synopsis : in which emily is forbidden from coming along to the grocery store
pairing : emily prentiss x f! bau! reader
The morning was a soft, watercolor wash of pale amber and slate blue, filtering through the linen curtains of your shared D.C. brownstone. It was a rare Saturdayโa jewel of a day where the weight of the badge didn't press against your ribs and the frantic chirp of a pager hadn't yet shattered the silence.
Beside you, Emily Prentiss was a study in relaxed geometry. Her limbs were draped over yours in a tangle of silk and warmth, her breathing a rhythmic hum against the crook of your neck. This was the version of Emily the Bureau rarely saw: the sharp, calculated edges of the Unit Chief softened by sleep, her dark hair a wild, ink-spilled halo across the pillows.
You shifted, trying to disentangle yourself from the magnetic pull of her warmth. You had a missionโone far more delicate than a profile.
"Where are you going?" Emilyโs voice was a low, gravelly rasp, thick with sleep. She didn't open her eyes, but her arm tightened around your waist, pulling you back into the orbit of the duvet.
"Grocery store," you whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to the bridge of her nose. "The pantry is a graveyard of protein bars and expired kale. We need real food, Em."
Emily finally cracked an eye open, a playful, sleepy smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Give me ten minutes to find my boots. Iโll drive."
"No."
The word was firm, draped in a soft laugh but unyielding. Emily paused, her brow furrowing in that way it did when a witness changed their story. She sat up, the blankets pooling around her waist. "No? Itโs our first free Saturday in a month. Iโm not letting you lug paper bags three blocks by yourself."
"Emily, I love you," you said, standing by the edge of the bed and reaching for your favorite oversized cashmere sweater. "But you are forbidden from coming to the market with me."
She looked genuinely offended, her hand going to her chest in mock heartbreak. "Forbidden? Iโm an elite profiler. I have tactical training. I am an asset in any environment."
"And that is exactly the problem," you countered, pulling your hair into a messy knot. "To you, the grocery store is a tactical environment. You treat a trip to Whole Foods like a reconnaissance mission into enemy territory. You have thisโฆ internal stopwatch. You scout the perimeter, you optimize the route, and you've checked out before Iโve even decided which peach smells the most like August."
Emily opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, a guilty glint in her eyes. "Efficiency is a virtue, honey."
"Not today," you insisted, leaning over to cup her face. The scent of herโexpensive shampoo and the faint, lingering spice of her perfumeโwas intoxicating. "For me, the grocery store is therapy. I want to touch the produce. I want to read the labels of artisanal jams I have no intention of buying. I want to get lost in the floral aisle and listen to whatever mid-2000s soft rock theyโre playing. You? You rush the process. You hover by the cart like youโre waiting for an extraction team."
Emily chuckled, catching your wrist and kissing your palm. "I just don't like standing still. Occupational hazard."
"Exactly. So, your missionโshould you choose to accept itโis to stay right here. Make that coffee that takes twenty minutes to brew. Put on that jazz record you like. Be here when I get back, and I promise to bring back those specific dark chocolate sea salt caramels you hide in the back of the cupboard."
She sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound, and fell back against the pillows. "Fine. Iโve been outmaneuvered. Iโll stay. But if you aren't back in two hours, Iโm sending a search party."
"I'll take my chances," you winked.
The air outside was crisp, the kind of morning that tasted like turning leaves and woodsmoke. Walking through the neighborhood, you felt the armor of the FBI agent peel away with every step. Here, you weren't looking for exits or profiling the gait of the man across the street. You were just a woman on a Saturday morning.
The market was a cathedral of sensory delights. It was the scent firstโthe earthy, damp smell of rain-washed beets and the sharp, bright citrus of stacked lemons. You grabbed a basket, the plastic handle cool against your palm, and began your slow, aimless pilgrimage.
You spent an indulgent ten minutes in the produce section. You felt the velvet skin of a nectarine, the structural integrity of a head of kale, the heavy, waxen weight of an eggplant. There was something profoundly grounding about the tactile reality of food. It was the opposite of the abstract horrors of the job; it was growth, sun, and soil.
You wandered the international aisle, letting your eyes drift over labels in languages you recognized from Emilyโs bookshelf. You found a jar of honey with a honeycomb suspended inside like an amber ghost and added it to your cart simply because the golden light looked beautiful through the glass.
By the time you reached the bakery, you were humming along to a tinny rendition of a Fleetwood Mac song. The smell of fresh sourdough was a warm embrace. You bought a loaf still warm enough to fog the plastic bag, imagining the way Emily would tear into it with a smear of salted butter.
This was the peace you fought for. Not the absence of noise, but the presence of choice. The choice to linger. The choice to be slow.
When you returned to the brownstone, the house smelled of dark roast coffee and old paper. The soft, melancholic brass of a trumpet drifted from the living room.
You kicked the door shut with your heel, the paper bags crinkling loudly. "I'm home! And I wasn't followed!"
Emily appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. She had traded her pajamas for a pair of soft leggings and one of your old college t-shirts. She looked younger, her eyes bright and focused entirely on you.
"Took you long enough," she teased, though she was already moving to take the heaviest bag from your arms. She set it on the counter and immediately pulled you into the space of her body, her nose tucking into the crook of your neck. "You smell like the outdoors. Andโฆ rosemary?"
"Focaccia," you murmured, melting into her. "And peace of mind."
She pulled back just enough to look at you, her thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. "You look different. Lighter."
"I told you. Itโs therapy."
Emily began to unpack the bags, her movements deliberate andโtrue to formโstill slightly too fast, but she caught herself. She pulled out the jar of honey and held it up to the light, a small, genuine smile breaking across her face. "This is beautiful."
"I thought it looked like your eyes when the sun hits them," you said, reaching for the coffee she had brewed for you.
She paused, the honey jar still in her hand, and looked at you with an expression so tender it felt like a physical touch. In the high-stakes world of the BAU, words were often weapons or shields. Here, in the quiet of your kitchen, they were just bridges.
"Stay here," she whispered, setting the honey down and stepping toward you. She wrapped her arms around your waist, pulling you flush against the counter. "No more missions today. No more shopping. Just us."
"I think I can manage that," you smiled, setting your mug down to bring your hands to her hair.
The rest of the worldโthe files, the darkness, the ticking clock of the next caseโstayed outside. Inside, there was only the smell of warm bread, the low hum of the record player, and the quiet, domestic magic of a Saturday that belonged entirely to the two of you.
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