The air inside the bar suddenly felt suffocating. The noises seemed too loud, the lights too many, and the temperature too hot.
“I need to get some air”, you said.
Scrambling out of the booth, and almost tripping over your own feet in the haste, you could feel the team’s confused glances at your sudden mood change. Fighting your way through the crowd that had formed on the dance floor, you didn’t even register the annoyed huffs of the people you bumped into. Your gaze remained set onto the door that seemed too far away, your thoughts racing through your brain at a million miles an hour.
When you finally stumbled out of the bar, your heart was racing. The tears that had started to form sometime on the way out now silently fell down your cheeks in a continuous stream.
You tried to somehow regain your composure. Leaning your head against the wall, eyes closed, you were focused on breathing. Breathe In. Hold. Breathe Out. Repeat.
A soft touch on the back of your hand suddenly startled you, making you jump slightly.
“Woah, hey! It’s okay, it’s just me… it’s just me.” Her dark eyes that were always so fierce and full of determination were now filled with worry.
“I’m sorry… You don’t have to be out here. I’m fine. Just go back to the others,” your words come out barely louder than a whisper.
“Absolutely not. You just practically ran out of there, and now you’re standing here in the cold, white as a ghost and crying. There is no way I am leaving!”
“Please Emily, I’m sorry for making such a fuss, I-” you try to muffle a sob that escapes your lips with your hand. “Please just go back inside.”
She shifts beside you, but instead of turning back to the entrance the brunette moves directly in front of you. “Honey”, she whispers, her hands now faintly touching your arms just above your elbows. “I am not leaving you.” That last statement sends a new wave of sobs through your body, which you—unsuccessfully, judging by Emily’s tightening grip on your arms—try to repress.
“I need you to try and breathe with me, okay?” Without looking up, you nod. It’s subtle, but Emily still notices. She always does.
Seconds, and then minutes, go by. A quiet understanding between the two of you. Words unspoken hang in the air, supported by the small circles Emily’s thumbs traced on your arms. It is only when your breathing finally returns to normal, and the tears stop falling, that you notice how cold it is outside. A small gush of wind sends shivers down your spine, leading Emily to immediately take off her jacket.
“Take it”, she demands as she dangles the leather jacket between the two of you.
“Damn it Emily, I’m fine. I’m not taking your jacket.”
“You are literally shivering, now put the jacket on before I have to force you into it.” Her gaze is stern. The type that lets you know that there is no use in arguing with her right now.
“You are insane”, you muffle under your breath. On another day you might have argued with her, but even if you did not want to admit it: You were freezing. And exhausted.
“I’m a gentleman”, she retorted, a smug grin now settling on her face. After a short period of comfortable silence, her facial expressions shift ever so slightly. “Are you ready to tell me what happened in there earlier?” She does not force an answer out of you. Instead, the question is laced with understanding. And concern.
You tense. What had happened earlier? The team had went out for drinks after they had solved their latest case. Garcia even managed to force Hotch to come with for at least one beer. The evening was filled with light banter, Reid rambling on about the daily average amount of alcohol consumption in D.C., and the occasional flirting between Morgan and Garcia. Everything was great until JJ came up with the brilliant idea of a game of truth or dare. Since you had just joined the team a couple of months ago, and since then also had successfully avoided most of the after-work party escapades, it really came to no surprise.
Honestly, it all went pretty well at first. Most of the others had chosen dares, which lead to some very funny (and sometimes slightly awkward) encounters with other guests at the bar, but it all went sideways when it was your turn. Morgan had asked the one question you had dreaded forever: Well, Hot Stuff? There must be a boyfriend you have been keeping from us! Or at least a crush we need to know about? Spill the tea. Now, in no way was that question inherently bad, and in any other situation you could have easily made up a little white lie to make the situation less awkward. But things are different when you’re out with a group of FBI profilers. They would have spotted a lie from a mile away. “No boyfriend”, you had claimed. Not a lie, but also far from the whole truth. Naturally, the team had continued plastering you with questions of potential crushes, even going as far as searching for potential suitors for you in the crowd, while you had started to feel more and more uneasy — and also suddenly painfully aware of Emily’s thigh touching yours.
The faint touch of a hand on your shoulder made you snap out of the memory: “Hey, come on. Talk to me.”
“How did you know you like girls?”, you blurt out, not daring to look into the older Agent’s eyes.
“Is that what this is about?” You could here the hesitation in her question. Like she had to really process what you had just said. When you did not answer, she continued. “I suppose I’ve always kind of liked women, I just did not realize that they were crushes until I was in my teens. Honestly, I could only ever really imagine myself with another girl. When I was old enough, I kind of tested the waters. I don’t know how much you’ve heard of my mom, but she’s more the… traditional…type. I had had a couple of boyfriends, nothing really serious but…you know how it is. A little later, I had my first girlfriend. My mother caught us kissing in my bedroom and freaked out. I didn’t care, somehow. Because I had never felt more alive. That’s when I knew that boys were just not going to happen for me again.” She hesitates for a short moment, trying to see some sort of reaction from you. “Honey, why are you asking this now?”
“I- … I don’t know, Em. I’m just so confused…I don’t know what’s happening. It just feels like I’m drowning in all these different emotions and realizations I can’t quite process — I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with me!” That’s when the tears start to fall for the second time that evening. You slide to the ground, your back still against the wall, hands now in front of your face.
In less than a second, Emily is sat right next to you, and your breath hitches when she gently pulls your ice-cold hands from your face, firmly holding them in her own. She doesn’t push you to continue, but instead she patiently waits, her touch grounding you.
“You know I’ve never been in a relationship? Heck, I haven’t even kissed anyone. You know how pathetic you must be to not be able to make somebody like you enough to be more than friends just once??” You don’t notice Emily tense at your harsh words, too focused on avoiding her gaze.
“I have always been told that the right guy will come at the right time, but after a while I just stopped getting my hopes up. For years I have been telling everyone that I simply choose not to be in a relationship right now. That I am somehow choosing myself. But the truth is: I didn’t. I didn’t choose this. But now I’m suddenly considering that maybe I did subconsciously choose not to try dating men because I actually liked women all along, which is fucking terrifying to think about. But like, how would I even know?”
Emily let out a deep breath before shifting her gaze from your clasped hands up to your eyes. “So, the thought of us finding out that you have never been in a relation ship, and the possibility of you being gay scared you so much that you had a literal panic attack?”
It is only when you work up the courage to really look at her that you notice the slight glossiness of her eyes. “Well, if you put it like that it sounds pathetic…”
“Would you stop with that word?”, she hisses. “You are not pathetic, there is nothing wrong with how you feel, and I-“, this time it is her voice that quivers. “I’m just so sorry that thought you couldn’t trust us with this. Could’t trust me with this.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that, Em. Please. You and the rest of the team have been nothing but welcoming and supportive ever since I have joined the BAU. And I know how much of a privilege it is to have all of you trust me — literally with your lives. I just get too much into my head sometimes and… well I’m sorry for not giving you the same trust that you gave me.”
You could’t quite place the other Agent’s facial expression, but something between concerned and analytical seemed the most fitting.
“You know, you tend to do that a lot”, Emily stated. “Finding ways to put the blame on yourself, I mean…”
You shrug. Then both of you let out a deep breath, the air heavy with words spoken and unspoken.
Once again, it is Emily that breaks the silence that seemed to linger between the two of you: “You ready to head back inside?”
“Actually, I think I’m calling it a night… Thank you. For staying with me I mean. And for listening”, you reach for the phone in your pocket.
“What do you think your doing?”
“Calling a Taxi?”
“Absolutely not, I’m driving you home!”
“Emily, no! You should go back to the others. I’m not ruining your night even more.”
“First of all: you didn’t ruin my night. Second of all: I would have left soon one way or another. And third of all: you’re apartment is literally on the way. So stop trying to argue with me.”
So you did. Because if there was one thing everyone knew about Emily Prentiss, it’s that there is absolutely no use in arguing with her if she has already made up her mind about something.
Still trying to find a way to somehow make her stay, you are suddenly pulled back onto your feet by the brunette.
“Wait here, I’m just gonna go and get my bag”, she hesitates for a second, looking you up and down. “And you jacket…I’ll be right back.”
It’s only then that you realize that you’re still wearing the leather jacket that smelled so much like its owner.
Who had not stopped holding your hand until just mere seconds ago.
actively enforced a rule for myself that i can't edit every single sentence until a chapter has been written in all its ugly disjointedness. and actually ended up writing instead of editing every single sentence. why the FUCK does that work
word count: 4.8 k
summary: After last year, you promised yourself: no more heartbreak. This Christmas, someone special might just change the rules.
tags: fluff, heartbreak, last christmas by wham! inspired, unresolved feelings, fem!reader, Unit Chief Emily Prentiss, age gap, younger!reader, pining for each other
Masterlist
Christmas has always felt like a strange kind of mirror to you. It reflects everything you would rather not acknowledge, all the fragile places you keep carefully hidden during the rest of the year. Working at the BAU has taught you how to mask yourself, how to move with a steady, controlled rhythm even when your pulse betrays you, yet December always manages to loosen your grip. Memories slip through like thin winter light, impossible to stop.
You tell yourself you do not believe in seasonal magic anymore. Not after last year. Not after the way the city lights seemed to blur into soft gold as you stepped out of that cramped living room with a heart so full you could barely breathe, only to find it emptied the next morning as if someone had quietly opened a window in your chest and let everything drift away like escaping warmth.
Last Christmas you let yourself fall. And you fell fast.
You still remember the way the snow drifted lazily outside Garcia’s windows, how her apartment glowed with warm gold tones, how she had gathered a chaotic mix of people from different corners of her life. BAU agents, tech analysts, friends from old training workshops, a handful of people she had met through conferences and instantly claimed as part of her orbit. Among them had been Diane. Bright, flirtatious, and devastatingly charming Diane who caught your attention the moment she brushed a wreath of blue tinsel out of her hair and smiled at you with a softness that felt personal.
You spent the evening falling for her without meaning to. The magic of Christmas did the rest, nudging at that old, quiet hope inside you, the one that rarely stirred. You are not someone who falls easily, not someone who gives anything away lightly, least of all your heart. But that night you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just this once, someone saw you clearly and wanted you back.
Diane touched your arm when she laughed, leaned closer than necessary. She kissed you beneath a cheap plastic mistletoe, and you, foolish, tired of loneliness that you never admitted to anyone, handed her your heart as if she had earned it. You woke up the next morning to a message so short and polite it felt like an erasure. She was sorry, she had a complicated situation, she hoped you understood. She disappeared from your life before the sun fully rose.
You never told anyone what happened, not even Garcia. Not because you were ashamed, but because some pains feel too delicate to expose to the open air, as if naming them would make them real all over again.
You made a promise to yourself back then, voiced only in the privacy of your thoughts. Next year would be different, you would not give your heart to someone who would not stay. You would not give your heart lightly ever again.
But now here you are again. Another december, another gathering. Back at the place where you both lost and found something, carrying a flicker of hope you pretend not to feel.
Garcia’s apartment is even more decorated than last year, if that is humanly possible. Fairy lights crisscross the ceiling like constellations. The scent of freshly baked gingerbread mixes with pine and the sweetness of warm cider. Multiple friend groups have merged into one sprawling collection of warmth and noise. BAU members cluster near the kitchen. Garcia’s extended circle lingers in the living room. Someone she knows from a cyber forensics workshop is already draped across her couch wearing blinking Christmas-light earrings.
And Diane is here. Of course she is. You should have expected it. Garcia still talks to her occasionally, though she never noticed the way your shoulders tensed each time her name surfaced. Diane stands by the balcony doors, her red hair pinned up in a loose twist, her dress shimmering like a soft echo of the holiday lights. She is laughing with someone you do not know, a tall woman in a deep green coat, elegant in a way that makes something inside you pinch, because Diane is looking at her with the same warm focus you once imagined was reserved for you, her eyes tracing the woman’s face with the kind of attention you had craved, the kind you mistook as intimacy. Occasionally her gaze darts across the room toward you. Quick and sharp, as if she is checking whether you still remember or whether you still bleed.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, reminding your ribs to hold firm around your heart this time. You tell yourself you will survive the evening as long as you keep your distance. Your eyes wander then, not searching exactly, but drawn by an instinct you do not fully understand, by a quiet pull you have felt before you ever admitted it to yourself. Even before your gaze settles, you sense her watching you first, that subtle awareness threading through the crowded room like a private signal meant only for you.
Emily stands near the kitchen doorway, her posture relaxed yet controlled in that distinctive way she carries herself. She wears a dark winter coat still unbuttoned, as though she rushed here straight from some errand or maybe simply from the cold. Snow dusts her black hair and shoulders like delicate fragments of glass, and a few early gray strands catch the warm light, subtle and striking, adding a quiet elegance you cannot help but notice.
You know Emily well enough to read the softness in her eyes when she spots you. You work together: you have spent late nights at the BAU reading through case files side by side, shared quiet conversations in the break room, developed a comfortable rhythm of trust that never crossed into anything more. Emily is professional, composed, loyal, brilliant, and heartbreakingly gentle in the smallest ways. Yet your uncertainty has always held you back; you remember too well that she once loved Mendoza, and for a long time you assumed that meant she would never look your way, never notice someone younger, never want someone of your gender. And the fact that she’s now your boss doesn’t exactly make things easier, either.
Still there had been moments, flickers you dismissed out of self preservation: the way her hand brushed yours during briefings, the faint teasing warmth in her voice when she caught your eye across the bullpen, the fleeting touches that could have been accidents but lingered a second too long. You never let yourself believe any of it, not with a heart still cracked from last winter.
But tonight something is different. Or maybe it is you who is different.
Emily approaches slowly, giving you time to realize she is coming to you and not merely passing by.
“You made it,” she says, her voice warm, soft, a little amused. “I was beginning to think the city had swallowed you whole.”
You smile, though it feels fragile for a moment. “Almost. Traffic was ridiculous.”
Her lips curve just slightly, a quiet acknowledgment, though her eyes linger on your face longer than necessary, as if reading a distress signal you never consciously sent. She glances briefly across the room, toward the woman from last year, then back at you. You do not know how she knows, but she does. Emily always knows when someone is hurting, and she never calls attention to it in a way that makes you feel exposed. Instead she stands a little closer, offering something wordless yet steady.
She clears her throat, then asks, “Have you eaten anything yet? Penelope will hunt you down if you don’t at least try her gingerbread.”
You shake your head, and Emily gives a quiet smile. She seems about to say something else, but her expression changes subtly, as if she has noticed the way you’ve been glancing toward the balcony, the tension riding your shoulders.
“Come find me if it gets overwhelming,” she adds quietly, voice lowered just for you, weighted with sincerity rather than pity.
And somehow, that simple offer steadies you more than food or warmth or distance ever could.
The evening unfolds in soft, overlapping waves after that. You drift away from Emily for a while, partly because you do not trust yourself to stay so close to her without giving something away, and partly because Garcia keeps sweeping through the room like a glittering comet, pulling people into conversations and laughter and impromptu toasts. You let yourself be pulled.
You talk to Rossi about some obscure winter tradition he read about in a Scandinavian journal. You listen to JJ recount a chaotic Christmas morning with her boys. You nod along to Luke complaining about cold cases and freezing weather while Tara observes the room with quiet amusement.
You make a point of keeping Diane out of your orbit, shifting your position each time she drifts a little too near, choosing conversations that place furniture and people between the two of you, as if you are tracing invisible lines of defense across Garcia’s living room.
And yet, somehow, you keep finding Emily. Or maybe she keeps finding you.
A glance across the room. The brush of shoulders as you pass by the snack table. The ghost of a smile when your eyes accidentally meet. You tell yourself you are only noticing because you are hyper aware tonight, because your nerves are already frayed. It is a lie and you know it.
At some point, a man from one of Garcia’s training seminars slides into Emily’s space with the easy confidence of someone who has never been told no often enough. You watch him lean in, watch his hand hover too close to her arm, watch his smile turn just a shade too familiar, and something tightens in your chest in a way that startles you. The feeling is sharp, uninvited, painfully reminiscent of the way your stomach dropped the first time Emily mentioned Mendoza in the bullpen, her voice carefully casual while your heart misread every detail.
You tell yourself you are just protective. She is your boss, your friend. Of course you would bristle at someone circling her like something to be acquired. Except the little twist of resentment in your gut does not feel like simple protectiveness. It feels like the quiet, reluctant admission that whatever you feel for Emily has long since stepped beyond the boundary of a harmless crush, into a territory you are afraid to name.
Emily, for her part, handles the man with polite distance, a small, controlled smile that never quite reaches her eyes. When she catches you watching, her gaze meets yours over his shoulder, steady and knowing, and for a moment it feels like the two of you are sharing a private joke without a single word being exchanged.
Later that evening, when someone suggests going outside for a spontaneous snowball fight, you join despite your reluctance, because Emily is already pulling on her gloves, her smile turning almost youthful. Outside, the cold bites your cheeks and settles into your coat, and laughter spreads across the group as snow arcs through the air in clumsy, playful throws. You crouch to gather snow when you feel a soft impact on your shoulder. You turn just in time to see Emily, smiling in a way that is rare and unguarded, a fleeting spark of mischief illuminating her usually composed features.
“That was a warning shot,” she says, breath forming pale clouds. “Thought you should know.”
You raise an eyebrow, unable to stop the warmth blooming in your chest. “Is that so?”
Before she can reply, you toss a snowball gently in her direction. It bursts harmlessly against her coat, and for a second she looks at you with mock indignation before she laughs, low and genuine. She steps closer, close enough that the cold air between you feels charged. For a moment you forget the sting of last year’s heartbreak, forget the girl who walked away, because Emily is standing before you with her dark eyes tender and full of something carefully restrained.
“You look lighter tonight,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Or maybe I’m imagining it.”
“I’m trying,” you admit, surprising even yourself with the honesty. “Trying to be careful. Trying not to get hurt again.”
Emily’s expression softens, that subtle shift you’ve seen when she chooses her words with the precision of someone who has spent a lifetime burying more than she reveals. She brushes a stray snowflake from your hair, the gesture so gentle it sends a shiver down your spine.
“You deserve someone who stays,” she assures. “Someone who doesn’t run the moment real feelings show up.”
Her gloved fingers linger near your cheek for a heartbeat before she withdraws them, almost reluctantly.
You swallow the sudden tightness in your throat. “I don’t know if I trust myself to give my heart away again.”
Emily’s eyes meet yours, all you can see in them is sincerity. “Then don’t give it away. Let someone earn it.”
Before you can respond, something cold and surprisingly solid hits you square in the back. You jerk forward with a startled gasp. Emily’s hands come up instantly, steadying your arms before you can slip on the icy pavement. “What the—?”
A laugh, loud and unrestrained, 100% Luke, echoes behind you.
“Direct hit!” he crows and throws his hands in the air.
Emily’s eyebrows lift as she turns. “Alvez,” she says slowly, “did you just throw a snowball at her?”
Her voice sharpens with mock offense as she adds, “In the back, Luke? Without giving her even a fighting chance? That’s hardly fair play.”
Luke freezes mid–snowball-packing, then straightens as if he’s about to defend himself in court.
“Whoa, whoa, hang on,” he states, pointing at you with exaggerated seriousness, a grin tugging at his lips. “I went for a tactical hit. That’s different.”
Emily crosses her arms, unimpressed. “A tactical hit,” she repeats flatly. “On an unarmed teammate.”
Luke grins. “Hey, to be fair, she has surprisingly good reflexes. I was banking on that.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Luke, I didn’t even see it coming.”
“That,” he declares triumphantly, “means my aim was perfect.”
Emily stares at him with a slow blink. “It means you ambushed her.”
Luke holds his hands up, all innocence. “If it helps, I was aiming lower. So technically, this was, uh… respectful?”
You snort. “That’s not how that works.”
Emily shakes her head, a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. “Alvez, go inside before you talk yourself into a performance review.”
“Hey, you two were taking forever out here,” he defends himself with a shrug. “Figured maybe you froze solid.”
Emily gives him a pointed stare, the kind that could incinerate lesser men.
Luke pretends not to notice. “Also,” he adds innocently, “Garcia said if I didn’t get everyone inside in the next two minutes, she’d revoke my hot chocolate privileges.”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “That’s what this was? A rescue mission?”
“Absolutely,” Luke says. “Textbook extraction. You’re welcome.”
Emily shakes her head, but she’s smiling, the kind of smile she tries to fight and absolutely fails to.
“Go inside,” she orders him. “Before you seriously injure someone with those snowballs you insist on calling ‘lightly packed.’”
Luke grins, salutes, and jogs toward the door, nearly slipping on the last step, and disappears inside without another look back.
The silence he leaves behind is gentler than before, but not any clearer. Emily’s hands linger on your arms for a second longer, and the weight of that small gesture seems far louder than anything either of you has said tonight.
“You okay?” Emily asks quietly, a small crease forming between her brows.
You nod, though your pulse still hasn’t quite settled. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect it to feel so…” You trail off, unsure of the word, unsure if saying it aloud will make it too real.
Emily’s mouth curves into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t finish the thought for you, doesn’t push. “It’s been a long night,” she murmurs instead, gentle, giving you room to breathe inside the confusion instead of forcing clarity onto it.
Her eyes meet yours again, and for a heartbeat it feels like you’re both standing on the edge of something neither of you is ready to name. Not yet. Not here. But it’s there, unmistakably humming between you like static before a storm.
“Let’s go inside before your fingers freeze,” she offers, extending her hand toward you, her tone laced with that same quiet intensity that has unsettled and steadied you all evening.
You place your hand in hers, surprised at how natural the contact feels despite the gloves, despite the cold, despite the weight of everything you have spent a year trying not to feel.
Inside, the warmth of Garcia’s apartment envelops you immediately. Laughter floats from the kitchen, where Garcia is orchestrating some improvised holiday drink for Rossi and JJ, who are watching with amused resignation. Tara is leaning against the counter with a faint smile tugging at her mouth, as she listens to Luke‘s newest story.
It should be comforting, this chaos of familiar voices and mismatched ornaments, yet the moment you step across the threshold you feel it again. That prickle at the back of your neck. A presence you have been trying to ignore all evening. It feels, absurdly, as though she has been waiting for this precise moment, for you and Emily to reappear together in the doorway.
Diane stands near Garcia’s bookshelf, seemingly engrossed in a cluster of glittering ornaments hanging in the window. She isn’t with the woman she arrived with anymore. Maybe she went to get drinks. Maybe she slipped away. You don’t know. What you do know is that Diane’s eyes flick toward you the second you enter, then toward Emily’s still loosely connected hand in yours, and something flickers across her face. Not jealousy or regret. Something murkier, something that looks like recognition of a door she closed and suddenly wishes she hadn’t.
You release Emily’s hand instinctively, too fast, and Emily notices. Of course she does. Her gaze follows yours, measuring the tension that gathers in your shoulders like instinctive armor.
“Do you want to stay with the group?” Emily questions you softly, as though offering you an escape route without pointing at the place you are trying not to look.
But Diane has already begun to move. Slow, measured steps. Purposeful. You see it coming and the familiar cold panic rises in your chest, subtle yet sharp, an echo of last year’s sting.
Emily’s voice cuts through your spiralling thoughts, gentle but grounding. It pulls you out of the swirl of what-ifs before they have a chance to swallow you.
“You don’t owe her anything,” she assures, not unkind, just steady, her tone weighed with the kind of clarity born from experience. “You know that, right?”
You nod, though the motion feels small and unconvincing. Diane reaches you, stopping just a little too close, her smile too careful, too practiced.
“Hey,” she says, too lightly, too rehearsed. “I didn’t get a chance to say hi earlier. You look… good.”
The compliment is thin and careful, designed to sound harmless while veering just close enough to intimacy to remind you of what she once took. Old instincts stir, the urge to smooth the moment over, to be gracious, to pretend you are unaffected.
You are affected, but not in the way she might hope. The old feeling of betrayal still sits in your bones like a bruise that never fully formed on the surface, a quiet reminder of how quickly someone can turn warmth into absence.
You feel Emily beside you, her presence a quiet question, an unspoken offer to step in only if you want her to. You glance up at her for a fraction of a second, a subtle signal, a silent please help me that passes between you in a way you don’t even fully understand yet.
Emily shifts, she is not stepping in front of you, not making a scene. She is simply aligning herself at your side with a presence so grounding it feels like someone placing a warm palm at the small of your back. Her posture is relaxed but unmistakably protective. A quiet signal, a boundary without ever speaking the word. Diane notices, and her smile tightens. Some of the color drains from her lips, and her green eyes darken just a shade, the way someone’s does when they realize they no longer command the room they expected to own.
“I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?” she asks almost casually, her eyes flicking between you and Emily as though trying to decipher a code she never had the patience to learn.
You feel your pulse spike, the old ache resurfacing, the urge to shrink or apologize or smooth the edges for someone who never offered you the same. You want to answer but the words tangle, too many emotions clashing at once, and all you manage is a shallow inhale that is more a plea than a response.
Emily’s voice comes in, controlled and even.
“We were just heading to the kitchen,” she says. “Garcia wants us to try her new cider.”
It is not a lie, not exactly, but it is a lifeline. A quiet extraction.
Diane’s eyebrows lift, faint surprise at the easy unity between you and Emily. “You two seem… closer than last year.”
The words drop like small weights. Not quite an accusation, but definitely not harmless curiosity.
This time you find your voice, softer than you wish, but steady. “It’s been a long year,” you note. “People change and so do priorities.”
The subtext hangs there between you, unmistakable. You no longer belong to the version of yourself who waited for her, who mistook her attention for safety. Diane hears it, and you can basically see the realization pass through her, see her understand, however dimly, that there is no familiar ground left for her to stand on.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she admits finally. It sounds like an afterthought, a line said because silence would be more revealing. “We should talk sometime.”
But the thought of picking at that old scar, of handing her even a sliver of your peace, makes your breath catch. Because why would you? What good could come from handing her another chance to rewrite a story she chose to walk away from?
You shake your head gently. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
For a moment Diane simply looks at you, her gaze searching, perhaps trying to identify the part of you she thought she could keep on a shelf, something soft she assumed would wait for her. But all she finds is distance, quiet and firm. She nods once, disappointment or acceptance or both crossing her face before she turns away.
And the moment she does, something inside you unclenches. Slowly, almost imperceptibly.
Emily waits until Diane has walked toward the balcony, before she speaks.
“You handled that better than most people would,” she whispers.
You exhale, a shaky release of tension. “I didn’t feel like I did.”
Emily’s lips curve in a faint, thoughtful smile. “You didn’t let her take anything from you this time. That counts.”
As you move toward the kitchen, Emily falls into step beside you, her shoulder brushing yours with deliberate subtlety. She doesn’t take your hand again, doesn’t push, doesn’t rush whatever this is. Instead she walks with you through the soft glow of lights and scattered laughter, offering a presence that feels like a slow breath after too long holding everything in. You breathe in the smell of hot choclate, gingerbread, and cinnamon, one of your favorites scents in winter. For a second you study the woman beside you, who is smiling from ear to ear, a dimple in her cheek, her skin still glowing faintly from the cold outside. And you like what you see. What you feel. More than you’re ready to admit.
Garcia looks at the two of you the second you enter the kitchen, her eyes widening with the kind of triumph usually reserved for major breakthroughs in her office. She sets the mugs down with a dramatic flourish, then points at both of you as if she’s been waiting months for this moment.
“Well, well, look who finally figured out they’re adorable together,” she declares, grinning like a woman who knew this would happen long before either of you dared imagine it.
Emily exhales a quiet, startled laugh, one hand lifting to pinch the bridge of her nose as though Garcia’s accuracy is physically overwhelming. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, but Emily’s shoulder brushes yours again, intentionally this time, as if to say she isn’t embarrassed to be seen beside you, not even a little.
For one wild second, you consider denying everything, brushing it off, retreating into the safety of ambiguity. But before you can speak, Garcia narrows her eyes at you and shakes her head in a firm, almost maternal warning.
“Don’t even try it,” she warns. “Denial is for amateurs.”
She turns dramatically toward Tara. “Back me up.”
Tara lifts her mug, eyebrows raised in calm affirmation. “She’s right. Exhibit A was obvious weeks ago.”
You blink flabbergasted. “Exhibit A?”
Tara nods. “Two weeks ago. That briefing in Quantico? Some detective made a snide comment about you ‘looking too tired to contribute.’ And Emily…”
She pauses, eyes sliding toward Emily with a smirk.
“…Emily nearly bit his head off. And then spent the entire break hovering near you like you were the VIP in a presidential motorcade.”
Emily groans softly into her hand. “It wasn’t… I wasn’t…”
Garcia waves her off, delighted. “It was absolutely that.”
You feel your heart twist at the memory, Emily’s sharp tone, the way she placed a hand on your back afterward, grounding you with that steady, unspoken I’ve got you. At the time you thought she was just being protective. Now you aren’t so sure.
You open your mouth to protest again, or maybe to thank her, but you’re interrupted by a familiar, smooth voice behind you. “Exhibit B. Boston.”
Rossi, leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, wearing the kind of smirk that says he’s been waiting for this moment all night.
Emily’s head snaps up. “Dave. No.”
“Oh, absolutely yes.” He looks directly at you. “Remember last spring in Boston? That witness who cornered you outside the precinct?”
Heat creeps up your neck, of course you remember. The man had been agitated, aggressive, and far too close. You hadn’t even had time to react before Emily stepped in. But Rossi continues, and this time, from her side of it.
“Emily told us later,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief, “that the moment that guy raised his voice at you, she saw red.”
Emily’s jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, but she doesn’t interrupt.
Rossi goes on, slower now. “She didn’t just intervene. She put herself between you and him without hesitation. And when he wouldn’t back off?” He lifts his brows. “Your girl here nearly hauled him into the pavement. Luke had to step in.”
Emily groans, covering her face. “Dave, please.”
But Rossi isn’t done.
“And afterward,” he adds, tone softening just a little, “she stayed with you. The entire rest of the evening. Sat next to you during every interview, walked you to the car, wouldn’t even let Luke drive you home without her.”
Garcia clasps her hands dramatically. “See? See?! Exhibit B is basically a whole case file.”
Tara nods sagely. “An airtight one.”
You stare at Emily, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Her cheeks are flushed, not from embarrassment exactly, but from being seen. Really seen. The room’s noise fades to a gentle hum as she meets your gaze, something warm and vulnerable flickering in her eyes.
“I didn’t want you to feel unsafe,” she admits. “Not for a second.”
Your heart does something impossible, it expands and steadies all at once.
Before you can respond, Emily lightly bumps your shoulder with hers, softer than before, almost shy. “And for the record,” she adds under her breath, “Rossi is exaggerating.”
Garcia shrieks, but before she could fire back, Emily shoots her a death glare that only makes Garcia more delighted. But through the teasing and the laughter and the warmth squeezing at your ribs, one truth sits quietly, unmistakably in your chest: For the first time all night, you feel steady. Not because Diane is gone, but because Emily stayed.
Maybe this Christmas isn’t about magic. Maybe it’s about staying. And so you intertwine your fingers with hers, feeling the quiet warmth that spreads through you, a steady heartbeat against the chaos, a promise in the simplest touch.
season 4 dean is like “i’m fighting demons” and the whole time the demons are just bisexuality. meanwhile season 4 sam is like “i’m fighting demons” and they’re real and he’s drinking their blood
happy flufftober everyone!! this totally became something i didn't expect. thank u blue for the amazing prompt <3
summary: in a freezing cold hotel room, emily helps you warm up.
content: @emilys-bangs flufftober day 5-6 — blanket. sharing a bed. lots of teasing. reader like compliments (described as pretty/beautiful). soft!emily. kissing! fluff.
Emily shuffles in the dark, the springs in her bed squeaking as she stands. The only light in the room emits from the small portable heater between your beds (the hotels abysmal offering in an attempt to stop you from declaring the room inhabitable) and too far away to light up her face.
You frown into the darkness. A shiver running through your body as your teeth continue to chatter obnoxiously. “What are you doing?” You whisper, burying your chin further into the duvet in an attempt to warm up and then immediately regretting it as you’re hit with the thick musty scent that clings heavily to everything in the room.
You cough, eyes watering. “Get back into bed you mad woman.”
You were beginning to consider contacting Garcia to see if she could find you somewhere else to sleep, but that would mean exposing yourself to the harsh air of the awful hotel room (and yes while you had faced down multiple serial killers and run into burning buildings — the cold was proving to be your downfall). You glare at the sputtering heater and it’s piss-poor attempt of providing any warmth to the space.
You were going to wake up with frostbite.
Or worse you weren’t going to wake-up at all.
“Here.” Emily murmurs, draping the heavy blanket from her bed over you. “You take it.”
Your eyes widen as you try to spot her face in the dark. “What?” You squawk. “No! You'll freeze!”
“It's okay.” She says softly, “I'm not that cold. And you clearly need it more than me.”
“No. Not happening.” You shake your head stubbornly, sitting upright, goosebumps erupting over your skin as they're exposed to the chilly air. You blindly reach for her hand and aren't surprised when you come into contact with icy fingertips.
“Emily,” You sigh.
She tugs her hand from your grip. “I'm fine.”
You hold back an eye roll.
“You're incredibly chivalrous, but if you're not going to take it back then you're going to have to get in here with me.”
“What?” She questions, dumbfounded.
“You heard me.” You smirk, scooting up the bed to make room for her. You peel back the covers, “Get in, quick. It's cold.”
“I'm not—”
“Em, In. Now.” You snap, curtly as a shiver courses through your body.
She grumbles but does as she's told, sliding under the covers with a sigh.
You shuffle down, automatically burrowing towards the warmth and incidentally towards her. A nervous smile lights up your face as you lie on your side and her delicate features are finally revealed to you. You've never been this close to her before, able to track each individual eyelash and it makes your stomach flutter.
“Hi.” You whisper.
“Hello.” Emily responds, her eyes twinkling as her chapped lips spread into a soft smile.
You beam. Biting your lip to stop yourself before it spreads into something ridiculously cheesy. Something that you were pretending so wasn't a problem right now.
“Now that wasn't so difficult was it.” You tease.
She rolls her eyes, “Someone had to do something to stop your incessant teeth chattering.”
“Excuse me for being cold.” You huff, poking her playfully in the chest beneath the warming covers.
“You're just always so dramatic about it.” She jokes. Her hand catches yours before you can take it back, her brows drawing together. Your heart flutters, as you track her delicate features: the crease of her brow, her open mouth and slightly chapped lips—
"Are you any warmer?" She asks.
You sigh, pushing through your haze. "A little." Your body felt warmer, the body heat Emily was emitting helping much more than the blanket, but your hands and feet were still hanging a bit behind.
"Good." She breathes, her cool fingers rubbing against yours and trying to return heat to the digits.
Your breath stutters. "Sure, this wasn't some gigantic ploy to warm yourself up?" You enclose your other hand over hers, trapping it between yours and rubbing gently to help return warmth to her fingers.
Her brows crinkle, clearly unimpressed and not entirely sure how she'd become the recipient in this scenario. Still, she doesn't pull away which you're grateful for. Instead, watching attentively as your hands heat hers.
The wind howls outside, loud and wrathful, but you pay it no mind. The cold that had been all-consuming moments before, now becoming a distant memory as you warm your hands together. You spare a thought to the fact your hands look good intertwined together before you mentally hit yourself.
Ridiculous.
You chance a glance at Emily’s face. Her gaze hasn’t left your hands, a thoughtfulness in her brows, that you ache to kiss away.
She must feel your gaze because she reluctantly lifts her head. Her eyes shine for just a second and then she blinks and it’s gone. So quickly you aren’t sure what it means.
An easy smile takes over her face, "What were we— right." She clears her throat. "Ploy. No. You're great, but I was thinking it was either this or shipping you off to sleep with Reid. And that felt unfair to both of you."
"You think I'm great?" You grin, tongue jutting out between your teeth. And then frowning when her other words process, "Wait—"
She chuckles, her eyes lighting up. "You're unbelievable."
"Can’t a girl enjoy a compliment." You huff.
"Hm.” She muses, her head shifting on the pillow. “I think you're great. And funny. And incredibly smart—"
Humour coats her every word. She's teasing. Trying to rile you up and it was working just not in the way she wanted.
"Emily," You shake your head, your smile fading away.
"—You're thoughtful and kind. Even when you shouldn't be.” Her voice turns soft, her eyes dancing over your features. “You have the prettiest eyes I think I've ever seen. You're beautiful—"
You struggle to remember how to breath, your body reacting even as you try to keep your composure. "Stop,"
"—Incredibly beautiful. Distractingly beautiful. Make it difficult for me to do my job sort of beautiful." She whispers, trapping you with her deep stare.
Your eyes scan her face as your mouth opens and closes. The joke was over, this was too soft, too intimate. Too close to the the part of yourself that you’ve spent years ignoring.
You blink, tears ghosting your eyes as you fear giving in. "You don't mean that."
She sighs, her eyes not leaving yours as she responds, "I really do."
"Emily," You utter in disbelief, bringing yourself closer to her. Her hand lands on your waist, stroking gently and sending prickles of electricity firing through your body. You stare at her stunning coffee brown eyes, tears in your own, as her warm breath hits your lips.
You gently cup her cheek, caressing the soft skin, eyes widening in disbelief as her breath falters.
“I…” You murmur, heart pounding. Unsure what to say.
Her fingers squeeze on your waist, pulling you closer and finally closing the distance. Your lips colliding in soft, delicate kisses. You clutch at her, pulling her tighter to you. Something between a sob and a sigh escaping your lips.
“Emily,” You exhale, pulling away when breathing becomes necessary.
She smiles. Her hands cupping your face and soft eyes taking note of your kiss-stained lips before she dips her head and begins peppering kisses all over your face — your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your forehead, even your eyebrows — as you giggle loudly in surprise.
You catch her before she can draw back, kissing her lips through a smile.
“You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” You whisper.
Emily’s brows lift, “No I’m pretty sure you have that one covered too.”
She caresses your cheek gently and you lean into the pressure, placing a soft kiss against her palm. “Well, we’ll need to come to some sort of agreement.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Hm,” She dips her head, kissing you again. “How do you plan we do that?”
“I was thinking we start with a lot more kissing and go from there.” You whisper, your eyes not leaving her lips.
She kisses you again, her breath hot and making your toes curls. “And this will help us how?”
“I’m not sure but it’s a good starting point. Right?” You mumble, drawing her back to your mouth for another tender kiss.
“Definitely.” She hums, her mouth meeting yours again.
the daily dilemma of "should I post this story I just wrote" and "but what if everyone hates it and people think I'm dumb and talentless and everyone laughs at me"
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