The Season of Miracles
Title: The Season of Miracles
Pairing: Prentiss/Reid
Rating: FRAO/NC17
Word Count: ~7500
Warnings: Language, sex, potential toothache-inducing fluff?
Summary: Emily might be the only person alive who hates Christmas more than Reid.
Notes: I wrote this for the most recent go-around of cm_exchange for moon_raven2. My lovely gmail wifey ginny214 (*snort*) was my beta, hand-holder & cheerleader ♥ This went through like, 81239129 incarnations before it settled down to a fluffy Reid/Prentiss, and I hated it basically throughout. Ha! But here it is, in all it's last-minute enraging glory ;)
A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm. We all go through it together.
-- Garrison Keillor
"What are you doing for Christmas, kid?"
Reid looked up from the file he was scanning and shrugged. "I don't have any plans. How about you?"
"Chicago," Morgan answered, stopping short. "What do you mean you don't have any plans? Tell me you are not gonna disappoint Mama Reid on Christmas. That's cold, man."
Reid looked back at his papers, chewing his lip. "She hates Christmas. She says it's contrived."
"It is!" Emily popped her head over the divider between her desk and Reid's. "I don't blame her. Fucking depressing is what it is."
"A vulgar display of materialism and a guilt-inspired circle-jerk is what I believe you called it last year," Garcia said, tapping Emily on the head with a manila folder as she breezed by. "Scrooge."
Morgan let out a low whistle. "That's some deep-seated resentment there, Prentiss. Care to share?"
"Not really," she answered, slumping back into her seat. "Just your typical poor-little-rich-girl complex." She began to shuffle absently through a pile of papers, pretending to be absorbed.
Morgan grinned in her direction and shrugged, striding off.
Reid slid his file lower and craned his neck to make sure they were alone. "Where's your mom going this year?" he asked quietly.
The shuffling stopped. Emily lifted her gaze to his and raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"Your mom. Where's she going for Christmas?"
"Barbados," Emily answered, her tone wary. "With my father this time. How did you know she was going away?"
Reid shrugged and hid his face behind the file again. "Doesn't she always?"
"Yeah," Emily sighed. "Do you know I've never had a normal Christmas in my life, adult or otherwise?"
"Yes."
"Is it that obvious?" She laughed a little, the sound somewhere between bitter and amused, and tossed her stack of papers down.
"No," he answered. "It's just..."
"It takes one to know one?" she suggested, her mouth tilting up wryly at the corners.
"Something like that."
"Although I think our holidays were dysfunctional for entirely different reasons."
"Probably," Reid admitted. "Do you know..." He paused, the rest of the sentence stuck somewhere in his throat, and shook his head. "Nevermind."
"Do I know what?" Emily was leaning over the divider now, her elbow propped up and her gaze dark and steady.
"The last Christmas before I... before my mom went to Bennington? We spent it taping black construction paper and tin foil over the windows, then we locked ourselves in the basement and barricaded the door. She was convinced that the government was going to launch a sneak attack. You know, like Washington crossing the Delaware. I... I helped her. Nothing else was going to make her happy, so..." He averted his eyes, his fingers drumming against the top of the file.
"Merry fucking Christmas," Emily muttered, shaking her head sympathetically. "I'm sorry." She thought for a second, then asked, "So what are you doing with yourself?"
"Not sure," Reid answered, shoving his chair back and standing up. "What about you?"
"Eggnog," she said, nodding sagely. "Lots and lots of eggnog. You're more than welcome to join me, you know, should the need arise. But either come early or bring some with you, because I plan to go through that stuff like water." She grinned, big and genuine and warm, and he couldn't help but return it.
"Thanks. Yeah. Thank you. I don't... you know. But thank you."
Emily raised her eyebrows meaningfully. "There are certain times you have to make an exception. Take it from someone who knows." She winked and reached for her jacket, which was draped over the back of her chair. "Anyway. I've had just about enough cheer for one day. Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight." Reid watched her tuck herself into her winter attire - cashmere scarf and gloves and a hat Garcia had knit for her last year - and head for the door. When she disappeared around the corner, he sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. His chest suddenly felt tight, like his lungs were trying to escape through his throat but finding their way inexplicably blocked by his stomach. He wasn't sure whether it was the unexpected resurfacing of his less-than-warm holiday memories, or the equally unexpected invitation from the woman who'd been starring in his embarrassingly adolescent dreams for the past three years. Either way, it made it hard to breathe, and it was a good five minutes before he dragged himself out of his chair, pulled his coat on, and limped his way out into the dark.
_______________
"Shit." Emily stared into her liquor cabinet, yanking things aside and realizing with each irritating clank that the likelihood of a decent bottle of bourbon being buried somewhere in the back was truly miniscule. If there was anything she actually did go through like water some days, Maker's Mark was it. Which is why she had assumed there would be some. Which is why, she supposed, there was that whole cautionary tale about making assumptions.
There were also, she realized, cautionary tales about drinking before 11am, but she was ignoring those today, too. Or, at least, she was planning to up until this point. Sure, she had other stuff, but it was Christmas, and she did have her traditions, even if they were a little fucked up. And she would be damned if she was going to make a half-assed eggnog on Christmas. You couldn't have Jack with pancakes. That bordered on blasphemy.
Emily slammed the cabinet shut and leaned against it, letting the back of her disheveled head thud dully against the wood. "Fuck you, Christmas," she muttered aloud. "In the ass. With a candycane." She snickered, then sighed. "Good work, Prentiss. Now you're talking to yourself. You may as well go and break out the foil."
With that, she thought of Reid. She imagined him pacing his boxy little apartment like some poor, trapped animal, just like her, with nowhere to escape to. Everything was fucking closed except the Chinese restaurant down the block and the theater, and she knew that they both appealed to him about as much as they appealed to her. She doubted he'd take her up on her offer -- she doubted he even took her seriously, to be honest -- but there was a surprisingly large part of her that wished he would.
The last time she'd had any sort of real company on Christmas had been five or so years ago when she was dating that idiot with the midwestern accent who insisted she bring fucking stuffing to his parents' house. She couldn't even remember his name now, which was how important he'd been; all she could recall with any real clarity was that his mother had sneered at the store-bought shit she'd brought and didn't even bother with the stock gift of a scented candle or some socks. Stuffing. On Christmas. The woman had clearly mixed up the pages in her holiday manual.
Emily took one last cursory glance through the cabinet on the off chance that there'd been a Christmas miracle, then shucked off her robe and slippers and padded to the bathroom. This day was going to be way longer than she'd thought.
__________
When he'd told Emily that he didn't drink, that had been a lie. There were several things Reid didn't do anymore, but consuming the occasional alcoholic beverage wasn't one of them. Liquor had never been the problem, and he didn't subscribe to the idea that an addiction to one substance automatically precluded you from any. Narcotics, yes. Of course. But caffeine? Alcohol? Those he was pretty sure he could handle.
Besides, he'd been staring at that bottle of Maker's Mark under the sink for a good two and a half months, almost. He'd bought it for Emily for her birthday, then thought better of it at the last minute and shoved it under there, and that's where it'd sat since. He hadn't touched it. The line did have to be drawn somewhere, and he drew it at drinking alone. Anyway, in his mind it was still hers.
He was, however, hoping she'd share. He was going to need a good, strong glass of something after having the nerve to show up unannounced. Somehow, the idea of calling to confirm that she hadn't been joking seemed more cringe-inducing than just showing up and being rejected, which didn't make a whole lot of sense, he realized, except for the fact that it took up more time, which was a plus.
So that was how he'd ended up parked outside of her brownstone in the cold with a bottle of bourbon on the passenger's seat at eleven in the morning. He fingered his phone in his pocket and briefly debated calling to let her know he was here, but that seemed basically moot at this point. Instead, he took a deep breath, grabbed the bottle, and walked up to her door.
She didn't answer. Her car was here, parked with the wheels perfectly straight and centered in her spot just like it always was at work, but she didn't come to the door right away when he rang the bell. For a minute, he shuffled back and forth watching his shoe impressions on the stoop, but then his curiosity got the better of him and he peered through the glass of the door. It still amazed him that she hadn't replaced it; that she left herself so vulnerable like that. Anyone could look right through.
He did, and what he saw almost made him run back to his car for his weapon in a state of near-panic. Her robe -- white and fluffy and clean-looking -- lying in a heap on the floor, right next to her discarded (and matching) slippers. The rest of the room was neat, except for the door to one cabinet, which was slightly ajar, and there didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle. After running through eighteen possible scenarios in under five seconds, Reid decided just to ring the bell again and see what happened.
It didn't take long for him to find out. He heard her irritated but vaguely hopeful (how she managed that one, he wasn't sure) shout of "Christ, I'm coming!" a beat or two before her flushed face and tangled, dripping hair appeared on the other side of the glass.
She was wet.
She was nearly naked.
She was... smiling?
He heard the sound of the lock, then the deadbolt, then the chain, and he tried not to watch her fumbling to hold her towel up with one hand as she yanked open the door. "Hey! You came!"
"Hi. Yes, I'm sorry, is this a bad time? I should've called, I..."
"No, it's fine. You're fine. But could you maybe come in so I can shut the door before my tits turn into icicles?"
"Oh! Right. I'm sorry." He stepped through the door and into the puddle her bare feet had made on the tile.
Still holding her towel together, Emily reached behind him to push it shut and do up the locks again. When she turned her attention back to him, her wet-lashed eyes went wide. "No shit. No fucking way."
"What?"
"I love you. I really fucking love you. I'm going to hug you right now, and I'm not going to care that I'm wet and you're freezing. Is that all right?"
Before he could ask her why or nod - or consider the potentially humiliating repercussions of Emily's semi-naked, wet body pressed up against his - she was doing just as she had threatened, her towel now dangerously clutched in one fist and slipping low as she threw an arm around him and reached for the bottle of bourbon he was holding. "Where the hell did you find this?" she demanded, pulling away and taking the bottle with her.
"I...." Briefly, he considered telling her the truth. He almost felt as if he owed her that much, seeing as she was in a state of undress in front of him in her kitchen, which was basically the substance of more than a fraction of his wet dreams, but he ultimately decided a half-truth would be better, thinking she might find the whole of it a little bit unsettling. Hell, he found it a little unsettling. "I had it."
"You had it?" Emily adjusted her towel, pulling it tighter around her, and raised one eyebrow skeptically. "I didn't know you were a bourbon man. It isn't even opened. And I thought you didn't drink."
"I... uh... sometimes. Sometimes, I do."
Emily grinned, her eyes sparkling with some private joke he wasn't in on. "Well, your timing is impeccable, Doctor Reid. You get me out some eggs, milk, and cream from the fridge, and the rest of the shit is in the spice cabinet," she said, gesturing towards it. "I'm going to go get decent, and then you're going to experience the Emily Prentiss Traditional Christmas Breakfast. You didn't eat yet, did you?"
"No, not yet."
"Good." She turned on her heel and hurried down the hallway as Reid tried desperately not to ogle her behind her back. In the end, he failed, but he did manage to regain his wits in enough time to follow her instructions and gather the ingredients, being careful not to trample on her robe as he did. He wondered if he perhaps ought to pick it up, but the idea of touching it felt inappropriately intimate - and entirely too tempting - and in the end he just left it there.
Emily reappeared ten minutes later, still barefoot in a sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back into a wet ponytail. She'd put makeup on.
"You look nice," he blurted, leaning back suddenly and nearly upsetting the egg carton. He moved quickly to right it, and Emily laughed.
"Thanks," she said. "Though for future reference, most women prefer to hear that when they've got less clothing on, not more."
He started to apologize, but she silenced him with a roll of her eyes. "Kidding, Reid. Kidding. Anyway. Have you ever made eggnog?"
"I haven't. Did you know that it dates back to 17th century Europe and is traditionally..."
"A drink of the upper classes. Yes, I know. Milk and eggs were expensive, blah blah blah. Hand me the eggs, would you?"
He took them carefully off the counter and handed them to Emily, who was digging through a lower cabinet for a bowl. "Did you know that, originally, it contained no liquor? It was only when early American colonists developed easy and cheap access to rum that it became alcoholic."
"Well, thank God for that," she muttered, cracking an egg and separating it. "Here, make yourself useful. Start the pancakes." She paused, then asked, "Can you cook?"
"Passably."
"Passable is fine. It's the drink that matters. After a glass or two, it'll taste a whole lot better." She smirked and shoved a second bowl at him. "Mostly flour, a little sugar, a little salt, a little more baking powder than sugar, an egg, about a cup and a quarter of milk, and a little more butter than you think you need. Oh, make sure you melt it. Then whisk it all up. Frying pan is under the stove."
Reid nodded, committing her words to memory and wanting ridiculously badly not to screw it up.
_______________
"These aren't half bad," Emily said around her mouthful of pancake. She swallowed heavily and washed it down with a swig of eggnog. They were actually pretty damn good, and she'd only downed a glass and a half, so she knew it wasn't the bourbon talking yet.
"Thanks." Reid lifted his glass and tilted it towards her. "This is pretty good, too."
"It's better than pretty good." She leaned over the dining room table and topped him off, and he didn't even bat an eye. Don't drink my ass, Emily thought, then added some to her own glass for good measure. "Beats the hell out of pine needles all over the floor, doesn't it?"
"Indeed."
Emily raised her glass. "Fuck Christmas," she said dryly.
"Fuck Christmas," Reid said back, his face breaking into a grin as he brought his own to meet hers in an anti-toast.
Just as their glasses reached their lips, Reid's phone buzzed.
Emily swore and set her eggnog down on the table harder than necessary. "Please tell me some psycho didn't get all bent out of shape about an ugly sweater from Grandma and start mowing people down. Please. Not today, Reid. I'm not even drunk yet."
Reid worked the phone out of his pocket and glanced down. "Nope. Too early in the day still, probably. It's just my mom. I'm sorry. I'll just be a second."
Emily chuckled, amused, then picked her glass back up. "Good. Take your time."
She settled back into her chair and watched him. She had always been a pacer. Her endless laps between the kitchen, dining room, living room, and stairs during telephone conversations had driven her mother absolutely nuts, but her body just had to do it. Not Reid. He relaxed visibly into his seat and crossed one ankle over his knee, his long legs sprawling to the side of the small, square table. He looked like he felt at home for the first time since he'd walked through her door. She leaned her head sideways and smiled. Her pancakes were gone, and he still had some left, so she reached her fork over and stole a bite from his plate. He nodded for her to go ahead and smiled back, and she was just about to take a second forkful when she stopped, her ears pricking up at the sound of her name.
"Oh, I'm... I'm with a friend today." He paused. "Emily."
Now that she was paying attention, Emily could hear his mother's side of the conversation clearly. THE Emily?
She held her fork straight up in the air and lifted her eyebrows in question.
Reid coughed and averted his gaze. His voice grew lower as he replied, "Emily, mom. You know. We work together."
Right. So it IS THE Emily.
Reid's face was flushing, and he had turned himself in profile to her, trying desperately to conceal it. Emily bit her lower lip to keep from laughing outright as he answered. "Mom, I... I've really got to go. Merry Christmas. I love you."
Oh, I understand. You two are BUSY. Well, it's about time. You have fun. I love you, too, Spencer.
"Bye, Mom." He hung the phone up with fumbling fingers and nearly dropped it onto the table.
The echo of its clatter hadn't even subsided before Emily took a drink through her smiling lips and said, "The Emily, huh? Which one would that be?"
"You heard," he said, his eyes still anywhere but on hers. "The one I work with."
"Is there another one you're not telling me about?" she asked lightly, biting back another laugh as he reached for his glass and took a huge gulp.
"No."
"Then why would she say the Emily?"
"I don't know. She's a paranoid schizophrenic. Sometimes she says things that aren't rational."
"Niiiiiice, Reid. Blame it on her mental illness. Really classy."
His eyes darted to hers to check her body language, decipher whether or not she was teasing, and Emily held them for as long as he would let her to assure him that she was. She watched him as he worked his lips for a long moment before he finally spoke. "I've just told her about you. That's all. I write her letters and tell her what's going on with me, and I've mentioned you." He paused for another beat before hastily adding, "And the rest of the team."
"Oh. All right," Emily said, her voice full of slow, faux reasoning. "So there's the Derek, and the Penelope, and the Dave, too, right?"
"... Right."
"Reid."
He looked up again briefly, then shifted in his seat and took another drink.
"Reid."
He turned back to meet her eye, and his cheeks were even redder now, starkly so against the pale of his complexion. He kept wetting his lips anxiously. "Hm?"
"Did you tell your mother you want to bone me?"
"What? No! I... no. Absolutely not. I have never, ever used the verb 'to bone' -- which, by the way, is not even a verb -- in any context, especially not to my mother. No. I... no!"
Emily threw her head back and laughed, big and throaty and raucous, almost knocking over her eggnog. She reached out her hand to steady it, then took a deep breath. "Well. Do you?"
"Do I what?" His gaze was averted again, and his glass was nearly drained.
Emily took pity on him and refilled it as she answered, still swallowing the laugh that kept trying to escape. "Want to bone me."
Reid shook his head helplessly. It appeared as though he was trying to approximate an answer, though Emily couldn't venture a guess as to what it might be.
"I don't believe I've ever seen you speechless," Emily said, feigning awe. "Ladies and gentlemen, it appears I've done the impossible." She slid her glass to the center of the table and stood up. "May as well try for two. It's the season of miracles, right?"
Reid's eyes widened as she made her way around the table, and he was holding his glass so tightly that Emily was afraid that he might shatter it. As she strode up to his side, she reached over and pulled it lightly until his grip loosened, then pushed it towards the center next to her own.
Finding his voice again, Reid cleared his throat and looked up at her. "It's... it isn't like that. I didn't mean... I don't mean any disrespect."
Emily smiled, her head tilted gently to the side. "I know."
"I just..."
"I know," she said again. "For Christ's sake, Reid, I'm a profiler, too."
He swallowed hard. "What's the second?"
"The second?" Emily's brow contracted in question.
"You said it's the season of miracles."
"Oh!" Emily's mouth quirked at the corners. "Right. Well, I guess it wouldn't be entirely miraculous. You have been known to break protocol on occasion."
He looked up at her, and she could see his face change as he suddenly realized what was about to happen. "Emily..." he started as she dropped one knee down against his and nudged his legs together.
"Reid," she warned, doing the same with his other leg, pushing them both in between her own.
"I don't... are you..."
"Reid," she said again, settling down now across his lap and rebuking him with a look. "I was just thinking while you were on the phone how rude I was, hmm? You bring me a bottle of the best bourbon man has ever created, and I didn't give you a single thing."
"You don't..."
She was about to ignore his protest, but then thought better of it. It was amazing how someone with an IQ so high could still need some basic instruction. She rolled her eyes, then leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially into his ear. "You're about to get laid, sweetheart. Stop cockblocking yourself."
His eyes shot wide open, startled, and Emily couldn't repress a laugh. "Listen," she muttered, adjusting herself so that their foreheads were pressed together. "I hate Christmas. I hate it so much that I get wasted every fucking year so that I don't spend it bitter and angry and hurt at the fact that my own mother stopped giving a shit past the point of parental obligation. Okay? And then I think this morning that I'm going to have to settle for Jack and Coke, and I'm pissed about that, too, and I'm about to have the worst Christmas in recent memory -- and they've all been bad, trust me -- and then there you are. You show up with a bottle of the best shit man has ever created -- which, by the way, I'm glad you didn't give me two months ago, because it would've been gone by now, and before you ask, it was your fingerprints in the dust at the bottom that gave it away -- and you participate in my ridiculous pancake-making ritual, and you didn't even grab my boobs when I jumped on you half-naked at the door. You are a gentleman, Doctor Reid, and you have this thing about coming through for me when nobody else bothers to. So if you don't mind, I'd like to fuck your brains out without it turning into an interrogation."
"I... o-- okay," he whispered, breathless-sounding now, and she grinned at him. "But..." His eyes darted to the side, indicating the dining room window behind him, its filmy blue curtains pushed aside to let in the daylight.
Emily shrugged. "It faces the side yard. Don't worry about it. Besides... I'm feeling extra generous today. If they've got the ambition to hop the fence, then let them watch."
She watched as he pondered her words, weighing the benefits against the risks, and marveled at the speed with which he made up his mind. "Okay."
"Thank you. Now. Before I figure out what to give you, you have to tell me. Have you been good this year?" She shifted in his lap, pressing down, and she could feel his body respond underneath hers.
"Yes."
"That was quick." Emily paused, then brought one finger up to his mouth, distracted. "I've always liked your lips, by the way," she said. "They're enough to make a girl jealous. Anyway. Tell me how good you were."
"Good." His voice sounded on the verge of cracking in half.
"How good?" She leaned down to let him feel her breath.
"So good you wouldn't even believe me if I told you," he answered, and Emily laughed.
"Excellent answer. Then I guess you can have whatever you want." She pressed her smiling mouth to his, and he hesitated for only a fraction of a second before she felt his lips soften and his lashes flutter closed against hers. "There you go," she muttered into the kiss. "What a good boy."
He was, too. His mouth went from tentative to borderline possessive within a matter of seconds, and as soon as he felt solid enough for her to sink into, she did, hooking the knuckles of both hands inside of his collar and using her toes for leverage to push hard against him. She could feel him jerk at the friction, but he stayed put, kept his grip, kept himself together for her, and that was really all she'd ever asked of anyone, so she slid one hand under his shirt.
His skin felt unnaturally hot, and she splayed her palm flat against his chest over his heart. There was a vague thump, quick and dull, and Emily's face opened up again into a smile that caught his tongue. She laughed, soft, as he bit hers back, and then she reached for his buttons.
Reid helped her, his fingers working faster than hers, and together they maneuvered his shirt behind his back, shoving it between his body and the chair. They'd barely managed to pull it free before she reached for the hem of her own and started to yank it over her head. It stuck on her ponytail and she swore as it caught on the elastic and pulled.
"Sor--" Reid started to apologize, but Emily reached blindly for his lips and pinched them shut, trapping the word inside. She felt the rest of it vibrate against her fingers and shook her head as her sweater finally came loose and she tossed it to the floor.
"Zip it," she muttered, leaning forward hard and sliding her lips from his jaw to his neck. "Unless you're going to talk dirty, I don't want to hear a word."
Her mouth was back on his before he could protest -- or agree, either, she supposed -- and he managed to take apart the clasp of her bra one-handed on the first try. Magician, she remembered, dropping her arms and letting him slide it from her body. She was about to say something about it when his hand reached up between them and he traced one finger from her collarbone to her navel, marking a path between her breasts that made her skin pucker into goosebumps.
She made an involuntary noise at the sensation, and this time he didn't say that he was sorry, just traced it right back up, stopping with his fingers at the base of her throat. The shiver had made her nipples hard, and he thumbed at one as she ground her hips against his. Emily reached back with her shoulders, forcing herself closer, and he took the hint, bringing his other hand up.
His touch was soft, almost too soft she thought, the way he drew circles into his palms and followed the curve of her with the the side of his knuckle. It was oddly reverent, actually. It was nice not to be manhandled for a change, and the lightness of it all lit her nerves up and made them smolder instead of spark, which was just right. Just perfect.
She let him take his time, imagined that he was storing the geometry of her body somewhere in his eidetic memory while she took handfuls of his hair and licked her way across his clavicle, around the shell of his ear, up the delicate bones of his neck. His eyes were open but low, watching himself touch her but hiding from her stare, and she bit him once, just below his Adam's apple, just to see if she could make him make a sound.
He did, a startled little gasp that disintegrated into something lower, something heavy, and Emily kissed the mark she'd made and rolled her hips. "You're hard for me," she whispered. "I can feel it. Take them off."
She lifted her weight a little to give him room, but he hesitated, looking up at her instead and meeting her eye for the first time since she'd kissed him. "I just... I want to look."
Emily smiled and reached down to thumb apart the button of his pants. "You can look naked. I promise. No fair if I don't get to see, too."
Reid nodded, swallowing hard as she slid all the way back and stood. For a moment, she watched, and he didn't move. Then a smile touched her face, and she said, "I'm going to leave for fifteen seconds. When I get back, I want you naked." Without waiting for him to respond, Emily turned on her heel and hurried towards the hallway.
She returned a few seconds later with a condom and without her pants, and when she reappeared in the doorway, the look on his face was almost relief, as though he hadn't expected her to come back at all. He'd done as she'd asked, his khakis in a neat pile next to the chair, and he was half-standing, half-leaning, unsure of what to do with himself.
"Sit," she said, and he promptly obeyed, his eyes wide and dark and as close to awe as she'd ever seen him.
Emily sat back into his lap and scooted forward, pressing the entire length of her body into his. He drew a sharp breath as she rocked her hips forward and caught his erection tight between them. "This is the best part, isn't it?" she murmured, her mouth right against his ear. "Skin on skin?"
Reid's hands kneaded up her sides, tracing the faint outline of her ribcage, her hipbones, the arc of her back. He made some sound that sounded like assent, then told her, "There was a study... in Russia... infants die without it."
"I can see why," she said back, slipping her hand down and taking hold of his cock. "But one more mention of babies, and we're finished," she teased, dropping the condom onto the table with her free hand. "Look at this." Her grip was firm enough to feel him throb. "You're big. It's always the skinny ones. Do you have any statistics on that?"
He couldn't answer her; his mouth was latched onto the curve between her neck and her shoulder, biting down to hold himself steady as she slid her hand up and down. She felt him shake his head, though, pulling at her as he did, and she rewarded him with a moan right in his ear.
With her other hand, Emily reached down to pull her panties -- green, she'd noted ironically when she'd stripped off her pants in the bedrooom, but the lace saved them -- to the side. She lifted her hips and pressed his cock against her. One of his hands slid down to her thigh, squeezing her hard in a silent question. She drew one foot up the back of his calf in answer and smiled against his cheek when he understood. Against her chest she could feel his heart, stuttering and wild, and her own was meeting his on the off-beat, some strange and unlikely symphony crashing through her ears. Her entire body was taut with anticipation as he walked his fingers up her thigh, and she couldn't decide whether he was teasing her on purpose or still in a state of minor disbelief.
She was strung so tight that when she finally felt his finger glide over hers and reach between her legs, she jerked, hard, and felt him make another involuntary sound against her throat. The motion of her body forced them together, his cock a hard line at her belly and his finger sliding easily down the center of her, and she hissed through her teeth at the contact. "Come on," she muttered, impatient now, her voice as slippery and hot as her cunt.
"Show me," he whispered, groping now for her hand. "Show me what you like."
"Ohhhh," she said. "You really are a smart one." She put her hand over his and guided his fingers, two of them, in a slow circle, letting her hips follow the rhythm. He was panting into her ear, quick and shaky, and she could feel his cock, sticky now, slick against her skin every time she moved. All she could think was that she had to get her fucking underwear off and him in, so she shoved his hand away suddenly and stood up. "Off!"
He tried to help her, but she was too quick, and when they tangled around her feet she swore and kicked them off somewhere to the left. As she reached for the condom she'd tossed onto the table, she looked down at him. He had his head tilted up towards her, his lower lip red and bitten, his pupils so wide she could barely tell what color his eyes were anymore. Something about the moment - the strange softness of his expression, or his stripped-bare desire for her, or maybe just the fact that they had all goddamn day if they wanted it - slowed her down, and she cupped her palm against his cheek and let her thumb wander towards his mouth. This time, he kept his eyes right on hers, didn't even blink, just closed his lips over her finger and sucked.
For a second, Emily shut her eyes and felt the heat of him all the way through her, let her other hand fall to her side, felt him take the condom from her fingers and open it with a neat little pull. When she opened them again, he was still looking at her, her thumb caught between his teeth, and she was surprised to find a tremor in her own hands when she took the condom back.
"Let me," she said, and settled back down over his knees. She slid her thumb out of his mouth and put both of her hands to work, rolling the condom down over him. She took her time, her head bowed to listen to the hitching of his breath every time she squeezed, as he held onto her hips and sat so still that the gentle rise and fall of his ribs was the only way she could be sure he was alive.
"God," she whispered, rocking against him again. "You're so big, I don't know if it's going to fit. What do you think?"
Emily raised her gaze to his, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. "It will."
"Are you sure? It might be tight." Reid swallowed again as she leaned up and lined their bodies up, stopping just short of what they both wanted. "I think it might be really tight. Is that okay?"
"Yes."
"Okay, then."
She slid down as slowly as she could stand, watching his lashes blink madly and his lips part, and she couldn't help her own gasp when she sat all the way down into his lap. "Good?" she asked, her voice softer than she meant it to be and a little breathless.
"Yes." His hips lifted unexpectedly, probably involuntarily, and Emily felt the cascade of light fall down her spine the way fireworks fizzle and die, and she leaned her head back and gasped, and then they started to rock.
He held one hand at the small of her back, and she angled herself forward, trying to get friction with their rhythm. After a moment, he realized what she was trying to do, and he touched two fingers lightly to her lips. Emily opened for him and wet them and bit them by accident when she pushed down onto him harder than before, but he didn't complain. He reached between their bodies, his wrist bent and twisted and uncomfortable looking, and found what he was searching for.
The whole thing was slow, maddeningly so, and so, so quiet; just breaths and bodies and the sound of the chair legs scraping the floor. Expensive hardwood, fucking Brazilian cherry, but Emily couldn't have cared any less. She could feel the tension building inside of her, her belly and her thighs and her cunt, and she pressed her forehead down into Reid's and whispered, "Open your eyes."
He did, and she held his face between her palms, nudged her nose into his, nipped at his lip. "You feel good," she said and tried to smile, but even her mouth was tense now, hard to control all the way.
"Yeah?" he asked, and he sounded the way she felt, edgy and open and quaky.
"Yeah. Talk to me," she murmured, pressing their cheeks together.
"I... I... I don't..."
"Just say my name. Whatever. I just want to hear you."
"Okay." He moved his fingers faster, and she could tell he was trying to get her there before he did, and she thought it might actually work. Her body was a bowstring, taut and vibrating and ready to turn inside out, and when he started to whisper Emily Emily Emily, so low that it was like a secret but rising in pitch, losing breath at the top, she dug her nails into his shoulders and sank all the way down onto his cock and held on tight.
When she opened her eyes again, panting and boneless and spent, she realized that he had stopped moving just to watch her, his lips parted and his eyebrows pulled together like he was thinking so hard it hurt, and she smiled a hazy smile. "Hey," she managed, shifting forward to bring his attention back to himself. "Give me what you've got. My turn to watch."
She had barely finished her sentence when she felt him moving inside of her again, and she braced one shaky knee on the chair and lifted her weight off to give him room. "There," she said. "Harder, you won't break me."
Less than a minute, and he had his eyes squeezed shut again, head back and hips up, and she covered his mouth with hers and swallowed the sound of him, startled and beautiful and echoing around her teeth.
When his limbs loosened and he slumped forward, she let herself lie down against him and mouthed at his neck, sloppy and slow and satisfied.
_______________
Reid held her for awhile, his arms wrapped around her waist. It was strange to him how small she felt. Not delicate, exactly - Emily wasn't delicate - just small. She smelled like sweat and soap and maple syrup, and her weight felt good against him, even though he could feel his legs tingling from the slowed circulation. Not that it mattered. He'd gladly spend every day of his life on pins and needles in exchange for this.
When their breathing had calmed and he felt himself going soft inside of her, he felt the graze of her lashes against his neck as she blinked. "Oh, my God," she said, adjusting herself to sit up. "Reid!"
"Hmm?" He sat up taller, holding her steady so she didn't tumble from his lap.
"It's snowing!"
"What?" He lifted his and tried to turn to see out the window behind him, but he couldn't quite twist all the way around.
"It's snowing," Emily said again, her voice taking on an edge of excitement. "It's a white Christmas!"
Reid screwed up his face and caught her eye. "You hate Christmas."
"Yeah, but I love snow," she grinned, leaning down to press a laughing kiss into his cheek. She reached behind her for her half-full glass of eggnog and shook it gently. "Bourbon snow cones?" she asked, mischief lighting up her hooded eyes.
Reid considered for a moment before nodding, slowly and with great resolve. "That is the second best idea you've had all day."
And it was.
_______________
Emily rocked gently in her chair at work, her knee bouncing as she watched Reid scribbling furiously at his desk, his head down and his neck bent low. He'd been here when she arrived, rushing unnecessarily to catch up on the accumulated paperwork, which they both knew would take him half, not twice, as long as everyone else. Classic avoidance behavior.
Emily sighed softly in his direction, then looked up as Morgan strode into the room.
"Morning!" he said, then stopped behind Reid's chair and clapped a hand over his shoulder. Reid paused, then turned his eyes up to Morgan, who grinned down at him. "You're back bright and early. I'm shocked! I guess spending Christmas in the easy chair with a Start Trek marathon gets old quick."
Reid tapped his pen a few times against the paper, thinking for a moment, before he shrugged. "You got the chair part right, anyway," he said dryly, then angled his head back down.
Emily felt her eyes widen as they made contact with Reid's mid-way, and the corner of his mouth quirked up privately at her. He didn't give her time to smile back, instead just went back to his work. She nearly laughed out loud with a combination of amusement and relief, but then Morgan shook his head in bewilderment at Reid and turned his attention to her.
"How about you, Prentiss? You manage to survive all right?"
"Oh," she said, not looking up as she thumbed through the pages of the file she was holding, "it wasn't as bad as I thought. At least I got my stocking stuffed."
She bit down on her lip as, across from her, she head Reid make a strangled choking sound and nearly spew his coffee all over his desk. Morgan looked at them both, a little wary, and shook his head again. "I don't even want to know," he mused, then wandered off to greet Garcia, who was coming through the door.
_______________
Reid had just finished pouring the sugar into the bottom of his coffee mug and setting it down on the break room's counter when he heard the smart click of Emily's shoes behind him. He turned as she approached, her own mug in hand, and set it beside his.
"Hey," she said, leaning against the fridge as he poured himself a refill.
"Hi," he answered, then topped hers off as well. He smiled crookedly at her as he set the pot back in the machine. "No sugar, right?"
"Right." Emily picked up her mug and brought it to her lips. She took a sip and grimaced slightly. "Well, we made it."
"We did," Reid agreed as she moved aside to let him get the cream.
"New Years Eve is next," Emily said with a roll of her eyes. "Another one of my favorites. You hate it as much as I do?"
"More."
"Well," she said coolly, "at least there are fireworks. You can watch them from my place if you want."
Reid met her gaze and held it steady. "Fireworks," he mused. "That sounds good. But I think... you know, I think you can actually see them better from mine."
Emily raised her eyebrows over the rim of her mug. "Is that so? You're on, then, Doctor. What can I bring?"
"Nothing," he said. "I think I can handle it."
"Are you sure?" Emily smirked.
Reid lifted one of his eyebrows to mirror her expression. "Well. So far, so good."
Pairing: Prentiss/Reid
Rating: FRAO/NC17
Word Count: ~7500
Warnings: Language, sex, potential toothache-inducing fluff?
Summary: Emily might be the only person alive who hates Christmas more than Reid.
Notes: I wrote this for the most recent go-around of cm_exchange for moon_raven2. My lovely gmail wifey ginny214 (*snort*) was my beta, hand-holder & cheerleader ♥ This went through like, 81239129 incarnations before it settled down to a fluffy Reid/Prentiss, and I hated it basically throughout. Ha! But here it is, in all it's last-minute enraging glory ;)
A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm. We all go through it together.
-- Garrison Keillor
"What are you doing for Christmas, kid?"
Reid looked up from the file he was scanning and shrugged. "I don't have any plans. How about you?"
"Chicago," Morgan answered, stopping short. "What do you mean you don't have any plans? Tell me you are not gonna disappoint Mama Reid on Christmas. That's cold, man."
Reid looked back at his papers, chewing his lip. "She hates Christmas. She says it's contrived."
"It is!" Emily popped her head over the divider between her desk and Reid's. "I don't blame her. Fucking depressing is what it is."
"A vulgar display of materialism and a guilt-inspired circle-jerk is what I believe you called it last year," Garcia said, tapping Emily on the head with a manila folder as she breezed by. "Scrooge."
Morgan let out a low whistle. "That's some deep-seated resentment there, Prentiss. Care to share?"
"Not really," she answered, slumping back into her seat. "Just your typical poor-little-rich-girl complex." She began to shuffle absently through a pile of papers, pretending to be absorbed.
Morgan grinned in her direction and shrugged, striding off.
Reid slid his file lower and craned his neck to make sure they were alone. "Where's your mom going this year?" he asked quietly.
The shuffling stopped. Emily lifted her gaze to his and raised her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"Your mom. Where's she going for Christmas?"
"Barbados," Emily answered, her tone wary. "With my father this time. How did you know she was going away?"
Reid shrugged and hid his face behind the file again. "Doesn't she always?"
"Yeah," Emily sighed. "Do you know I've never had a normal Christmas in my life, adult or otherwise?"
"Yes."
"Is it that obvious?" She laughed a little, the sound somewhere between bitter and amused, and tossed her stack of papers down.
"No," he answered. "It's just..."
"It takes one to know one?" she suggested, her mouth tilting up wryly at the corners.
"Something like that."
"Although I think our holidays were dysfunctional for entirely different reasons."
"Probably," Reid admitted. "Do you know..." He paused, the rest of the sentence stuck somewhere in his throat, and shook his head. "Nevermind."
"Do I know what?" Emily was leaning over the divider now, her elbow propped up and her gaze dark and steady.
"The last Christmas before I... before my mom went to Bennington? We spent it taping black construction paper and tin foil over the windows, then we locked ourselves in the basement and barricaded the door. She was convinced that the government was going to launch a sneak attack. You know, like Washington crossing the Delaware. I... I helped her. Nothing else was going to make her happy, so..." He averted his eyes, his fingers drumming against the top of the file.
"Merry fucking Christmas," Emily muttered, shaking her head sympathetically. "I'm sorry." She thought for a second, then asked, "So what are you doing with yourself?"
"Not sure," Reid answered, shoving his chair back and standing up. "What about you?"
"Eggnog," she said, nodding sagely. "Lots and lots of eggnog. You're more than welcome to join me, you know, should the need arise. But either come early or bring some with you, because I plan to go through that stuff like water." She grinned, big and genuine and warm, and he couldn't help but return it.
"Thanks. Yeah. Thank you. I don't... you know. But thank you."
Emily raised her eyebrows meaningfully. "There are certain times you have to make an exception. Take it from someone who knows." She winked and reached for her jacket, which was draped over the back of her chair. "Anyway. I've had just about enough cheer for one day. Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight." Reid watched her tuck herself into her winter attire - cashmere scarf and gloves and a hat Garcia had knit for her last year - and head for the door. When she disappeared around the corner, he sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. His chest suddenly felt tight, like his lungs were trying to escape through his throat but finding their way inexplicably blocked by his stomach. He wasn't sure whether it was the unexpected resurfacing of his less-than-warm holiday memories, or the equally unexpected invitation from the woman who'd been starring in his embarrassingly adolescent dreams for the past three years. Either way, it made it hard to breathe, and it was a good five minutes before he dragged himself out of his chair, pulled his coat on, and limped his way out into the dark.
_______________
"Shit." Emily stared into her liquor cabinet, yanking things aside and realizing with each irritating clank that the likelihood of a decent bottle of bourbon being buried somewhere in the back was truly miniscule. If there was anything she actually did go through like water some days, Maker's Mark was it. Which is why she had assumed there would be some. Which is why, she supposed, there was that whole cautionary tale about making assumptions.
There were also, she realized, cautionary tales about drinking before 11am, but she was ignoring those today, too. Or, at least, she was planning to up until this point. Sure, she had other stuff, but it was Christmas, and she did have her traditions, even if they were a little fucked up. And she would be damned if she was going to make a half-assed eggnog on Christmas. You couldn't have Jack with pancakes. That bordered on blasphemy.
Emily slammed the cabinet shut and leaned against it, letting the back of her disheveled head thud dully against the wood. "Fuck you, Christmas," she muttered aloud. "In the ass. With a candycane." She snickered, then sighed. "Good work, Prentiss. Now you're talking to yourself. You may as well go and break out the foil."
With that, she thought of Reid. She imagined him pacing his boxy little apartment like some poor, trapped animal, just like her, with nowhere to escape to. Everything was fucking closed except the Chinese restaurant down the block and the theater, and she knew that they both appealed to him about as much as they appealed to her. She doubted he'd take her up on her offer -- she doubted he even took her seriously, to be honest -- but there was a surprisingly large part of her that wished he would.
The last time she'd had any sort of real company on Christmas had been five or so years ago when she was dating that idiot with the midwestern accent who insisted she bring fucking stuffing to his parents' house. She couldn't even remember his name now, which was how important he'd been; all she could recall with any real clarity was that his mother had sneered at the store-bought shit she'd brought and didn't even bother with the stock gift of a scented candle or some socks. Stuffing. On Christmas. The woman had clearly mixed up the pages in her holiday manual.
Emily took one last cursory glance through the cabinet on the off chance that there'd been a Christmas miracle, then shucked off her robe and slippers and padded to the bathroom. This day was going to be way longer than she'd thought.
__________
When he'd told Emily that he didn't drink, that had been a lie. There were several things Reid didn't do anymore, but consuming the occasional alcoholic beverage wasn't one of them. Liquor had never been the problem, and he didn't subscribe to the idea that an addiction to one substance automatically precluded you from any. Narcotics, yes. Of course. But caffeine? Alcohol? Those he was pretty sure he could handle.
Besides, he'd been staring at that bottle of Maker's Mark under the sink for a good two and a half months, almost. He'd bought it for Emily for her birthday, then thought better of it at the last minute and shoved it under there, and that's where it'd sat since. He hadn't touched it. The line did have to be drawn somewhere, and he drew it at drinking alone. Anyway, in his mind it was still hers.
He was, however, hoping she'd share. He was going to need a good, strong glass of something after having the nerve to show up unannounced. Somehow, the idea of calling to confirm that she hadn't been joking seemed more cringe-inducing than just showing up and being rejected, which didn't make a whole lot of sense, he realized, except for the fact that it took up more time, which was a plus.
So that was how he'd ended up parked outside of her brownstone in the cold with a bottle of bourbon on the passenger's seat at eleven in the morning. He fingered his phone in his pocket and briefly debated calling to let her know he was here, but that seemed basically moot at this point. Instead, he took a deep breath, grabbed the bottle, and walked up to her door.
She didn't answer. Her car was here, parked with the wheels perfectly straight and centered in her spot just like it always was at work, but she didn't come to the door right away when he rang the bell. For a minute, he shuffled back and forth watching his shoe impressions on the stoop, but then his curiosity got the better of him and he peered through the glass of the door. It still amazed him that she hadn't replaced it; that she left herself so vulnerable like that. Anyone could look right through.
He did, and what he saw almost made him run back to his car for his weapon in a state of near-panic. Her robe -- white and fluffy and clean-looking -- lying in a heap on the floor, right next to her discarded (and matching) slippers. The rest of the room was neat, except for the door to one cabinet, which was slightly ajar, and there didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle. After running through eighteen possible scenarios in under five seconds, Reid decided just to ring the bell again and see what happened.
It didn't take long for him to find out. He heard her irritated but vaguely hopeful (how she managed that one, he wasn't sure) shout of "Christ, I'm coming!" a beat or two before her flushed face and tangled, dripping hair appeared on the other side of the glass.
She was wet.
She was nearly naked.
She was... smiling?
He heard the sound of the lock, then the deadbolt, then the chain, and he tried not to watch her fumbling to hold her towel up with one hand as she yanked open the door. "Hey! You came!"
"Hi. Yes, I'm sorry, is this a bad time? I should've called, I..."
"No, it's fine. You're fine. But could you maybe come in so I can shut the door before my tits turn into icicles?"
"Oh! Right. I'm sorry." He stepped through the door and into the puddle her bare feet had made on the tile.
Still holding her towel together, Emily reached behind him to push it shut and do up the locks again. When she turned her attention back to him, her wet-lashed eyes went wide. "No shit. No fucking way."
"What?"
"I love you. I really fucking love you. I'm going to hug you right now, and I'm not going to care that I'm wet and you're freezing. Is that all right?"
Before he could ask her why or nod - or consider the potentially humiliating repercussions of Emily's semi-naked, wet body pressed up against his - she was doing just as she had threatened, her towel now dangerously clutched in one fist and slipping low as she threw an arm around him and reached for the bottle of bourbon he was holding. "Where the hell did you find this?" she demanded, pulling away and taking the bottle with her.
"I...." Briefly, he considered telling her the truth. He almost felt as if he owed her that much, seeing as she was in a state of undress in front of him in her kitchen, which was basically the substance of more than a fraction of his wet dreams, but he ultimately decided a half-truth would be better, thinking she might find the whole of it a little bit unsettling. Hell, he found it a little unsettling. "I had it."
"You had it?" Emily adjusted her towel, pulling it tighter around her, and raised one eyebrow skeptically. "I didn't know you were a bourbon man. It isn't even opened. And I thought you didn't drink."
"I... uh... sometimes. Sometimes, I do."
Emily grinned, her eyes sparkling with some private joke he wasn't in on. "Well, your timing is impeccable, Doctor Reid. You get me out some eggs, milk, and cream from the fridge, and the rest of the shit is in the spice cabinet," she said, gesturing towards it. "I'm going to go get decent, and then you're going to experience the Emily Prentiss Traditional Christmas Breakfast. You didn't eat yet, did you?"
"No, not yet."
"Good." She turned on her heel and hurried down the hallway as Reid tried desperately not to ogle her behind her back. In the end, he failed, but he did manage to regain his wits in enough time to follow her instructions and gather the ingredients, being careful not to trample on her robe as he did. He wondered if he perhaps ought to pick it up, but the idea of touching it felt inappropriately intimate - and entirely too tempting - and in the end he just left it there.
Emily reappeared ten minutes later, still barefoot in a sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back into a wet ponytail. She'd put makeup on.
"You look nice," he blurted, leaning back suddenly and nearly upsetting the egg carton. He moved quickly to right it, and Emily laughed.
"Thanks," she said. "Though for future reference, most women prefer to hear that when they've got less clothing on, not more."
He started to apologize, but she silenced him with a roll of her eyes. "Kidding, Reid. Kidding. Anyway. Have you ever made eggnog?"
"I haven't. Did you know that it dates back to 17th century Europe and is traditionally..."
"A drink of the upper classes. Yes, I know. Milk and eggs were expensive, blah blah blah. Hand me the eggs, would you?"
He took them carefully off the counter and handed them to Emily, who was digging through a lower cabinet for a bowl. "Did you know that, originally, it contained no liquor? It was only when early American colonists developed easy and cheap access to rum that it became alcoholic."
"Well, thank God for that," she muttered, cracking an egg and separating it. "Here, make yourself useful. Start the pancakes." She paused, then asked, "Can you cook?"
"Passably."
"Passable is fine. It's the drink that matters. After a glass or two, it'll taste a whole lot better." She smirked and shoved a second bowl at him. "Mostly flour, a little sugar, a little salt, a little more baking powder than sugar, an egg, about a cup and a quarter of milk, and a little more butter than you think you need. Oh, make sure you melt it. Then whisk it all up. Frying pan is under the stove."
Reid nodded, committing her words to memory and wanting ridiculously badly not to screw it up.
_______________
"These aren't half bad," Emily said around her mouthful of pancake. She swallowed heavily and washed it down with a swig of eggnog. They were actually pretty damn good, and she'd only downed a glass and a half, so she knew it wasn't the bourbon talking yet.
"Thanks." Reid lifted his glass and tilted it towards her. "This is pretty good, too."
"It's better than pretty good." She leaned over the dining room table and topped him off, and he didn't even bat an eye. Don't drink my ass, Emily thought, then added some to her own glass for good measure. "Beats the hell out of pine needles all over the floor, doesn't it?"
"Indeed."
Emily raised her glass. "Fuck Christmas," she said dryly.
"Fuck Christmas," Reid said back, his face breaking into a grin as he brought his own to meet hers in an anti-toast.
Just as their glasses reached their lips, Reid's phone buzzed.
Emily swore and set her eggnog down on the table harder than necessary. "Please tell me some psycho didn't get all bent out of shape about an ugly sweater from Grandma and start mowing people down. Please. Not today, Reid. I'm not even drunk yet."
Reid worked the phone out of his pocket and glanced down. "Nope. Too early in the day still, probably. It's just my mom. I'm sorry. I'll just be a second."
Emily chuckled, amused, then picked her glass back up. "Good. Take your time."
She settled back into her chair and watched him. She had always been a pacer. Her endless laps between the kitchen, dining room, living room, and stairs during telephone conversations had driven her mother absolutely nuts, but her body just had to do it. Not Reid. He relaxed visibly into his seat and crossed one ankle over his knee, his long legs sprawling to the side of the small, square table. He looked like he felt at home for the first time since he'd walked through her door. She leaned her head sideways and smiled. Her pancakes were gone, and he still had some left, so she reached her fork over and stole a bite from his plate. He nodded for her to go ahead and smiled back, and she was just about to take a second forkful when she stopped, her ears pricking up at the sound of her name.
"Oh, I'm... I'm with a friend today." He paused. "Emily."
Now that she was paying attention, Emily could hear his mother's side of the conversation clearly. THE Emily?
She held her fork straight up in the air and lifted her eyebrows in question.
Reid coughed and averted his gaze. His voice grew lower as he replied, "Emily, mom. You know. We work together."
Right. So it IS THE Emily.
Reid's face was flushing, and he had turned himself in profile to her, trying desperately to conceal it. Emily bit her lower lip to keep from laughing outright as he answered. "Mom, I... I've really got to go. Merry Christmas. I love you."
Oh, I understand. You two are BUSY. Well, it's about time. You have fun. I love you, too, Spencer.
"Bye, Mom." He hung the phone up with fumbling fingers and nearly dropped it onto the table.
The echo of its clatter hadn't even subsided before Emily took a drink through her smiling lips and said, "The Emily, huh? Which one would that be?"
"You heard," he said, his eyes still anywhere but on hers. "The one I work with."
"Is there another one you're not telling me about?" she asked lightly, biting back another laugh as he reached for his glass and took a huge gulp.
"No."
"Then why would she say the Emily?"
"I don't know. She's a paranoid schizophrenic. Sometimes she says things that aren't rational."
"Niiiiiice, Reid. Blame it on her mental illness. Really classy."
His eyes darted to hers to check her body language, decipher whether or not she was teasing, and Emily held them for as long as he would let her to assure him that she was. She watched him as he worked his lips for a long moment before he finally spoke. "I've just told her about you. That's all. I write her letters and tell her what's going on with me, and I've mentioned you." He paused for another beat before hastily adding, "And the rest of the team."
"Oh. All right," Emily said, her voice full of slow, faux reasoning. "So there's the Derek, and the Penelope, and the Dave, too, right?"
"... Right."
"Reid."
He looked up again briefly, then shifted in his seat and took another drink.
"Reid."
He turned back to meet her eye, and his cheeks were even redder now, starkly so against the pale of his complexion. He kept wetting his lips anxiously. "Hm?"
"Did you tell your mother you want to bone me?"
"What? No! I... no. Absolutely not. I have never, ever used the verb 'to bone' -- which, by the way, is not even a verb -- in any context, especially not to my mother. No. I... no!"
Emily threw her head back and laughed, big and throaty and raucous, almost knocking over her eggnog. She reached out her hand to steady it, then took a deep breath. "Well. Do you?"
"Do I what?" His gaze was averted again, and his glass was nearly drained.
Emily took pity on him and refilled it as she answered, still swallowing the laugh that kept trying to escape. "Want to bone me."
Reid shook his head helplessly. It appeared as though he was trying to approximate an answer, though Emily couldn't venture a guess as to what it might be.
"I don't believe I've ever seen you speechless," Emily said, feigning awe. "Ladies and gentlemen, it appears I've done the impossible." She slid her glass to the center of the table and stood up. "May as well try for two. It's the season of miracles, right?"
Reid's eyes widened as she made her way around the table, and he was holding his glass so tightly that Emily was afraid that he might shatter it. As she strode up to his side, she reached over and pulled it lightly until his grip loosened, then pushed it towards the center next to her own.
Finding his voice again, Reid cleared his throat and looked up at her. "It's... it isn't like that. I didn't mean... I don't mean any disrespect."
Emily smiled, her head tilted gently to the side. "I know."
"I just..."
"I know," she said again. "For Christ's sake, Reid, I'm a profiler, too."
He swallowed hard. "What's the second?"
"The second?" Emily's brow contracted in question.
"You said it's the season of miracles."
"Oh!" Emily's mouth quirked at the corners. "Right. Well, I guess it wouldn't be entirely miraculous. You have been known to break protocol on occasion."
He looked up at her, and she could see his face change as he suddenly realized what was about to happen. "Emily..." he started as she dropped one knee down against his and nudged his legs together.
"Reid," she warned, doing the same with his other leg, pushing them both in between her own.
"I don't... are you..."
"Reid," she said again, settling down now across his lap and rebuking him with a look. "I was just thinking while you were on the phone how rude I was, hmm? You bring me a bottle of the best bourbon man has ever created, and I didn't give you a single thing."
"You don't..."
She was about to ignore his protest, but then thought better of it. It was amazing how someone with an IQ so high could still need some basic instruction. She rolled her eyes, then leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially into his ear. "You're about to get laid, sweetheart. Stop cockblocking yourself."
His eyes shot wide open, startled, and Emily couldn't repress a laugh. "Listen," she muttered, adjusting herself so that their foreheads were pressed together. "I hate Christmas. I hate it so much that I get wasted every fucking year so that I don't spend it bitter and angry and hurt at the fact that my own mother stopped giving a shit past the point of parental obligation. Okay? And then I think this morning that I'm going to have to settle for Jack and Coke, and I'm pissed about that, too, and I'm about to have the worst Christmas in recent memory -- and they've all been bad, trust me -- and then there you are. You show up with a bottle of the best shit man has ever created -- which, by the way, I'm glad you didn't give me two months ago, because it would've been gone by now, and before you ask, it was your fingerprints in the dust at the bottom that gave it away -- and you participate in my ridiculous pancake-making ritual, and you didn't even grab my boobs when I jumped on you half-naked at the door. You are a gentleman, Doctor Reid, and you have this thing about coming through for me when nobody else bothers to. So if you don't mind, I'd like to fuck your brains out without it turning into an interrogation."
"I... o-- okay," he whispered, breathless-sounding now, and she grinned at him. "But..." His eyes darted to the side, indicating the dining room window behind him, its filmy blue curtains pushed aside to let in the daylight.
Emily shrugged. "It faces the side yard. Don't worry about it. Besides... I'm feeling extra generous today. If they've got the ambition to hop the fence, then let them watch."
She watched as he pondered her words, weighing the benefits against the risks, and marveled at the speed with which he made up his mind. "Okay."
"Thank you. Now. Before I figure out what to give you, you have to tell me. Have you been good this year?" She shifted in his lap, pressing down, and she could feel his body respond underneath hers.
"Yes."
"That was quick." Emily paused, then brought one finger up to his mouth, distracted. "I've always liked your lips, by the way," she said. "They're enough to make a girl jealous. Anyway. Tell me how good you were."
"Good." His voice sounded on the verge of cracking in half.
"How good?" She leaned down to let him feel her breath.
"So good you wouldn't even believe me if I told you," he answered, and Emily laughed.
"Excellent answer. Then I guess you can have whatever you want." She pressed her smiling mouth to his, and he hesitated for only a fraction of a second before she felt his lips soften and his lashes flutter closed against hers. "There you go," she muttered into the kiss. "What a good boy."
He was, too. His mouth went from tentative to borderline possessive within a matter of seconds, and as soon as he felt solid enough for her to sink into, she did, hooking the knuckles of both hands inside of his collar and using her toes for leverage to push hard against him. She could feel him jerk at the friction, but he stayed put, kept his grip, kept himself together for her, and that was really all she'd ever asked of anyone, so she slid one hand under his shirt.
His skin felt unnaturally hot, and she splayed her palm flat against his chest over his heart. There was a vague thump, quick and dull, and Emily's face opened up again into a smile that caught his tongue. She laughed, soft, as he bit hers back, and then she reached for his buttons.
Reid helped her, his fingers working faster than hers, and together they maneuvered his shirt behind his back, shoving it between his body and the chair. They'd barely managed to pull it free before she reached for the hem of her own and started to yank it over her head. It stuck on her ponytail and she swore as it caught on the elastic and pulled.
"Sor--" Reid started to apologize, but Emily reached blindly for his lips and pinched them shut, trapping the word inside. She felt the rest of it vibrate against her fingers and shook her head as her sweater finally came loose and she tossed it to the floor.
"Zip it," she muttered, leaning forward hard and sliding her lips from his jaw to his neck. "Unless you're going to talk dirty, I don't want to hear a word."
Her mouth was back on his before he could protest -- or agree, either, she supposed -- and he managed to take apart the clasp of her bra one-handed on the first try. Magician, she remembered, dropping her arms and letting him slide it from her body. She was about to say something about it when his hand reached up between them and he traced one finger from her collarbone to her navel, marking a path between her breasts that made her skin pucker into goosebumps.
She made an involuntary noise at the sensation, and this time he didn't say that he was sorry, just traced it right back up, stopping with his fingers at the base of her throat. The shiver had made her nipples hard, and he thumbed at one as she ground her hips against his. Emily reached back with her shoulders, forcing herself closer, and he took the hint, bringing his other hand up.
His touch was soft, almost too soft she thought, the way he drew circles into his palms and followed the curve of her with the the side of his knuckle. It was oddly reverent, actually. It was nice not to be manhandled for a change, and the lightness of it all lit her nerves up and made them smolder instead of spark, which was just right. Just perfect.
She let him take his time, imagined that he was storing the geometry of her body somewhere in his eidetic memory while she took handfuls of his hair and licked her way across his clavicle, around the shell of his ear, up the delicate bones of his neck. His eyes were open but low, watching himself touch her but hiding from her stare, and she bit him once, just below his Adam's apple, just to see if she could make him make a sound.
He did, a startled little gasp that disintegrated into something lower, something heavy, and Emily kissed the mark she'd made and rolled her hips. "You're hard for me," she whispered. "I can feel it. Take them off."
She lifted her weight a little to give him room, but he hesitated, looking up at her instead and meeting her eye for the first time since she'd kissed him. "I just... I want to look."
Emily smiled and reached down to thumb apart the button of his pants. "You can look naked. I promise. No fair if I don't get to see, too."
Reid nodded, swallowing hard as she slid all the way back and stood. For a moment, she watched, and he didn't move. Then a smile touched her face, and she said, "I'm going to leave for fifteen seconds. When I get back, I want you naked." Without waiting for him to respond, Emily turned on her heel and hurried towards the hallway.
She returned a few seconds later with a condom and without her pants, and when she reappeared in the doorway, the look on his face was almost relief, as though he hadn't expected her to come back at all. He'd done as she'd asked, his khakis in a neat pile next to the chair, and he was half-standing, half-leaning, unsure of what to do with himself.
"Sit," she said, and he promptly obeyed, his eyes wide and dark and as close to awe as she'd ever seen him.
Emily sat back into his lap and scooted forward, pressing the entire length of her body into his. He drew a sharp breath as she rocked her hips forward and caught his erection tight between them. "This is the best part, isn't it?" she murmured, her mouth right against his ear. "Skin on skin?"
Reid's hands kneaded up her sides, tracing the faint outline of her ribcage, her hipbones, the arc of her back. He made some sound that sounded like assent, then told her, "There was a study... in Russia... infants die without it."
"I can see why," she said back, slipping her hand down and taking hold of his cock. "But one more mention of babies, and we're finished," she teased, dropping the condom onto the table with her free hand. "Look at this." Her grip was firm enough to feel him throb. "You're big. It's always the skinny ones. Do you have any statistics on that?"
He couldn't answer her; his mouth was latched onto the curve between her neck and her shoulder, biting down to hold himself steady as she slid her hand up and down. She felt him shake his head, though, pulling at her as he did, and she rewarded him with a moan right in his ear.
With her other hand, Emily reached down to pull her panties -- green, she'd noted ironically when she'd stripped off her pants in the bedrooom, but the lace saved them -- to the side. She lifted her hips and pressed his cock against her. One of his hands slid down to her thigh, squeezing her hard in a silent question. She drew one foot up the back of his calf in answer and smiled against his cheek when he understood. Against her chest she could feel his heart, stuttering and wild, and her own was meeting his on the off-beat, some strange and unlikely symphony crashing through her ears. Her entire body was taut with anticipation as he walked his fingers up her thigh, and she couldn't decide whether he was teasing her on purpose or still in a state of minor disbelief.
She was strung so tight that when she finally felt his finger glide over hers and reach between her legs, she jerked, hard, and felt him make another involuntary sound against her throat. The motion of her body forced them together, his cock a hard line at her belly and his finger sliding easily down the center of her, and she hissed through her teeth at the contact. "Come on," she muttered, impatient now, her voice as slippery and hot as her cunt.
"Show me," he whispered, groping now for her hand. "Show me what you like."
"Ohhhh," she said. "You really are a smart one." She put her hand over his and guided his fingers, two of them, in a slow circle, letting her hips follow the rhythm. He was panting into her ear, quick and shaky, and she could feel his cock, sticky now, slick against her skin every time she moved. All she could think was that she had to get her fucking underwear off and him in, so she shoved his hand away suddenly and stood up. "Off!"
He tried to help her, but she was too quick, and when they tangled around her feet she swore and kicked them off somewhere to the left. As she reached for the condom she'd tossed onto the table, she looked down at him. He had his head tilted up towards her, his lower lip red and bitten, his pupils so wide she could barely tell what color his eyes were anymore. Something about the moment - the strange softness of his expression, or his stripped-bare desire for her, or maybe just the fact that they had all goddamn day if they wanted it - slowed her down, and she cupped her palm against his cheek and let her thumb wander towards his mouth. This time, he kept his eyes right on hers, didn't even blink, just closed his lips over her finger and sucked.
For a second, Emily shut her eyes and felt the heat of him all the way through her, let her other hand fall to her side, felt him take the condom from her fingers and open it with a neat little pull. When she opened them again, he was still looking at her, her thumb caught between his teeth, and she was surprised to find a tremor in her own hands when she took the condom back.
"Let me," she said, and settled back down over his knees. She slid her thumb out of his mouth and put both of her hands to work, rolling the condom down over him. She took her time, her head bowed to listen to the hitching of his breath every time she squeezed, as he held onto her hips and sat so still that the gentle rise and fall of his ribs was the only way she could be sure he was alive.
"God," she whispered, rocking against him again. "You're so big, I don't know if it's going to fit. What do you think?"
Emily raised her gaze to his, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. "It will."
"Are you sure? It might be tight." Reid swallowed again as she leaned up and lined their bodies up, stopping just short of what they both wanted. "I think it might be really tight. Is that okay?"
"Yes."
"Okay, then."
She slid down as slowly as she could stand, watching his lashes blink madly and his lips part, and she couldn't help her own gasp when she sat all the way down into his lap. "Good?" she asked, her voice softer than she meant it to be and a little breathless.
"Yes." His hips lifted unexpectedly, probably involuntarily, and Emily felt the cascade of light fall down her spine the way fireworks fizzle and die, and she leaned her head back and gasped, and then they started to rock.
He held one hand at the small of her back, and she angled herself forward, trying to get friction with their rhythm. After a moment, he realized what she was trying to do, and he touched two fingers lightly to her lips. Emily opened for him and wet them and bit them by accident when she pushed down onto him harder than before, but he didn't complain. He reached between their bodies, his wrist bent and twisted and uncomfortable looking, and found what he was searching for.
The whole thing was slow, maddeningly so, and so, so quiet; just breaths and bodies and the sound of the chair legs scraping the floor. Expensive hardwood, fucking Brazilian cherry, but Emily couldn't have cared any less. She could feel the tension building inside of her, her belly and her thighs and her cunt, and she pressed her forehead down into Reid's and whispered, "Open your eyes."
He did, and she held his face between her palms, nudged her nose into his, nipped at his lip. "You feel good," she said and tried to smile, but even her mouth was tense now, hard to control all the way.
"Yeah?" he asked, and he sounded the way she felt, edgy and open and quaky.
"Yeah. Talk to me," she murmured, pressing their cheeks together.
"I... I... I don't..."
"Just say my name. Whatever. I just want to hear you."
"Okay." He moved his fingers faster, and she could tell he was trying to get her there before he did, and she thought it might actually work. Her body was a bowstring, taut and vibrating and ready to turn inside out, and when he started to whisper Emily Emily Emily, so low that it was like a secret but rising in pitch, losing breath at the top, she dug her nails into his shoulders and sank all the way down onto his cock and held on tight.
When she opened her eyes again, panting and boneless and spent, she realized that he had stopped moving just to watch her, his lips parted and his eyebrows pulled together like he was thinking so hard it hurt, and she smiled a hazy smile. "Hey," she managed, shifting forward to bring his attention back to himself. "Give me what you've got. My turn to watch."
She had barely finished her sentence when she felt him moving inside of her again, and she braced one shaky knee on the chair and lifted her weight off to give him room. "There," she said. "Harder, you won't break me."
Less than a minute, and he had his eyes squeezed shut again, head back and hips up, and she covered his mouth with hers and swallowed the sound of him, startled and beautiful and echoing around her teeth.
When his limbs loosened and he slumped forward, she let herself lie down against him and mouthed at his neck, sloppy and slow and satisfied.
_______________
Reid held her for awhile, his arms wrapped around her waist. It was strange to him how small she felt. Not delicate, exactly - Emily wasn't delicate - just small. She smelled like sweat and soap and maple syrup, and her weight felt good against him, even though he could feel his legs tingling from the slowed circulation. Not that it mattered. He'd gladly spend every day of his life on pins and needles in exchange for this.
When their breathing had calmed and he felt himself going soft inside of her, he felt the graze of her lashes against his neck as she blinked. "Oh, my God," she said, adjusting herself to sit up. "Reid!"
"Hmm?" He sat up taller, holding her steady so she didn't tumble from his lap.
"It's snowing!"
"What?" He lifted his and tried to turn to see out the window behind him, but he couldn't quite twist all the way around.
"It's snowing," Emily said again, her voice taking on an edge of excitement. "It's a white Christmas!"
Reid screwed up his face and caught her eye. "You hate Christmas."
"Yeah, but I love snow," she grinned, leaning down to press a laughing kiss into his cheek. She reached behind her for her half-full glass of eggnog and shook it gently. "Bourbon snow cones?" she asked, mischief lighting up her hooded eyes.
Reid considered for a moment before nodding, slowly and with great resolve. "That is the second best idea you've had all day."
And it was.
_______________
Emily rocked gently in her chair at work, her knee bouncing as she watched Reid scribbling furiously at his desk, his head down and his neck bent low. He'd been here when she arrived, rushing unnecessarily to catch up on the accumulated paperwork, which they both knew would take him half, not twice, as long as everyone else. Classic avoidance behavior.
Emily sighed softly in his direction, then looked up as Morgan strode into the room.
"Morning!" he said, then stopped behind Reid's chair and clapped a hand over his shoulder. Reid paused, then turned his eyes up to Morgan, who grinned down at him. "You're back bright and early. I'm shocked! I guess spending Christmas in the easy chair with a Start Trek marathon gets old quick."
Reid tapped his pen a few times against the paper, thinking for a moment, before he shrugged. "You got the chair part right, anyway," he said dryly, then angled his head back down.
Emily felt her eyes widen as they made contact with Reid's mid-way, and the corner of his mouth quirked up privately at her. He didn't give her time to smile back, instead just went back to his work. She nearly laughed out loud with a combination of amusement and relief, but then Morgan shook his head in bewilderment at Reid and turned his attention to her.
"How about you, Prentiss? You manage to survive all right?"
"Oh," she said, not looking up as she thumbed through the pages of the file she was holding, "it wasn't as bad as I thought. At least I got my stocking stuffed."
She bit down on her lip as, across from her, she head Reid make a strangled choking sound and nearly spew his coffee all over his desk. Morgan looked at them both, a little wary, and shook his head again. "I don't even want to know," he mused, then wandered off to greet Garcia, who was coming through the door.
_______________
Reid had just finished pouring the sugar into the bottom of his coffee mug and setting it down on the break room's counter when he heard the smart click of Emily's shoes behind him. He turned as she approached, her own mug in hand, and set it beside his.
"Hey," she said, leaning against the fridge as he poured himself a refill.
"Hi," he answered, then topped hers off as well. He smiled crookedly at her as he set the pot back in the machine. "No sugar, right?"
"Right." Emily picked up her mug and brought it to her lips. She took a sip and grimaced slightly. "Well, we made it."
"We did," Reid agreed as she moved aside to let him get the cream.
"New Years Eve is next," Emily said with a roll of her eyes. "Another one of my favorites. You hate it as much as I do?"
"More."
"Well," she said coolly, "at least there are fireworks. You can watch them from my place if you want."
Reid met her gaze and held it steady. "Fireworks," he mused. "That sounds good. But I think... you know, I think you can actually see them better from mine."
Emily raised her eyebrows over the rim of her mug. "Is that so? You're on, then, Doctor. What can I bring?"
"Nothing," he said. "I think I can handle it."
"Are you sure?" Emily smirked.
Reid lifted one of his eyebrows to mirror her expression. "Well. So far, so good."