hands in the bullpen. You didn't show up to work together. You didn't even text that much.

But things had shifted.

Your arguments were softer. Your glances lingered. Your silences said more than your words.

Garcia noticed first.

"You two have a weird energy," she said one day. "Like, enemies who got stuck in an elevator and had to reevaluate their entire dynamic. Did that happen? Because I feel like that happened."

You didn't answer.

She gasped. "It did happen. Oh my god."

"No elevator," you muttered. "Just... Boston."

Garcia looked between you and Emily and made the world's most dramatic exit.

You and Emily laughed about it later. Together. On your couch. Her hair was wet from your shower, her legs tucked under yours.

"I used to hate you," she murmured.

You smiled against her shoulder. "I know."

She looked at you. "Do you still?"

You kissed the corner of her mouth.

"No."

A beat.

"Me neither."

⸻

It wasn't perfect.

You still fought. Still clashed in meetings. Still got under each other's skin.

But now there was something else. Something quieter. A balance.

She brought you coffee with just enough sugar. You kept Advil in your desk for her migraines. She read your reports first, always, and gave feedback no one else would.

You stopped seeing her as an enemy.

You started seeing her as the only person who ever really kept up with you.

And maybe that was what you'd both been waiting for all along.

⸻

One night, weeks later, she asked:

"Did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That this would happen. That we'd end up here."

You looked at her, the way her hair curled around her jaw, the way her shirt was rumpled from sleep.

"No," you said honestly. "But I think I hoped."

Emily smiled. The kind of smile she didn't give to just anyone.

"Well," she said, crawling into your arms, "you were right about something, then."