Shay|22|she/her. Visually impaired fanfic writer who does not have the energy to run multiple side blogs. If you follow me, please be prepared for multi fandom chaos. Star Wars and criminal minds but also just occasional other random shit
and here it is! What I’ve been fondly referring to in my head as the big scary masterlist of masterlists is finally, at least for the most part, finished, and ironically, just in time for Halloween as well . For those of you who have patiently watched as my profile has slowly divulged into what looks like a preschool arts and crafts classroom for the past week, thank you for bearing with me.
•all of my reader inserts are shared on here, but if you would like to read all of my work, consider stopping by myAO3
click here to buy me a coffee☕️ believe me, as a struggling disabled artist, I could use the support, even just the smallest amount if you are able to give it. Thank you.🩷
Series masterlists
The Jedi, the Commander, and their Dearest Cyar Commander Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi/fem reader
How these clones would be with a visually impaired significant other (headcannons/1shots) Various Clones/fem (visually impaired) reader
Cross your Thoughtless Heart Commander Wolffe/Original female Character (ongoing)
Rebellious Vision Echo x Original female Character (ongoing)
•Currently includes: Hunter, Tech, Echo, and Wrecker
the 501st
•currently includes: Kix, Dogma, Hardcase
Miscellaneous
•this masterlist includes a multitude of characters across various fandom’s I’ve written for, but not enough to warrant creating lists for each of them individually. If you’ve read something of mine and are looking for it, but it doesn’t seem to fit in any of the categories I’ve listed above, chances are, you’ll find it here.
the biggest hugest thank you too @dystopicjumpsuit for so kindly offering to make me new dividers, and thank you in advance for dealing with the probably incessant emails as I tag you in some of the other smaller masterlists as I endeavour to replace their dividers
• soft!emily who holds your hand when the case you’re working on gets too stressful, sometimes she does it discreetly like under the table or hidden on her lap but other times she does it without caring who sees
• soft!emily who holds you when you can’t fall asleep on your own, her arms keep you steady and safe, the warmth from her body reminds you that you’re not alone and her voice helps grounds you to reality
• soft!emily who’s favourite pet name to call you is “my girl” because she loves nothing more than reminding everyone who you belong to. occasionally she’ll add words like “sweet” and “precious” infront of it, but either way people get the message
• soft!emily who always knows how to calm you down when you’re overwhelmed, if it’s at work she’ll pull you into a quiet space and drop everything until you feel better. if it’s at home, she instantly has you in her arms, shielding you from the world.
• soft!emily who loves to shower with you, she loves taking the time to wash your hair and watch you do the same to her. if you’re having a particularly hard day, she’ll wash you like a mother would for their child, wanting to bring you that comfort
• soft!emily who’s voice turns to velvet when she comforts you, despite not ever admitting it. the moment you tell her you’re upset or if she can read it on your face, she brings out that tone of voice reserved only for you.
• soft!emily who is extra gentle during sex, she makes sure to always ask for consent and once you give her it she proceeds to ask if you are okay or if what she’s doing feels good. afterwards she’ll clean you up and praise you for doing so well
• soft!emily who will happily baby you without shame if that’s what you need. she loves watching your face change into different shades of pink as she coos at you, or calls you “her good girl” or “her beautiful baby” among many others as she holds you tightly
•soft!emily who can’t fall asleep unless she’s touching you in some way, whether that’s fully holding you, foreheads pressed together or an arm draped over your body, she has to have contact. it’s mainly to remind you that she’s still right there with you, protecting you, just in case you were to ever forget during the night
• soft!emily who just wants to love her girl in the way she deserves, to be the one she can rely on when things get hard and most of all to be the one who fights away all the pain because fighting is what emily prentiss does best
I have a hot take that people are not going to like. I don’t think Emily and JJ are that close, at least not anymore. And I think the concept of them getting together now is just because people liked them in OG CM.
Let me explain:
CME has been kinda obviously creating a subtle splitting of the team in terms of who is close to who.
It is JJ, Penelope, and Luke and it is Emily, Rossi, and Tara. Tyler is new to the team and just kinda there.
And obviously they are all family and all there for each other but I mean when it comes to outside of work emotional support.
I mean JJ literally said this episode that Luke and Penelope are the ones who are there for her.
And we see Emily and Tara and Rebecca supporting each other and being together.
Hell, JJ didn’t even know why Emily and Andrew broke up.
Also, for anyone who wants to talk about Will’s funeral and the subsequent episodes and Emily’s support there, let’s talk because it seemed awkward as fuck to me.
Emily was there to support but it wasn’t like when she was there for JJ in seasons past.
Listen, idk what happened and ship whoever you want, I’m all for playing dolls. And lord knows my top ship is Tabecily, but something happened that made the two of them drift apart. And it existed before JJ found out about BAUGate so I know it wasn’t just that.
Sorry, taking this post as an opportunity to speak my truth.
It’s funny how I ship Emily with almost every single woman on the show and yet arguably the most popular ship I couldn’t gaf. I’m sorry y’all I just don’t see it and never have seen how the two of them could be compatible. They are too similar to me. They’re both very emotionally avoidant in various ways, and I just don’t think they would be able to effectively communicate their way through that in order to maintain a healthy relationship dynamic.
a reminder to my fellow disabled people it isn't wrong or make you less of a player for using accessibility options.
a reminder that playing on a low difficulty only or (like with games with minecraft) no difficulty
a reminder that using unlimited health options like in cult of the lamb is not bad or wrong and you are no less of a player for using it
turning brightness high on horror games like tattletale whether its because you are visually impaired or because you cannot handle the fear a low-light scene can cause.
disabled people are not any less a gamer for needing accessibility options. we are not any less a gamer for playing the game on easy. we are not any less a gamer because we are disabled and might not be able to get all the achievements or trophies or whatever a game has available.
we deserve to be able to enjoy the games we want to play
Summary: You end up in a predicament on your way to work involving a coffee shop, a spill, and the fortunate or unfortunate help of the stranger that you’ve been harbouring a crush on for months.
Tags/warnings: alternate universe(Emily is a doctor), coffee shop AU, meet cute, minor injuries/burns, a little bit of flirting/suggestiveness, disabled reader/ visually impaired reader
Thank you to @kodaswrld for the coffee themed dividers.
Without fail, you’re always here at the same time.
Like two ships passing in the ... morning. It’s 7:42 in the morning. You wish you were still in bed, and in fact, the only thing that manages to coax you from the comfort of it on workdays is this very place.
Warm, bright coffee shop, with kind baristas who know you by name and who never forget to slide a sleeve onto the cup, no matter how busy they get.
But also... more recently... her.
You don’t know what she looks like.
But you know her voice.
Low, warm, quieter when she says thank you to the barista, like it’s something she means to give every time.
Some mornings it’s rough around the edges, like she hasn’t been awake long enough to smooth it out yet. Others it’s already sharp, focussed in a way that doesn’t match the hour, like this isn’t so much the beginning of her day as it is a pause in the middle of it.
Her order never changes. The rhythm of it is quick, familiar now, sometimes followed by a pause and then, almost like an afterthought, an “actually, could I also get.”
Like she’s just remembered she hasn’t eaten yet.
she doesn’t linger. But she doesn’t rush out either, and even though she’s there and gone within the span of a few minutes, her voice sure does manage to stick around in your mind, even though she has never once directed it towards you.
And honestly, thank God for that, because as much as you’ve imagined it, what it would feel like to have it directed at you, up close instead of across the room, you’re pretty sure that if she spoke to you, if she said something, anything, you would immediately melt into a puddle on the floor.
There’s something about her. The low edge of her voice, the way it softens without losing its shape when she says thank you, the way she exhales after the first sip of her coffee, like she’s finally allowing herself one small, carefree moment of unobserved indulgence.
But you still notice.
Which is kind of embarrassing.
The way that you’ve thought about her voice saying things to you, even more so.
Thankfully, though, you’re in no danger of dissolving into some lovesick puddle on the floor of this coffee shop, because this, just like all of the previous days you’ve silently encountered each other, is like any other morning, and right on q, your order is being called.
You step forward, transferring your cane into your left hand and reaching out towards the counter with the right, fingers finding cardboard just as the cup is set down in front of you with a familiar ease.
Your fingers find the opening in the lid as you lift it, unable to resist the satisfaction of taking your first sip right at the counter before you bustle out into the cool air. You bring it towards your lips, inhaling the warmth, before beginning to tip the cup.
And then a body clips your elbow, hard.
It jolts your arm and sends the contents of the scalding hot cup straight down your neck and chest.
For a split second everything is heat.
Your eyes swim, a high-pitched choked noise catching in your throat as you gasp. The cup slips through your fingers and hits the floor. Your hands come up instinctively, fluttering towards the pain, useless, uncoordinated, not knowing where to land.
The heat spreads.
Not sharp yet. Not fully. Just everywhere.
Your breath hitches high up in your chest, stuttering, like your lungs can’t quite figure out how to work around the blossoming burn.
Your fingers finally make contact.
And that’s the exact moment she intercepts.
a hand closes around your wrist, firm and steady. Not pulling, just stopping.
Hey, don’t touch that, okay? I’ve got you.”
Oh God.
It’s her.
Her voice cuts cleanly through everything, the ringing in your ears, the barista calling out in alarm, the man who ran into you stumbling over apologies as he backs away.
“My name is Emily. I’m a doctor.”
She’s a... doctor.
You might actually pass out.
Her thumb presses briefly against your wrist— grounding and reassuring.
“I’m going to get you to some cold water, okay?” she continues. I’m just guiding you forward. Bathrooms on the left.”
Your mouth opens as you try to say something, anything. But she’s already moving you, her hand firm at your arm, her voice narrating just enough to keep you oriented.
The burn is spreading now, across your chest, your stomach, heat sinking deeper as your teeth clench.
“I need napkins,” Emily calls over her shoulder, her tone shifting without raising, used to being listened to. “Or paper towels. Anything absorbent.”
The words blur together at the edges.
The heat doesn’t.
It sharpens, spikes into overwhelming, blistering pain as your fingers instinctively curl which of course, only pulls at the irritated skin of your knuckles and makes it hurt more.
A broken sound slips out of you before you can stop it.
Her attention snaps back to you immediately.
“Hey,” she says, softer now, closer.
Another gentle press against your wrist with her thumb.
“I know,” she says, low and steady. “We’re going to cool it down in a second, okay? I’ve got you.”
The air shifts, cooler, quieter, the echo of bathroom tile replacing the bustle of the shop as the door swings shut behind you. She steers you towards the sink with practiced ease, one hand steady against your arm.
The sink sputters, then runs cold, as she reaches around you and turns the faucet on.
“Hands under,” she says, already guiding them beneath the stream. You flinch, sucking in a sharp breath as the burn combines and mingles with the almost instant relief of the cold. “Good, keep them there. I’ll take care of the rest.”
You hear the sound of paper towels hurriedly being ripped from the dispenser before Emily quickly moves back to your side.
Only then does she hesitate, just for a brief second.
“Your shirt is holding the heat,” she states, watching you shift back-and-forth on the balls of your feet, still in no small amount of discomfort.
Then, decisive.
“It needs to come off.”
Oh.
You would think that this is where you start blushing.
You would think that the prospect of this stranger, this deeply competent, attractive stranger with a voice that you may or may not have been fantasizing about talking you through... wildly different circumstances for the past several months having to see you half undressed in the middle of a coffee shop public bathroom would be the final boss of absolute humiliation and embarrassment... but it’s not.
Because the truth is, your boobs feel like they’re on fire.
The fabric of your shirt clings to your chest, damp and hot, pressing and rubbing against all the places that hurt and so, at the end of the day, the decision is made quite easily.
“Do it,” you manage, getting the words out through gritted teeth.
“Tell me if anything sticks,” she says, careful but efficient as she begins to work at the fabric. “I won’t force it.”
You just manage to give a small nod of your head, but nothing pulls. Your arms lift just for a second, just enough so that she can slip the shirt up and over your head. Your gasp is sharp, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the sudden rush of air against newly exposed burned skin, or if it’s just from lifting your hands out of the sanctuary of the cold running water, even just for that brief second. Emily gently guides them back down, setting your discarded shirt off to the side.
“There we go,” she encourages, and you practically shiver with relief as the cold water runs over your hands and wrists once more. “Just keep them like that.”
She moves over to the sink beside yours, turning the water on cold and holding some of the paper towel beneath it until it’s saturated.
“Okay,” she says, her voice dipping into that calm, authoritative register once more. “I’m going to place these on your chest and stomach. It’ll feel cold.”
Despite the warning, you still flinch as the paper towel is carefully pressed against your chest, the cold a shock against your flushed skin, letting out a noise that embarrassingly sounds like a squeak.
“I know,” she says immediately, closer now as her free hand lightly brushes your shoulder. “I know. It’s okay.”
She swaps them out quickly, movements efficient, never letting the heat build back up. Every time she presses a new cold towel to your skin, her thumb brushes your sternum or your ribs. You’re not even sure if she’s intentionally doing it. But the touch is human, reassuring all the same, even as she remains focussed on your injuries.
And the whole time, she keeps talking, little things just enough to keep you tethered.
“I’m just cooling them down,” she murmurs. “You’re doing really well.”
Time blurs into a steady rhythm of cold, press, lift, release, each one cooler than the last, the heat slowly giving way.
“Can you tell me where it hurts the most?” she asks softly at one point, one of her hands holding one of the soaked towels against your chest, the other doing the same lower down on your stomach.
You gesture vaguely towards your sternum. “Like, all of that?”
“I want to check the skin, if that’s alright with you,” she says, already reaching for more paper towels.
You swallow, nodding, wincing as she carefully eases away the compress. You try and stifle a whimper but fuck, even just the momentary loss of cold is enough to make your eyes begin to sting.
Your hand instinctively comes up again, and Emily patiently catches it midair, lowering it back down into the water but briefly leaving hers rested on top. It’s warm, calloused, the pressure just enough to remind you to keep your hands submerged, but still gentle enough to remain comforting.
“Hey,” she murmurs, soft but firm. “I know, I know. You’re okay. It’ll just be a moment, I promise.”
She’s gentle as she examines the skin, careful when she touches, searching around for blisters. Her breath leaves her in a quiet exhale, relief, you think, not alarm.
“Superficial,” she says, and you can hear the tension ease out of her shoulders. “It’s going to hurt like hell for a bit, but it’s not going to scar.”
She grabs another handful of paper towel, wetting it and ringing it out before quickly replacing the compress on your skin.
You almost grown with relief as soon as it returns.
Heat slowly leeches out of you, your fingers first, then your wrists, more slowly your torso and stomach with each towel that is replaced, creating a growing pile beside the sink.
And that’s when you start to shake.
It starts in your hands, small but insistent, and quickly travels up your arms and shoulders, until you’re stood there shivering, from what feels like head to toe. You grit your teeth, even as they chatter, unnerved by this loss of basic control you have over your own body. The pain is mostly passed, the damage already done. Why now has it decided to betray you.
“I d don’t know why I’m shaking,” you mutter, mildly embarrassed, gripping at the edge of the sink with both hands.
“It feels strange, doesn’t it,” she acknowledges, soft and unsurprised. “That’s adrenaline, and your body’s just playing catch-up and trying to come down from it.”
Another compress against your chest, her free hand slowly brushing up and down your wrist until your fingers stop holding so tightly to the sink. She keeps it there, warm and steady as you shake.
“You’re okay,” she says, her voice a soft breath as she remains close. “Just let it happen. It will pass.”
You’re not entirely satisfied by that answer. However, given her proximity to you, how you can hear the sounds of her slow and even breaths, the smell of clean soap that lingers on her skin, you’re willing to suck it up and let your body do its thing if she stays there.
“You’re really good at this,” you say quietly, eyes fixed downward on your hands.
She huffs a small, amused breath.
“I should hope so,” she says lightly. “I’m an attending physician. If I can’t handle a coffee burn, my residency director would rise from the grave to haunt me.”
Despite everything, you snort, and you’re close enough to the mirror that you can see her answering smile reflected back at you.
She’s closer than you thought
The image of her isn’t clear. Nothing ever is. But you pick her out in pieces. The contrast of dark hair threaded with silver, the clean line of her collar.
And her jacket.
You feel it brush against you as she moves— smooth, structured, expensive, in that quiet way that doesn’t need announcing.
God, does everything about her have to be so unfairly attractive?
You look up to find that her eyes are still intently focussed on you.
Heat blooms, crawling up the back of your neck and into your cheeks.
It has absolutely nothing to do with Burns.
You look away a second too late.
“I know you,” you say after a while, because the silence has grown too still. “I mean, I don’t. But I hear your voice every morning when I come here.”
“You always order one of those vanilla monstrosities,” she observes, and you have to stop your mouth from falling open on its hinges.
She noticed?
She noticed you?
“As a doctor, I should caution you on how much sugar you’re putting into your body first thing in the morning”
“But?” you ask, curious because you sense there’s something she’s deliberately kept unsaid.
“But,” she continues, and her voice has no right to be as low and intimate as it is and yet... “Every time I watch you take that first sip of it, your entire face lights up and it’s adorable.”
your mind catches on that last word.
Then stalls.
Then completely comes to a hard stop.
“And it kind of makes my morning.”
Her voice goes warm and soft at that admission, and you’re making a point as to not look up into the mirror, because you’re sure that if you did, even you, blind as you are, would be able to see that your face has gone about as red as a tomato.
“We do seem to come in at the same time in the morning,” she continues, as if she hasn’t just entirely broken your brain. She rings out another paper towel and carefully holds it to your stomach. “I notice you outside on my walk. you always end up in the building before me.”
“I walk fast,” you manage to admit, lips pulling upward into a smile, praying for your blush to dissipate.
“I’ve noticed,” says Emily. “I’d kill to have your energy at 7:30 in the morning.”
“I only walk that fast because I’m in pursuit of coffee,” you say, trying to sound humorous despite the fact that your stomach is currently being swarmed by an eager, stupidly embarrassing amount of butterflies.
“I’m sorry that you weren’t able to get yours this morning,” she says sympathetically, a wisp of hair brushing against your shoulder as she leans and carefully lifts one of the towels to once again survey the burn.
“Yeah,” you say, letting out a soft sigh, lifting your head to look up at the ceiling partly out of disappointment because you are truly bummed about that coffee. But also, her breath is close enough that you feel it tickling your skin.
Probably unintentionally.
But you’re still blushing all the same.
“This was not how I wanted my morning to go.”
“I bet,” she says and you bite your lip, trying to control your facial expressions. One of her fingers is carefully tracing along one of the more severe burns on your ribs. “It doesn’t look as bad as it was.But does it feel any better?”
“Yeah,” you say, forcing yourself to swallow as you nod. Yeah, it does a little.”
“Good,” she says, straightening. “Try not to wear anything form fitting or that will put any excess friction on it for a little while. You can take over-the-counter pain meds and if it spikes or gets worse, not that I think it will but just in case, I’d strongly advise you to come in.”
“Is there a name that I can ask for?” you ask, turning your head to look up at her directly because apparently adrenaline has made you bold, and you truly can’t help yourself. “I mean, if I need to come in. I know you said your name was Emily... but...”
Along and drawn out pause, then.
The huff of an amused breath.
“You can asked for Dr. Prentiss.”
“Emily Prentiss,” you say, unable to help your smile as you enjoy the way the name so easily falls from your lips. “Thank you.”
“As for Today,” she continues, effortless as she retreats back into composed professionalism. “is there anywhere you need to be right now?”
“Uh... work,” you say, suddenly sheepish, throwing a glance towards your shirt that’s been discarded on the counter, rumple, still damp and undoubtedly no longer suitable for anywhere other than a washing machine. “I might be able to borrow something from someone to put on once I get there but... it’s getting there that’s going to be a problem.”
Emily follows your gaze to the ruined shirt, letting out a considering sigh.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “That’s not going back on.”
———
10 minutes later, you’re walking out of the bathroom, sporting a barista’s spare uniform shirt that is several sizes too big.
Not that you’re complaining. The server who knows you by name and remembers your order before you even say it whenever she’s on shift had thoughtfully offered it to you. Besides, it’s soft, and loose enough that it doesn’t drag uncomfortably against your chest, and the cool air against your skin is a relief after the lingering heat.
“Better?” Emily asks, waiting for you in the small hallway.
“Yeah,” you nod your head, slightly adjusting the hem.
You feel it more than see it, the way her attention settles on you as she steps closer.
“You’re going out in just that?” she asks, frowning.
“I don’t really have much choice,” you say, shrugging. “I’ll just have to walk fast, which, as you know, I am perfectly capable of doing.”
“It’s cold,” she states, matter of fact, reaching out to toy with one of the, admittedly short, sleeves. “And these won’t be much good.”
“Considering I just survived burns that were practically on my boobs, I think I can handle this,” you say, attempting a grin.
There’s a flicker, a hesitation, Emily glancing down at herself before she gives a quick, decisive.
“Yeah,” she says, “no.”
There’s the sound of fabric shifting.
And then something settles around your shoulders.
“Emily,” you start, your eyes growing wide.
“You’re not going out there in that,” she states, as if it’s already a done deal. “It’s too cold, and your skin’s already irritated.”
You want to argue. But then she’s leaning in close.
“Lift your arms for me.”
You do.
She slowly helps you slide your arms through each sleeve.
The fabric settles around you like a cocoon, heavy and warm and smelling unmistakably like her.
and suddenly you find yourself becoming a lot more agreeable as she adjusts the collar, fingertips brushing your throat.
“That is better,” you admit, softening as you look up at her. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says, clearing her throat, taking a small step back as she slips back into that composed mask of professionalism that you’re beginning to recognize is her shield.
“Now, where is your work? I’ll walk you.”
You blink.
“You really don’t have to.”
“First of all, I want to,” Emily lightly interjects. “Secondly I really should, just in case your burns get worse.”
“In case they get worse,” you say, deadpan, folding your arms as you raise a sceptic eyebrow, “You think my burns can get worse just on the walk from here to work?”
“Yeah,” she says, slow, confident, lips pulling upward into an expression that looks almost amused.
“Yeah, we’ll go with that.”
———
“Text me if anything changes,” Emily says, handing back your phone, her newly saved contact on your screen. “Blistering, increased pain, anything like that.”
The walk had felt shorter than it should be. One moment, the air was sharp and cold against your face, Emily’s Jacket keeping the worst of it at bay.
And the next, you’re standing at your works entrance, warmth spilling out each time the doors open.
Now you’re stepping inside, and you make it a full five minutes before you realize your mistake.
“Oh my God, whose jacket is that?”
One of your work friends, Jordan, emerges from his cubicle, nearly dropping a clipboard as he points at you like you’ve committed a crime.
“What jacket—”
Oh.
No.
You told her you were going to give it back.
Right at the entrance.
And somehow, between the walk, the cold, the way her voice kept replaying in your head you just... forgot to
The weight of it sits heavy on your shoulders now, inescapable... obvious.
And she...
She said she’d wait until you got inside.
Which means she noticed.
And for some reason, she didn’t stop you.
“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, even as your fingers brush against the soft lining on the inside of the sleeve.
“Right, so, I can confidently state that that’s a lie,” your other work friend, Zoe, who is a walking bullshit detector chimes in, stepping up beside you and folding her arms across her chest, pouting. “I’m offended. You promised me you’d tell me as soon as you were getting some action, and not only do you walk in here wearing a jacket that’s two sizes too big and it looks like it costs three times as much as your paycheque, but you’re blushing. You can’t look me in the eye and tell me that whatever you’ve been getting isn’t good.”
“Actually, I can,” you state calmly, hands on your hips. “The only action I was getting this morning was stripping half naked in a public women’s restroom with a stranger...”
Jordan and Zoe exchange a look, their mouths falling open in tandem.
“Because I spilled coffee on myself and got burned, hence why I’m wearing the jacket,” you finish, your voice smug, and somewhat prim.
“Okay,” Jordan says slowly, recalibrating. “I can believe all that happened to you, and I can believe that you’re still embarrassed about it.”
“But I know the difference between an I’m embarrassed blush and an I’m in love blush,”. Zoe cuts in. “And you, my friend, are very much sporting the ladder. Now spill.”
“I’m not,” you say, even as your voice goes suspiciously squeaky despite your best efforts. “It was, she was a doctor. She was just doing her job.”
Jordan and Zoe remain silent, which for some reason compels you to keep talking.
“Doctors help people. That’s literally their whole thing. So no, before you ask, she wasn’t into me. She was into preventing second-degree burns.”
“Riiight,” Jordan says slowly, after you’ve finally lapsed into silence.
Zoe tilts her head.
“So just to clarify,” she says carefully. “This not into you doctor.”
“She wasn’t.”
“, took you to the bathroom,” she continues, ignoring you completely. “Helped you take your shirt off.”
“It was medically necessary.”
“, put her hands on you.”
“Just to treat the burns.”
“, gave you her jacket.”
You hesitate.
“Yes.”
“, and then walked you to work.”
Silence.
“Well,” you say, shifting around on your feet and looking down as you feel yourself beginning to blush. “When you say it like that.”
“I’m just restating what you told me already,” Zoe shoots back.
Jordan lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, no, that’s not a neutral interaction.”
“It is,” you insist, even as you feel your ears go pink.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “So, she just let you keep it.”
She didn’t let me keep it,” you correct. “I was just borrowing it until I got to work.”
“Right,” Zoe says, arching an eyebrow as she stares. “So you’re going to have to give it back.”
“Um... yes?”
Zoe tilts her head, watching you a little too closely.
“How are you gonna do that,” she asks lightly, “if you’re not planning on seeing her again?”
You actually... hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“I guess I’ll just, text her? Let her know that I still have it and she can come and pick it up...”
You trail off, because suddenly you feel it, the shift in the room, the way both Jordan and Zoe’s focus has sharpened all at once.
You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself from saying anything else.
Too late.
“You’ll text her,” Jordan repeats slowly.
Oh.
No.
You freeze, and Zoe‘s head snaps towards you.
“She gave you her number?”
You scramble. “I it was for medical reasons.”
“My darling, my love, my sweet and oblivious friend,” Zoe says, fond and exasperated as she places both hands on your shoulders, giving you a light shake with each word that follows. “I need you to think.”
“Okay, chill,” you say, but she is too far gone.
“Would a doctor,” she says slowly, as if she’s walking you through something incredibly simple. “Who knows you can just walk into an ER if your burns actually get worse, casually hand out her number to just anyone?”
You hesitate, glancing away as you scramble for something, anything to counter that.
“No,” Zoe answers for you. “No, she would not.”
You remain stubbornly silent.
“So, you can pretend that you don’t have a crush on this totally not into you doctor.”
“I don’t.”
“, or,” she talks right over you. “you can look at the sub text, recognize that she wanted you to walk in here wearing her jacket, and you can pull out your phone and text her to come get it.”
“There’s no way she meant to do that.”
But you’re already reaching for your phone
Mmhm,” Jordan says, smirking. “When she comes to get it, I should tell reception that they can send up a doctor...”
“Prentiss.”
You unlock your phone.
“Her name is Emily Prentiss.”
“Dr. Emily Prentiss,” Zoe repeats, her voice teasing and singsong.
“I can already see the wedding invites now.”
———
“You’re late.”
Normally, Emily doesn’t mind the way that charge nurse Aaron Hotchner runs their unit like it’s the Navy, striking fear into the hearts of student nurses and attending physicians alike.
Most of the time, she actually appreciates it, his blatant disregard for hierarchy.
Today is one of those times where she does not.
“Coffee shop incident,” Emily replies, already reaching for a chart. “Scald burn.”
That gets his attention.
“Severity?”
Superficial,” she says, pulling out her glasses as she begins to scan the chart. “No blistering. I cooled it, assessed, she’ll need to monitor it.”
She glances up at him, brief and precise.
“She had a visual impairment,” she states. “I didn’t feel comfortable leaving until I was sure she was alright.”
“Understood,” Hotch says curtly, and just like that he’s moving on.
From where she’s sitting at the nurses station, Penelope Garcia absolutely does not.
“No way.”
Emily doesn’t even look up from her chart, just sighs as if bracing, running her fingers through her hair. “Garcia,” she says, her tone already warning.
“don’t Garcia me,” she says, already halfway to standing as her chair rolls across the floor. “You said coffee shop, and I thought that makes sense, because people probably spill coffee and get burned there all the time. But then you said she, and I started to have a suspicion. And then you said visual impairment, and I knew it! I knew that it had to be your coffee shop girl.”
“Prentiss has a coffee shop girl?” a newer nurse, Luke Alvez, curiously looks up from his chart.
“I don’t,” Emily says quickly, but Penelope is already cutting her off.
“You so do,” she exclaims, turning eagerly to face Luke. “Every morning, when we’ve walked to the coffee shop together before our shift, there’s this girl, uses a cane, is adorably awkward with the barista’s, and navigates the place like she owns it. And, wouldn’t you know, every time she’s there, our lovely doctor Prentiss is practically drooling and can’t take her eyes off of her.”
“I don’t,” Emily says evenly, refusing to lift her eyes up from her chart. “She got burned, I took care of it, that’s all.”
“So it was her,” Garcia says, triumphant.
Where did she get burned?” Alvez asks, curious.
“The brunt of it was sustained on the torso,” Emily response, relieved to be directed away from being interrogated about her love life to the more familiar territory that she’s used to discussing with colleagues. “They were all superficial, but still needed to be cooled for a good 20 minutes.”
“Well,” Luke says, looking up with an all two self assured smirk.“That’s one way to get a girl topless.”
Emily only looks up to fix Luke with an unimpressed stare.
Luke remains unfazed, only stretches as he gets up and gathers his papers.
“Sounds like you had a pretty hot date, Prentiss,” he says with a wink.
“That’s inappropriate,” Emily says flatly.
“And yet you’re blushing,” Garcia points out, leaning slightly onto the balls of her feet as she peers at her.
She’d like to say that she’s not. But Emily knows she’s right, can already feel the heat crawling up the back of her neck at Luke’s Insinuation, even though it was, in reality, nothing like that.
She’s also just never been the best liar. So instead, she attempts to do the second best thing, evade them.
“Can we move on?” she asks, her voice going brisk and nothing short of professional.
“Sure,” says Alvez, moving past her as he steps towards the patient rooms, clipboard in hand. He almost disappears down the hall before he pauses, considering as he turns back to face Emily.
“By the way, what happened to your jacket?” he asks, sounding far too casual. “It’s cold out there, and you’re not usually one to forget things so...”
He trails off and shakes his head as he turns away, no doubt still smirking as he leaves.
“You gave her your jacket!” Garcia shrieks, practically vibrating as she spins around to face Emily once more.
Emily internally groans, making a mental note to kill Alvez later.
But then her phone goes off, an unknown number flashing across her screen.
Hi, Emily. You helped me out at the coffee shop this morning, and I still have your jacket. I’m so sorry, I must’ve forgotten to take it off when we parted ways. Would you be able to come pick it up at some point later today?
Also, thank you for being so gentle with me this morning. You made what could’ve been a bad start to my morning bearable.🩷
Emily’s Cheeks warm.
“Oh my God,” Garcia says with dawning excitement. not even trying to be subtle as she leans over Emily’s shoulder. “That’s her. That’s her right now.”
Emily pointedly angles the phone away. But it’s already too late.
“Her thank you was sweet,” she continues, softer now.
Emily doesn’t answer.
Her thumb hovers over the screen, just for a second.
Then she types.
I’d be happy to come by on my lunch break.
She sends it before she can overthink.
Then she looks up and turns her attention back to her charts. As she slides her phone back into her pocket, around her the hum of the ER comes back to life, controlled chaos, familiar and predictable.
But Emily, even as she throws herself into work, can’t help but feel that her shift suddenly just got a lot shorter.
She wonders if she’s the only one.
———
The rest of the morning drags.
Not because of the work, but because of the waiting. Her jacket is still around your shoulders, and you tell yourself it’s just because there’s a persistent chill in the office, which is partly true..
But it really isn’t that bad.
You’re halfway through pretending to focus on the email that you’ve been drafting for the past 10 minutes without success when...
“Hey.”
Your head snaps up. You’d know that voice anywhere now. You don’t know how she managed to appear without alerting you’re usually stellar hearing, but somehow she did.
You look up in time to see her step through your office doorway.
“Hi,” you say, a little breathless in spite of yourself.
Your eyes settle on her in a way that they didn’t really have time to this morning. You focus on the shape of her, the line of her shoulders, and the absence of the jacket around them.
She’s dressed simply, all clean lines and quiet precision. Dark slacks, neatly tucked blouse, everything sitting exactly where it should.
it suits her. Controlled, put together, like nothing ever catches her off guard.
It’s also a far cry from the woman you saw in the bathroom this morning, sleeves pushed up, hands sure and steady against your skin.
You’re not sure which version you like more.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, says Emily.
“No,” you say quickly. “No, you’re you’re good.”
She makes her way further into your office.
“I brought you something,” she says, “actually, several somethings. But chief among them is this.”
She sets something down carefully on your desk.
You recognize the sound as it makes contact with the wood.
“Figured you deserved it, especially after this morning,” she says, and you can tell that she’s smiling. “Even if I still maintain that it’s a vanilla flavoured monstrosity.”
“You went back for it?” you ask, eyes wide as you gratefully reach for the cup, still warm, even through the thin cardboard sleeve.
“I was pretty confident that I knew your order,” she says casually. “But I did ask the barista that knows you just to be safe. So I’m hoping that’s acceptable.”
“It’s more than acceptable,” you say, after you indulge yourself in taking the first sip. “It’s perfect.”
“Good,” she says, watching you for a moment.
You almost put the mug back down, but then can’t resist taking a second, then third, sip. God, you really missed your caffeine fix this morning.
“And this,” Emily continues, more brisk now, like she’s catching herself, “is for the burns.”
She sets a small round container down beside the takeout cup, then nudges it slightly towards your hand.
“It’s a topical cream,” she clarifies, “aloe based. Just something to help soothe the skin.”
“
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” you say as you look down, slightly disbelieving.
“I know,” she says, then pauses before her voice softens. “I wanted to.”
Your lips part in a quiet Oh.
You shift slightly, now suddenly very aware of the jacket still wrapped around you.
Speaking of ...
“I guess you’re here for this,” you say sheepishly, already moving to shrug it off your shoulders.
“Eventually,” she replies, her voice dipping just enough, low, quietly amused, to pull you up short.
Your hand hesitates, just as it’s about to tug at the sleeve.
You pause, then let it fall back down to your side.
That wasn’t what you had expected.
But something warm and sudden blooms in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can talk yourself out of it, you speak.
“How about a trade?”
Emily goes still.
A trade?” she asks.
“Mhm,” you nod, fingers brushing against the sleeve as you gather your courage.
“I’ll give you your jacket back,” you say, aiming for casual and not entirely succeeding. “If you... take me out on a date.”
You’re blushing now, and you look down, suddenly nervous, wondering if this is where you find out that you’ve pushed it too far.
“A jacket for a date,” she repeats softly, something warm and unmistakably interested in her tone making you glance back up. “I like it.”
“You,” you swallow, breath catching as you stare up at her. “You do?”
“Mm,” she hums, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I do.”
Her head tilts as she silently takes you in.
how about,” she continues, easy and certain. “You text me your schedule.”
She steps closer, and you completely forget how to speak.
“I’ll text you the details, and until then...”
Your breath hitches as she reaches out, fingers light but intentional as she straightens out the sleeve of her jacket, knuckles brushing against your chin as she adjusts the collar.
“You keep this.”
“A are you sure?” you ask, pulse fluttering wildly in your throat.
“Consider it,” her eyes spark with quiet amusement, “an advance on our trade.”
“Okay,” you say, quiet and breathless.
“Good,” says Emily, sounding satisfied. “I like seeing it on you anyways.”
Your brain completely short circuits.
“In the meantime,” she continues, as if she’s just said something completely casual. “If the coffee shop hasn’t scarred you too badly, I presume I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah,” you nod, trying, and failing, not to sound too eager. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she says, stepping back, already turning toward the door.
Just before she exits, she pauses, glancing back, a barely there smile touching her lips.
“I’ll see you at 7:42 AM.”
And it’s a testament to her, the warmth within her voice, the way her gaze lingers for just a second longer before she turns and walks away that somehow, she manages to make the egregiously early hour sound romantic.
And judging by your response, cheeks warming, lips curving into a soft, helpless smile— for quite possibly the first time in your life…
You can’t wait until then.
Well, it sure has been a while. So I, started watching Criminal Minds in January✔️ finished it in March✔️ fell irrevocably, head over heels in love with/became obsessed with Emily Prentiss✔️ and now we’re here. Seriously, this woman was one of the only things getting me through my last semester of college, and writing this, small as it was, was one of my forms of escape. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and if you did, please like, reblog, comment, do all the things. I really really appreciate them all💝
Summary: You end up in a predicament on your way to work involving a coffee shop, a spill, and the fortunate or unfortunate help of the stranger that you’ve been harbouring a crush on for months.
Tags/warnings: alternate universe(Emily is a doctor), coffee shop AU, meet cute, minor injuries/burns, a little bit of flirting/suggestiveness, disabled reader/ visually impaired reader
Thank you to @kodaswrld for the coffee themed dividers.
Without fail, you’re always here at the same time.
Like two ships passing in the ... morning. It’s 7:42 in the morning. You wish you were still in bed, and in fact, the only thing that manages to coax you from the comfort of it on workdays is this very place.
Warm, bright coffee shop, with kind baristas who know you by name and who never forget to slide a sleeve onto the cup, no matter how busy they get.
But also... more recently... her.
You don’t know what she looks like.
But you know her voice.
Low, warm, quieter when she says thank you to the barista, like it’s something she means to give every time.
Some mornings it’s rough around the edges, like she hasn’t been awake long enough to smooth it out yet. Others it’s already sharp, focussed in a way that doesn’t match the hour, like this isn’t so much the beginning of her day as it is a pause in the middle of it.
Her order never changes. The rhythm of it is quick, familiar now, sometimes followed by a pause and then, almost like an afterthought, an “actually, could I also get.”
Like she’s just remembered she hasn’t eaten yet.
she doesn’t linger. But she doesn’t rush out either, and even though she’s there and gone within the span of a few minutes, her voice sure does manage to stick around in your mind, even though she has never once directed it towards you.
And honestly, thank God for that, because as much as you’ve imagined it, what it would feel like to have it directed at you, up close instead of across the room, you’re pretty sure that if she spoke to you, if she said something, anything, you would immediately melt into a puddle on the floor.
There’s something about her. The low edge of her voice, the way it softens without losing its shape when she says thank you, the way she exhales after the first sip of her coffee, like she’s finally allowing herself one small, carefree moment of unobserved indulgence.
But you still notice.
Which is kind of embarrassing.
The way that you’ve thought about her voice saying things to you, even more so.
Thankfully, though, you’re in no danger of dissolving into some lovesick puddle on the floor of this coffee shop, because this, just like all of the previous days you’ve silently encountered each other, is like any other morning, and right on q, your order is being called.
You step forward, transferring your cane into your left hand and reaching out towards the counter with the right, fingers finding cardboard just as the cup is set down in front of you with a familiar ease.
Your fingers find the opening in the lid as you lift it, unable to resist the satisfaction of taking your first sip right at the counter before you bustle out into the cool air. You bring it towards your lips, inhaling the warmth, before beginning to tip the cup.
And then a body clips your elbow, hard.
It jolts your arm and sends the contents of the scalding hot cup straight down your neck and chest.
For a split second everything is heat.
Your eyes swim, a high-pitched choked noise catching in your throat as you gasp. The cup slips through your fingers and hits the floor. Your hands come up instinctively, fluttering towards the pain, useless, uncoordinated, not knowing where to land.
The heat spreads.
Not sharp yet. Not fully. Just everywhere.
Your breath hitches high up in your chest, stuttering, like your lungs can’t quite figure out how to work around the blossoming burn.
Your fingers finally make contact.
And that’s the exact moment she intercepts.
a hand closes around your wrist, firm and steady. Not pulling, just stopping.
Hey, don’t touch that, okay? I’ve got you.”
Oh God.
It’s her.
Her voice cuts cleanly through everything, the ringing in your ears, the barista calling out in alarm, the man who ran into you stumbling over apologies as he backs away.
“My name is Emily. I’m a doctor.”
She’s a... doctor.
You might actually pass out.
Her thumb presses briefly against your wrist— grounding and reassuring.
“I’m going to get you to some cold water, okay?” she continues. I’m just guiding you forward. Bathrooms on the left.”
Your mouth opens as you try to say something, anything. But she’s already moving you, her hand firm at your arm, her voice narrating just enough to keep you oriented.
The burn is spreading now, across your chest, your stomach, heat sinking deeper as your teeth clench.
“I need napkins,” Emily calls over her shoulder, her tone shifting without raising, used to being listened to. “Or paper towels. Anything absorbent.”
The words blur together at the edges.
The heat doesn’t.
It sharpens, spikes into overwhelming, blistering pain as your fingers instinctively curl which of course, only pulls at the irritated skin of your knuckles and makes it hurt more.
A broken sound slips out of you before you can stop it.
Her attention snaps back to you immediately.
“Hey,” she says, softer now, closer.
Another gentle press against your wrist with her thumb.
“I know,” she says, low and steady. “We’re going to cool it down in a second, okay? I’ve got you.”
The air shifts, cooler, quieter, the echo of bathroom tile replacing the bustle of the shop as the door swings shut behind you. She steers you towards the sink with practiced ease, one hand steady against your arm.
The sink sputters, then runs cold, as she reaches around you and turns the faucet on.
“Hands under,” she says, already guiding them beneath the stream. You flinch, sucking in a sharp breath as the burn combines and mingles with the almost instant relief of the cold. “Good, keep them there. I’ll take care of the rest.”
You hear the sound of paper towels hurriedly being ripped from the dispenser before Emily quickly moves back to your side.
Only then does she hesitate, just for a brief second.
“Your shirt is holding the heat,” she states, watching you shift back-and-forth on the balls of your feet, still in no small amount of discomfort.
Then, decisive.
“It needs to come off.”
Oh.
You would think that this is where you start blushing.
You would think that the prospect of this stranger, this deeply competent, attractive stranger with a voice that you may or may not have been fantasizing about talking you through... wildly different circumstances for the past several months having to see you half undressed in the middle of a coffee shop public bathroom would be the final boss of absolute humiliation and embarrassment... but it’s not.
Because the truth is, your boobs feel like they’re on fire.
The fabric of your shirt clings to your chest, damp and hot, pressing and rubbing against all the places that hurt and so, at the end of the day, the decision is made quite easily.
“Do it,” you manage, getting the words out through gritted teeth.
“Tell me if anything sticks,” she says, careful but efficient as she begins to work at the fabric. “I won’t force it.”
You just manage to give a small nod of your head, but nothing pulls. Your arms lift just for a second, just enough so that she can slip the shirt up and over your head. Your gasp is sharp, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the sudden rush of air against newly exposed burned skin, or if it’s just from lifting your hands out of the sanctuary of the cold running water, even just for that brief second. Emily gently guides them back down, setting your discarded shirt off to the side.
“There we go,” she encourages, and you practically shiver with relief as the cold water runs over your hands and wrists once more. “Just keep them like that.”
She moves over to the sink beside yours, turning the water on cold and holding some of the paper towel beneath it until it’s saturated.
“Okay,” she says, her voice dipping into that calm, authoritative register once more. “I’m going to place these on your chest and stomach. It’ll feel cold.”
Despite the warning, you still flinch as the paper towel is carefully pressed against your chest, the cold a shock against your flushed skin, letting out a noise that embarrassingly sounds like a squeak.
“I know,” she says immediately, closer now as her free hand lightly brushes your shoulder. “I know. It’s okay.”
She swaps them out quickly, movements efficient, never letting the heat build back up. Every time she presses a new cold towel to your skin, her thumb brushes your sternum or your ribs. You’re not even sure if she’s intentionally doing it. But the touch is human, reassuring all the same, even as she remains focussed on your injuries.
And the whole time, she keeps talking, little things just enough to keep you tethered.
“I’m just cooling them down,” she murmurs. “You’re doing really well.”
Time blurs into a steady rhythm of cold, press, lift, release, each one cooler than the last, the heat slowly giving way.
“Can you tell me where it hurts the most?” she asks softly at one point, one of her hands holding one of the soaked towels against your chest, the other doing the same lower down on your stomach.
You gesture vaguely towards your sternum. “Like, all of that?”
“I want to check the skin, if that’s alright with you,” she says, already reaching for more paper towels.
You swallow, nodding, wincing as she carefully eases away the compress. You try and stifle a whimper but fuck, even just the momentary loss of cold is enough to make your eyes begin to sting.
Your hand instinctively comes up again, and Emily patiently catches it midair, lowering it back down into the water but briefly leaving hers rested on top. It’s warm, calloused, the pressure just enough to remind you to keep your hands submerged, but still gentle enough to remain comforting.
“Hey,” she murmurs, soft but firm. “I know, I know. You’re okay. It’ll just be a moment, I promise.”
She’s gentle as she examines the skin, careful when she touches, searching around for blisters. Her breath leaves her in a quiet exhale, relief, you think, not alarm.
“Superficial,” she says, and you can hear the tension ease out of her shoulders. “It’s going to hurt like hell for a bit, but it’s not going to scar.”
She grabs another handful of paper towel, wetting it and ringing it out before quickly replacing the compress on your skin.
You almost grown with relief as soon as it returns.
Heat slowly leeches out of you, your fingers first, then your wrists, more slowly your torso and stomach with each towel that is replaced, creating a growing pile beside the sink.
And that’s when you start to shake.
It starts in your hands, small but insistent, and quickly travels up your arms and shoulders, until you’re stood there shivering, from what feels like head to toe. You grit your teeth, even as they chatter, unnerved by this loss of basic control you have over your own body. The pain is mostly passed, the damage already done. Why now has it decided to betray you.
“I d don’t know why I’m shaking,” you mutter, mildly embarrassed, gripping at the edge of the sink with both hands.
“It feels strange, doesn’t it,” she acknowledges, soft and unsurprised. “That’s adrenaline, and your body’s just playing catch-up and trying to come down from it.”
Another compress against your chest, her free hand slowly brushing up and down your wrist until your fingers stop holding so tightly to the sink. She keeps it there, warm and steady as you shake.
“You’re okay,” she says, her voice a soft breath as she remains close. “Just let it happen. It will pass.”
You’re not entirely satisfied by that answer. However, given her proximity to you, how you can hear the sounds of her slow and even breaths, the smell of clean soap that lingers on her skin, you’re willing to suck it up and let your body do its thing if she stays there.
“You’re really good at this,” you say quietly, eyes fixed downward on your hands.
She huffs a small, amused breath.
“I should hope so,” she says lightly. “I’m an attending physician. If I can’t handle a coffee burn, my residency director would rise from the grave to haunt me.”
Despite everything, you snort, and you’re close enough to the mirror that you can see her answering smile reflected back at you.
She’s closer than you thought
The image of her isn’t clear. Nothing ever is. But you pick her out in pieces. The contrast of dark hair threaded with silver, the clean line of her collar.
And her jacket.
You feel it brush against you as she moves— smooth, structured, expensive, in that quiet way that doesn’t need announcing.
God, does everything about her have to be so unfairly attractive?
You look up to find that her eyes are still intently focussed on you.
Heat blooms, crawling up the back of your neck and into your cheeks.
It has absolutely nothing to do with Burns.
You look away a second too late.
“I know you,” you say after a while, because the silence has grown too still. “I mean, I don’t. But I hear your voice every morning when I come here.”
“You always order one of those vanilla monstrosities,” she observes, and you have to stop your mouth from falling open on its hinges.
She noticed?
She noticed you?
“As a doctor, I should caution you on how much sugar you’re putting into your body first thing in the morning”
“But?” you ask, curious because you sense there’s something she’s deliberately kept unsaid.
“But,” she continues, and her voice has no right to be as low and intimate as it is and yet... “Every time I watch you take that first sip of it, your entire face lights up and it’s adorable.”
your mind catches on that last word.
Then stalls.
Then completely comes to a hard stop.
“And it kind of makes my morning.”
Her voice goes warm and soft at that admission, and you’re making a point as to not look up into the mirror, because you’re sure that if you did, even you, blind as you are, would be able to see that your face has gone about as red as a tomato.
“We do seem to come in at the same time in the morning,” she continues, as if she hasn’t just entirely broken your brain. She rings out another paper towel and carefully holds it to your stomach. “I notice you outside on my walk. you always end up in the building before me.”
“I walk fast,” you manage to admit, lips pulling upward into a smile, praying for your blush to dissipate.
“I’ve noticed,” says Emily. “I’d kill to have your energy at 7:30 in the morning.”
“I only walk that fast because I’m in pursuit of coffee,” you say, trying to sound humorous despite the fact that your stomach is currently being swarmed by an eager, stupidly embarrassing amount of butterflies.
“I’m sorry that you weren’t able to get yours this morning,” she says sympathetically, a wisp of hair brushing against your shoulder as she leans and carefully lifts one of the towels to once again survey the burn.
“Yeah,” you say, letting out a soft sigh, lifting your head to look up at the ceiling partly out of disappointment because you are truly bummed about that coffee. But also, her breath is close enough that you feel it tickling your skin.
Probably unintentionally.
But you’re still blushing all the same.
“This was not how I wanted my morning to go.”
“I bet,” she says and you bite your lip, trying to control your facial expressions. One of her fingers is carefully tracing along one of the more severe burns on your ribs. “It doesn’t look as bad as it was.But does it feel any better?”
“Yeah,” you say, forcing yourself to swallow as you nod. Yeah, it does a little.”
“Good,” she says, straightening. “Try not to wear anything form fitting or that will put any excess friction on it for a little while. You can take over-the-counter pain meds and if it spikes or gets worse, not that I think it will but just in case, I’d strongly advise you to come in.”
“Is there a name that I can ask for?” you ask, turning your head to look up at her directly because apparently adrenaline has made you bold, and you truly can’t help yourself. “I mean, if I need to come in. I know you said your name was Emily... but...”
Along and drawn out pause, then.
The huff of an amused breath.
“You can asked for Dr. Prentiss.”
“Emily Prentiss,” you say, unable to help your smile as you enjoy the way the name so easily falls from your lips. “Thank you.”
“As for Today,” she continues, effortless as she retreats back into composed professionalism. “is there anywhere you need to be right now?”
“Uh... work,” you say, suddenly sheepish, throwing a glance towards your shirt that’s been discarded on the counter, rumple, still damp and undoubtedly no longer suitable for anywhere other than a washing machine. “I might be able to borrow something from someone to put on once I get there but... it’s getting there that’s going to be a problem.”
Emily follows your gaze to the ruined shirt, letting out a considering sigh.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “That’s not going back on.”
———
10 minutes later, you’re walking out of the bathroom, sporting a barista’s spare uniform shirt that is several sizes too big.
Not that you’re complaining. The server who knows you by name and remembers your order before you even say it whenever she’s on shift had thoughtfully offered it to you. Besides, it’s soft, and loose enough that it doesn’t drag uncomfortably against your chest, and the cool air against your skin is a relief after the lingering heat.
“Better?” Emily asks, waiting for you in the small hallway.
“Yeah,” you nod your head, slightly adjusting the hem.
You feel it more than see it, the way her attention settles on you as she steps closer.
“You’re going out in just that?” she asks, frowning.
“I don’t really have much choice,” you say, shrugging. “I’ll just have to walk fast, which, as you know, I am perfectly capable of doing.”
“It’s cold,” she states, matter of fact, reaching out to toy with one of the, admittedly short, sleeves. “And these won’t be much good.”
“Considering I just survived burns that were practically on my boobs, I think I can handle this,” you say, attempting a grin.
There’s a flicker, a hesitation, Emily glancing down at herself before she gives a quick, decisive.
“Yeah,” she says, “no.”
There’s the sound of fabric shifting.
And then something settles around your shoulders.
“Emily,” you start, your eyes growing wide.
“You’re not going out there in that,” she states, as if it’s already a done deal. “It’s too cold, and your skin’s already irritated.”
You want to argue. But then she’s leaning in close.
“Lift your arms for me.”
You do.
She slowly helps you slide your arms through each sleeve.
The fabric settles around you like a cocoon, heavy and warm and smelling unmistakably like her.
and suddenly you find yourself becoming a lot more agreeable as she adjusts the collar, fingertips brushing your throat.
“That is better,” you admit, softening as you look up at her. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says, clearing her throat, taking a small step back as she slips back into that composed mask of professionalism that you’re beginning to recognize is her shield.
“Now, where is your work? I’ll walk you.”
You blink.
“You really don’t have to.”
“First of all, I want to,” Emily lightly interjects. “Secondly I really should, just in case your burns get worse.”
“In case they get worse,” you say, deadpan, folding your arms as you raise a sceptic eyebrow, “You think my burns can get worse just on the walk from here to work?”
“Yeah,” she says, slow, confident, lips pulling upward into an expression that looks almost amused.
“Yeah, we’ll go with that.”
———
“Text me if anything changes,” Emily says, handing back your phone, her newly saved contact on your screen. “Blistering, increased pain, anything like that.”
The walk had felt shorter than it should be. One moment, the air was sharp and cold against your face, Emily’s Jacket keeping the worst of it at bay.
And the next, you’re standing at your works entrance, warmth spilling out each time the doors open.
Now you’re stepping inside, and you make it a full five minutes before you realize your mistake.
“Oh my God, whose jacket is that?”
One of your work friends, Jordan, emerges from his cubicle, nearly dropping a clipboard as he points at you like you’ve committed a crime.
“What jacket—”
Oh.
No.
You told her you were going to give it back.
Right at the entrance.
And somehow, between the walk, the cold, the way her voice kept replaying in your head you just... forgot to
The weight of it sits heavy on your shoulders now, inescapable... obvious.
And she...
She said she’d wait until you got inside.
Which means she noticed.
And for some reason, she didn’t stop you.
“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, even as your fingers brush against the soft lining on the inside of the sleeve.
“Right, so, I can confidently state that that’s a lie,” your other work friend, Zoe, who is a walking bullshit detector chimes in, stepping up beside you and folding her arms across her chest, pouting. “I’m offended. You promised me you’d tell me as soon as you were getting some action, and not only do you walk in here wearing a jacket that’s two sizes too big and it looks like it costs three times as much as your paycheque, but you’re blushing. You can’t look me in the eye and tell me that whatever you’ve been getting isn’t good.”
“Actually, I can,” you state calmly, hands on your hips. “The only action I was getting this morning was stripping half naked in a public women’s restroom with a stranger...”
Jordan and Zoe exchange a look, their mouths falling open in tandem.
“Because I spilled coffee on myself and got burned, hence why I’m wearing the jacket,” you finish, your voice smug, and somewhat prim.
“Okay,” Jordan says slowly, recalibrating. “I can believe all that happened to you, and I can believe that you’re still embarrassed about it.”
“But I know the difference between an I’m embarrassed blush and an I’m in love blush,”. Zoe cuts in. “And you, my friend, are very much sporting the ladder. Now spill.”
“I’m not,” you say, even as your voice goes suspiciously squeaky despite your best efforts. “It was, she was a doctor. She was just doing her job.”
Jordan and Zoe remain silent, which for some reason compels you to keep talking.
“Doctors help people. That’s literally their whole thing. So no, before you ask, she wasn’t into me. She was into preventing second-degree burns.”
“Riiight,” Jordan says slowly, after you’ve finally lapsed into silence.
Zoe tilts her head.
“So just to clarify,” she says carefully. “This not into you doctor.”
“She wasn’t.”
“, took you to the bathroom,” she continues, ignoring you completely. “Helped you take your shirt off.”
“It was medically necessary.”
“, put her hands on you.”
“Just to treat the burns.”
“, gave you her jacket.”
You hesitate.
“Yes.”
“, and then walked you to work.”
Silence.
“Well,” you say, shifting around on your feet and looking down as you feel yourself beginning to blush. “When you say it like that.”
“I’m just restating what you told me already,” Zoe shoots back.
Jordan lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, no, that’s not a neutral interaction.”
“It is,” you insist, even as you feel your ears go pink.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “So, she just let you keep it.”
She didn’t let me keep it,” you correct. “I was just borrowing it until I got to work.”
“Right,” Zoe says, arching an eyebrow as she stares. “So you’re going to have to give it back.”
“Um... yes?”
Zoe tilts her head, watching you a little too closely.
“How are you gonna do that,” she asks lightly, “if you’re not planning on seeing her again?”
You actually... hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“I guess I’ll just, text her? Let her know that I still have it and she can come and pick it up...”
You trail off, because suddenly you feel it, the shift in the room, the way both Jordan and Zoe’s focus has sharpened all at once.
You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself from saying anything else.
Too late.
“You’ll text her,” Jordan repeats slowly.
Oh.
No.
You freeze, and Zoe‘s head snaps towards you.
“She gave you her number?”
You scramble. “I it was for medical reasons.”
“My darling, my love, my sweet and oblivious friend,” Zoe says, fond and exasperated as she places both hands on your shoulders, giving you a light shake with each word that follows. “I need you to think.”
“Okay, chill,” you say, but she is too far gone.
“Would a doctor,” she says slowly, as if she’s walking you through something incredibly simple. “Who knows you can just walk into an ER if your burns actually get worse, casually hand out her number to just anyone?”
You hesitate, glancing away as you scramble for something, anything to counter that.
“No,” Zoe answers for you. “No, she would not.”
You remain stubbornly silent.
“So, you can pretend that you don’t have a crush on this totally not into you doctor.”
“I don’t.”
“, or,” she talks right over you. “you can look at the sub text, recognize that she wanted you to walk in here wearing her jacket, and you can pull out your phone and text her to come get it.”
“There’s no way she meant to do that.”
But you’re already reaching for your phone
Mmhm,” Jordan says, smirking. “When she comes to get it, I should tell reception that they can send up a doctor...”
“Prentiss.”
You unlock your phone.
“Her name is Emily Prentiss.”
“Dr. Emily Prentiss,” Zoe repeats, her voice teasing and singsong.
“I can already see the wedding invites now.”
———
“You’re late.”
Normally, Emily doesn’t mind the way that charge nurse Aaron Hotchner runs their unit like it’s the Navy, striking fear into the hearts of student nurses and attending physicians alike.
Most of the time, she actually appreciates it, his blatant disregard for hierarchy.
Today is one of those times where she does not.
“Coffee shop incident,” Emily replies, already reaching for a chart. “Scald burn.”
That gets his attention.
“Severity?”
Superficial,” she says, pulling out her glasses as she begins to scan the chart. “No blistering. I cooled it, assessed, she’ll need to monitor it.”
She glances up at him, brief and precise.
“She had a visual impairment,” she states. “I didn’t feel comfortable leaving until I was sure she was alright.”
“Understood,” Hotch says curtly, and just like that he’s moving on.
From where she’s sitting at the nurses station, Penelope Garcia absolutely does not.
“No way.”
Emily doesn’t even look up from her chart, just sighs as if bracing, running her fingers through her hair. “Garcia,” she says, her tone already warning.
“don’t Garcia me,” she says, already halfway to standing as her chair rolls across the floor. “You said coffee shop, and I thought that makes sense, because people probably spill coffee and get burned there all the time. But then you said she, and I started to have a suspicion. And then you said visual impairment, and I knew it! I knew that it had to be your coffee shop girl.”
“Prentiss has a coffee shop girl?” a newer nurse, Luke Alvez, curiously looks up from his chart.
“I don’t,” Emily says quickly, but Penelope is already cutting her off.
“You so do,” she exclaims, turning eagerly to face Luke. “Every morning, when we’ve walked to the coffee shop together before our shift, there’s this girl, uses a cane, is adorably awkward with the barista’s, and navigates the place like she owns it. And, wouldn’t you know, every time she’s there, our lovely doctor Prentiss is practically drooling and can’t take her eyes off of her.”
“I don’t,” Emily says evenly, refusing to lift her eyes up from her chart. “She got burned, I took care of it, that’s all.”
“So it was her,” Garcia says, triumphant.
Where did she get burned?” Alvez asks, curious.
“The brunt of it was sustained on the torso,” Emily response, relieved to be directed away from being interrogated about her love life to the more familiar territory that she’s used to discussing with colleagues. “They were all superficial, but still needed to be cooled for a good 20 minutes.”
“Well,” Luke says, looking up with an all two self assured smirk.“That’s one way to get a girl topless.”
Emily only looks up to fix Luke with an unimpressed stare.
Luke remains unfazed, only stretches as he gets up and gathers his papers.
“Sounds like you had a pretty hot date, Prentiss,” he says with a wink.
“That’s inappropriate,” Emily says flatly.
“And yet you’re blushing,” Garcia points out, leaning slightly onto the balls of her feet as she peers at her.
She’d like to say that she’s not. But Emily knows she’s right, can already feel the heat crawling up the back of her neck at Luke’s Insinuation, even though it was, in reality, nothing like that.
She’s also just never been the best liar. So instead, she attempts to do the second best thing, evade them.
“Can we move on?” she asks, her voice going brisk and nothing short of professional.
“Sure,” says Alvez, moving past her as he steps towards the patient rooms, clipboard in hand. He almost disappears down the hall before he pauses, considering as he turns back to face Emily.
“By the way, what happened to your jacket?” he asks, sounding far too casual. “It’s cold out there, and you’re not usually one to forget things so...”
He trails off and shakes his head as he turns away, no doubt still smirking as he leaves.
“You gave her your jacket!” Garcia shrieks, practically vibrating as she spins around to face Emily once more.
Emily internally groans, making a mental note to kill Alvez later.
But then her phone goes off, an unknown number flashing across her screen.
Hi, Emily. You helped me out at the coffee shop this morning, and I still have your jacket. I’m so sorry, I must’ve forgotten to take it off when we parted ways. Would you be able to come pick it up at some point later today?
Also, thank you for being so gentle with me this morning. You made what could’ve been a bad start to my morning bearable.🩷
Emily’s Cheeks warm.
“Oh my God,” Garcia says with dawning excitement. not even trying to be subtle as she leans over Emily’s shoulder. “That’s her. That’s her right now.”
Emily pointedly angles the phone away. But it’s already too late.
“Her thank you was sweet,” she continues, softer now.
Emily doesn’t answer.
Her thumb hovers over the screen, just for a second.
Then she types.
I’d be happy to come by on my lunch break.
She sends it before she can overthink.
Then she looks up and turns her attention back to her charts. As she slides her phone back into her pocket, around her the hum of the ER comes back to life, controlled chaos, familiar and predictable.
But Emily, even as she throws herself into work, can’t help but feel that her shift suddenly just got a lot shorter.
She wonders if she’s the only one.
———
The rest of the morning drags.
Not because of the work, but because of the waiting. Her jacket is still around your shoulders, and you tell yourself it’s just because there’s a persistent chill in the office, which is partly true..
But it really isn’t that bad.
You’re halfway through pretending to focus on the email that you’ve been drafting for the past 10 minutes without success when...
“Hey.”
Your head snaps up. You’d know that voice anywhere now. You don’t know how she managed to appear without alerting you’re usually stellar hearing, but somehow she did.
You look up in time to see her step through your office doorway.
“Hi,” you say, a little breathless in spite of yourself.
Your eyes settle on her in a way that they didn’t really have time to this morning. You focus on the shape of her, the line of her shoulders, and the absence of the jacket around them.
She’s dressed simply, all clean lines and quiet precision. Dark slacks, neatly tucked blouse, everything sitting exactly where it should.
it suits her. Controlled, put together, like nothing ever catches her off guard.
It’s also a far cry from the woman you saw in the bathroom this morning, sleeves pushed up, hands sure and steady against your skin.
You’re not sure which version you like more.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, says Emily.
“No,” you say quickly. “No, you’re you’re good.”
She makes her way further into your office.
“I brought you something,” she says, “actually, several somethings. But chief among them is this.”
She sets something down carefully on your desk.
You recognize the sound as it makes contact with the wood.
“Figured you deserved it, especially after this morning,” she says, and you can tell that she’s smiling. “Even if I still maintain that it’s a vanilla flavoured monstrosity.”
“You went back for it?” you ask, eyes wide as you gratefully reach for the cup, still warm, even through the thin cardboard sleeve.
“I was pretty confident that I knew your order,” she says casually. “But I did ask the barista that knows you just to be safe. So I’m hoping that’s acceptable.”
“It’s more than acceptable,” you say, after you indulge yourself in taking the first sip. “It’s perfect.”
“Good,” she says, watching you for a moment.
You almost put the mug back down, but then can’t resist taking a second, then third, sip. God, you really missed your caffeine fix this morning.
“And this,” Emily continues, more brisk now, like she’s catching herself, “is for the burns.”
She sets a small round container down beside the takeout cup, then nudges it slightly towards your hand.
“It’s a topical cream,” she clarifies, “aloe based. Just something to help soothe the skin.”
“
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” you say as you look down, slightly disbelieving.
“I know,” she says, then pauses before her voice softens. “I wanted to.”
Your lips part in a quiet Oh.
You shift slightly, now suddenly very aware of the jacket still wrapped around you.
Speaking of ...
“I guess you’re here for this,” you say sheepishly, already moving to shrug it off your shoulders.
“Eventually,” she replies, her voice dipping just enough, low, quietly amused, to pull you up short.
Your hand hesitates, just as it’s about to tug at the sleeve.
You pause, then let it fall back down to your side.
That wasn’t what you had expected.
But something warm and sudden blooms in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can talk yourself out of it, you speak.
“How about a trade?”
Emily goes still.
A trade?” she asks.
“Mhm,” you nod, fingers brushing against the sleeve as you gather your courage.
“I’ll give you your jacket back,” you say, aiming for casual and not entirely succeeding. “If you... take me out on a date.”
You’re blushing now, and you look down, suddenly nervous, wondering if this is where you find out that you’ve pushed it too far.
“A jacket for a date,” she repeats softly, something warm and unmistakably interested in her tone making you glance back up. “I like it.”
“You,” you swallow, breath catching as you stare up at her. “You do?”
“Mm,” she hums, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I do.”
Her head tilts as she silently takes you in.
how about,” she continues, easy and certain. “You text me your schedule.”
She steps closer, and you completely forget how to speak.
“I’ll text you the details, and until then...”
Your breath hitches as she reaches out, fingers light but intentional as she straightens out the sleeve of her jacket, knuckles brushing against your chin as she adjusts the collar.
“You keep this.”
“A are you sure?” you ask, pulse fluttering wildly in your throat.
“Consider it,” her eyes spark with quiet amusement, “an advance on our trade.”
“Okay,” you say, quiet and breathless.
“Good,” says Emily, sounding satisfied. “I like seeing it on you anyways.”
Your brain completely short circuits.
“In the meantime,” she continues, as if she’s just said something completely casual. “If the coffee shop hasn’t scarred you too badly, I presume I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah,” you nod, trying, and failing, not to sound too eager. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she says, stepping back, already turning toward the door.
Just before she exits, she pauses, glancing back, a barely there smile touching her lips.
“I’ll see you at 7:42 AM.”
And it’s a testament to her, the warmth within her voice, the way her gaze lingers for just a second longer before she turns and walks away that somehow, she manages to make the egregiously early hour sound romantic.
And judging by your response, cheeks warming, lips curving into a soft, helpless smile— for quite possibly the first time in your life…
You can’t wait until then.
Well, it sure has been a while. So I, started watching Criminal Minds in January✔️ finished it in March✔️ fell irrevocably, head over heels in love with/became obsessed with Emily Prentiss✔️ and now we’re here. Seriously, this woman was one of the only things getting me through my last semester of college, and writing this, small as it was, was one of my forms of escape. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and if you did, please like, reblog, comment, do all the things. I really really appreciate them all💝
I have seen the last dinner party performing big dog live and y’all, y’all, I’m gay. I’m so gay. I need this out on streaming right now oh my God I’m so gay
I have seen the last dinner party performing big dog live and y’all, y’all, I’m gay. I’m so gay. I need this out on streaming right now oh my God I’m so gay
word count: 1.5 k
Summary: After a case that hits a little too close to home, the weight of it all becomes too much to carry alone. You try to hold it together, but Emily sees right through you. And in the end, it turns out you only need one thing: a hug.
A/N: Got inspired by one of these prompts.
tags: Unit Chief Prentiss, there could be an age gap but it is not defined, no mention of y/n, emotional hurt, emotional trauma, post-case fallout, reader is kind of traumatized, hurt/comfort, g/n!reader, angst with comfort, Protective!EmilyPrentiss, comfort hug
Masterlist
The soft hum of the jet seeps into your thoughts, vibrating through every fiber of your body, and still it isn’t enough to distract you from the images of the past few days. The unsub’s mocking laughter still echoes inside you, how he kept you all in the dark for days, pulled his victims into his game, and made them suffer for no reason.
You really are trying, but something about this case has unsettled you deep down. You’ve seen a lot, been through a lot, and still, it’s always the human aspect that eats away at you. The fact that someone is capable of something like this still shakes you to your core.
You’d think by now you’d be used to the depths of the human psyche, that nothing could shake you anymore. After all, it’s your job to catch psychopaths, to analyze and understand their behavioral patterns. You have to put yourself in their shoes, try to understand them, go to the darkest places to bring them down. And you manage that when it matters. You function. You do your job well, you know that. But afterward?
When the silence settles in and the images won’t fade? That’s when you break. At least on the inside. In front of your colleagues, you keep it together, put your walls back up, and just keep going.
Your gaze still lingers outside, caught on the soft clouds, a stark contrast to what’s playing behind your eyes. Without realizing it, your shoulders tense, your hands clasp in your lap, your fingers picking at the skin of your thumb as you tune out the conversations around you.
A hand on your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts. You don’t need to look up, you know it’s Emily. Her long fingers rest steady and reassuring on your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze until you finally meet her eyes.
“Want some coffee?” she asks, and you hear the real question behind it.
“No, thanks,” you reply, turning your gaze back to the window. You have to. If you look at Emily any longer than necessary, you won’t be able to hold it together. She has that look, that analytical, knowing look. The kind that makes it clear how much she’s been through. That she understands you. Sees you. And right now, you don’t want to be seen.
“Something else?” she presses, her thumb slowly circling over the tense muscle beneath it. “Can I do anything for you?”
“No, I…” Your voice comes out strained. You’re already fighting yourself, and Emily sees it immediately.
She lets go of you slowly, and you feel both sad and relieved at the same time. You want to be close to her and you don’t. Not right now. Not with the others around.
“You can always talk to me, you know that,” she says quietly. “And if you need a little time to yourself, that’s okay. When cases hit close to home, a little distance can help.”
Before you can respond, she gives you a small nod and heads back to her seat. She doesn’t expect an answer, she knows you wouldn’t have been able to get a word out anyway.
Hours later, when you’re back in Quantico, your thoughts have settled a little, but your body is still tense. You watch as the others head to their desks, sit down, and start writing their reports. But you remain rooted in the doorway, right beside the photos of your fallen colleagues and the plaques for outstanding service.
Your legs feel like lead, your heart is racing, and your lips already ache from chewing on them the entire time.
“Did the team in Williamsburg send over the photos yet, Garcia?” Alvez asks as Penelope comes around the corner with a stack of files.
Penelope notices you a moment later. She hesitates, clearly torn, and gives you a worried look but she doesn’t approach. Emily must have warned her, asked her to give you some space.
A few seconds later, Emily steps out of her office, gripping the railing in front of her. You can see how tightly she’s holding on, her fingers turn white as she spots you still standing by the elevator, and a muscle in her neck twitches when she realizes you haven’t moved an inch since you arrived. Her gaze moves over JJ, Alvez, and Rossi before settling back on you. She presses her lips together and clears her throat.
You force yourself to move, dropping into your chair.
“You all did good work,” Emily begins, giving a slight nod. “I know this case wasn’t easy, and it took a lot out of all of us.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see the others nod, JJ running a hand through her blonde hair, Rossi staring down, uneasy. You know it’s affecting them too, but these words and the ones that follow, are meant for you. Emily is using it as cover, a way to avoid putting you on the spot, to give you room to fall apart without drawing attention.
“When Hotch pulled me aside back then and questioned my objectivity, I told him I needed to know I could still be human. We have to maintain professional distance in this job, but we deal with emotional trauma every single day and we can’t forget that. I promised myself that if I ever ended up in a leadership position, I’d pass that mindset on to my team. You’re allowed to be human. Some things hit one person harder than another. We’re allowed to be sad. Or angry. We’re allowed to feel.”
Her gaze drifts again, lingering on you just a second longer. You swallow, nervous under her attention, under her words. You’ve always known how important the human aspect is to Emily. But since becoming Unit Chief, she’s seemed more reserved, avoiding team nights, personal conversations, even skipping evenings at Rossi’s.
Penelope would say you’re the only exception now. That you’re her one soft spot. Emily shows up for girls’ nights when you ask, even if you have to pull out your best puppy-dog eyes. When you grab food, she always declines, but you order something for her anyway. She accepts it with a quiet thank you, even if she gives you that intense, almost scolding look. The one time Alvez tried the same thing, the container sat untouched in the fridge the next day. But sometimes, when she thinks you’re not looking, that small, dimpled smile appears on her face. A smile that makes all of it worth it.
“Take a few days off,” she says finally, and your heart skips. “Get some rest. Distract yourselves. Process the last few days. Talk to Lisa the new therapist if you need to. And I want you to go home now. The reports can wait.”
JJ shoots you a questioning look, then glances at Alvez, but you both just shrug. It’s not entirely unusual but still rare. Emily doesn’t often show how much she cares, even if everything she does makes it obvious.
“Well, I’m not gonna be told twice,” Rossi mutters, grabbing his bag. “See you!”
Around you, your teammates start gathering their things, but you stay seated. You can still feel Emily’s eyes on you, her warmth, her concern. You know she did this for you.
“Get some rest,” JJ says softly, appearing beside you and brushing a hand over your back. “That was a tough case.”
“Thanks. You too,” you murmur, avoiding her probing gaze so you don’t break into tears.
Five minutes later, after Penelope and Alvez have left, you straighten up with a sigh and reach for your jacket. But your hands are shaking, your body is rebelling. Breathless, you sink back into your chair and within seconds, Emily is in front of you.
“What do you need?” she asks, crouching down in front of you. Her fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear as she studies you with those dark, intense eyes.
“I…” You falter, the words stuck in your throat.
“Hey,” Emily murmurs, gently lifting your chin when you try to look away. “I’m here.”
Hot tears gather in your eyes. You blink, but they spill over anyway, sliding down your cheeks. Carefully, Emily wipes two of them away, tilting her head slightly.
“What do you need?” she repeats, her voice softer now, and you can feel her warmth slowly seeping into you.
“A hug,” you manage quietly, closing your eyes in embarrassment.
You don’t dare look at her, but when her hand takes yours and gently pulls you to your feet, you do. There’s a softness there, a warmth on her face that makes your stomach flip. Her left hand settles at your waist, drawing you closer. Your body meets hers, and you realize just how good it feels to let yourself fall into her arms. When her other arm wraps around you, her hand resting on your upper back, you feel safer than you have in years. The pain, the case, the things the unsub did, they’re not gone. But you’re not alone with them anymore.
if anyone does end up writing this, please tag me not because I require credit, but because I do not have the brains to write this myself, and I want to see what someone smarter than me can do with the idea
I feel like Emily Prentiss would love to hug her partner from behind, her hands either resting on your hips or sneaking up under your shirt and occasionally she would kiss your neck between talking. :3
Hotch and JJ did the best they could to protect Emily and Derek and Spencer had the right to be mad about it are two sentences that should coexist but these people clearly couldn't get it.
