Fic: A Glass of Wine and Thee (2/2) (CM, Rossi/Prentiss, NC-17)
Title: A Glass of Wine and Thee (2/2)
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Author's Notes: The title has its roots in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For smittywing, just because, with huge kudos to mingsmommy and smacky30, for cheering, beating, and betaing. The fact that there are no mysterious extra limbs is due to their influence. The fact that I ignored their comments about the past perfect is no one's fault but my own. This started out as kink!meme comment!fic but got long. Stop laughing.
Prompt: "At a college goth party/club, Prentiss has sex with a guy she later recognizes as David Rossi. Either Rossi figures it out later, or she tells him before they sleep together again. Bonus points for Rossi in a priest collar (first encounter) or Prentiss digging out one of her old corsets because it makes her come hard."
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Part One
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What we anticipate seldom occurs, but what we least expect generally happens.
-- Benjamin Disraeli
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David Rossi really never expected to come back to the BAU. But Gideon finally had the breakdown they all knew was coming and Erin Strauss had landed the position she'd been gunning for since time immemorial, and Dave has always liked Hotch way too much not to do him this favor. Even if Hotch wasn't the one that had asked. Besides, Dave figures, financial independence counts for a lot. He can always leave.
Except he doesn't actually want to.
He likes this team. Likes the way they work together. If he'd had a team like this, he thinks, he might never have left. Not that his BAU had been familiar with the concept of team - at least not like this. Dave is sufficiently self-aware to acknowledge that in all probability, he'd been a chunk of the reason for that fact.
But he does like them, individually and in aggregate. He likes Morgan's refusal to back down unless given reason. He likes Reid, although he's grateful not to have the care and feeding of him. He likes JJ's ruthless blend of steel and femininity, and her ability to use both as needed. He likes Penelope Garcia, for all he doesn't have words to describe her.
And he is slightly, irrationally fond of one Emily Prentiss, for reasons he's not entirely sure he understands.
At first it had been easy to chalk it up to Emma. Some torches are slow to burn out, and Dave's never denied he has a type. They're hardly twins - Emily's tall and leggy to Emma's petite curves - but there's a certain similarity related to dark hair and pale skin and eyes that give away more than intended. In Prentiss's case, her eyes had warned him early on that she was wary of him. It hadn't affected anything - Emily Prentiss, he has learned, is a champion at compartmentalization - but that look had been there. Sometimes, every now and then, it still is - and he wonders why.
Dave's never so much as blinked inappropriately in the direction of any of the women on this team. He's far too attached to his balls: if the injured party didn't remove them, the rest of the team would be waiting. He is well aware that his reputation precedes him. But he's always tried to tread carefully, and so it stings a little, that even now he'll still catch that look in her eyes.
Because it's not just Emma - and it hadn't taken long to figure that out. If pressed, he'd probably chalk it up to a bar in Indiana and her refusal to back away from the miserable bastard he'd been set on being that day. It's not just that, though. She's a damn good agent, competent and intelligent and intuitive in the field. That complete fuck-up of an affair over in Colorado had been excruciating, and he knows Morgan and Hotch would say exactly the same. Dave doesn't have to guess what Reid would say - he'd seen the kid's face when he'd stumbled clear of the explosion, and after, when the EMTs had been patching Prentiss up.
So yes, Emily Prentiss has the drive and passion to number among the best. And that explains why he likes working with her, but not why he can't seem to get her out from under his skin. It might be her sense of humor, from which no one escapes, not even Hotch. It might be the fact that she tries hard to be kind, that he's seen her stop and remind herself to be patient. It might be her sense of loyalty, and the fact that he knows full well she'd put herself on the line for anyone she thought deserved it. He's honored to be among that august group. It might be her temper, or her stubbornness, or her tendency toward sarcasm when she's frustrated or tired or simply undercaffeinated, or the weirdly familiar tilt to her chin when her dander's up.
He's spent a slightly terrifying amount of time thinking about this, but he can't figure it out and he can't shake it.
Even if he could, he wouldn't want to any more. Not since he saw her walk into the BAU looking like the world was ending. Not since an old friend warned him to take care of her and he realized just how much he wanted to. Not since she broke his heart in a vacant lot over a cup of really terrible coffee.
He should be way too old for this shit - only apparently he's not. What he is, however, is old enough to know that Emily Prentiss is not the kind of girl to endanger the job she loves with ill-considered shenanigans, and that he likes her too much to even propose it. He's also old enough to be content with a working relationship that's turned into a remarkably comfortable friendship. But he does regret that she's still not quite sure about him - even if it's only every once in a while.
Today, with the entire defense community on red alert and an anthrax attack in full swing, he's glad of that stubborn streak, of that ability to stay focused. If they're going to hell in a hand basket, she's the person he'd choose to partner up with.
He knows it's costing her. He knows what it's costing him. It's why he's so short with her at Nichols' lab. It's why he warns her off at Nichols' house. She's asking all the questions he doesn't like the answers to, and the fact that she's right only makes the answers harder to offer her. "Don't Emily me," she retorts, with a lift of her chin. He deserves it. He deserves it, and for the life of him, he can't figure out why that particular tic of hers is so damn familiar.
It's not till he's back at his desk, resisting the urge to rest his forehead on his blotter and pass out, that the epiphany occurs. He doesn't know what provokes it - it may simply be that they've had a hell of a run of cases and his brain's so tired that his internal filing system's broken down. One minute he's replaying the conversation in his head, laughing at Prentiss's response and admitting he owes her an apology. The next minute he's remembering a very similar gesture in a very different context, from a pale young woman in a black corset in a club he'd never set foot in a third time, as she considered whether or not to accept a glass of wine.
Dave doesn't think he actually stops breathing, but he's pretty damn sure that it's not healthy for realization to hit someone quite so hard. He should have spotted it long ago. Garcia, Reid, and Morgan have made certain to show him Prentiss's high school yearbook. He knows she'd been at Yale - even knows when she'd graduated. The ages work out about right, although the gap's a little worse than he'd copped to at the time. And knowing what he does now, there's suddenly a huge chunk of that very, very fond memory that makes a lot more sense.
"Fuck," he mutters, rubbing his hands over his face. It doesn't technically change anything. Except that now, any time he thinks about the possibility of Emily Prentiss, he's going to have a very, very vivid picture of what, exactly, that possibility might be like.
None of which, he realizes, changes the fact that he owes her an apology for today, or the fact that she appears to be getting ready to head for the door. Epiphany or not, he wants the immediate issue settled before today is over. Dave grabs his keys, shoves back from the desk, and flicks off the light.
It's easy enough once he catches up to her - she lets him off the hook far easier than he'd expected. She still doesn't like his answers. He can't really blame her.
"And yet - next time, I probably won't hesitate to lie again," she says.
Dave tries to focus on the conversation. He feels like he owes her something, some reassurance, but he's damned if he knows what and half his brain's just been entirely distracted. He keeps his eyes on the door, struggling for some kind of equilibrium. "We've got a lot of things to take with us to the grave," he replies as the doors slide closed. There's a brief silence. Looking back, Dave isn't ever sure what provokes him into adding, "Some of them are better than others."
"Oh really?" she drawls. The doors open onto the lobby and he follows her across to the parking elevators. "Such as?"
He could back out. There are a million answers he could give - David Rossi knows full well he's been a pretty lucky guy. He doesn't have to dig this hole. He really shouldn't. With a clearer head, maybe he wouldn't. Only it's been a revelatory fifteen minutes in Dave's life and he's not that good. He waits until the doors close again, hands in his pockets, feigning nonchalance - feigning it badly, he's pretty sure. Somewhere between P1 and P2, he answers, "For me? July twenty-first, nineteen ninety-three. One night with a gorgeous woman in a black corset in a Goth club in New Haven. She left me," he says, as the door slides open on P4, "without looking back. This is my stop," he adds unnecessarily and steps out. "See you Monday." He sounds flippant, he knows, but his palms are sweating. He hears the doors shut and wonders what the hell just possessed him. He knows full well he's already regretting it.
Except then he hears Emily's voice behind him, low and a little choked. "How - you know," Emily says. "How long have you known?"
Dave never forgets the first thought that makes it through his head: she didn't have to say that. She didn't have to blow her cover. She could have played it off. She could have stayed on the elevator. She didn't have to say that.
It's what lets him turn around.
Emily's face is pale, two spots of color high on her cheeks. The fluorescents overhead don't spare a damn thing: the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth, the slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes. The light catches on her hair, on the line of her cheek, on the small gold pendant at her collarbone. But then she lifts her head a fraction and says, "How long?" again, the demand clear, and there's a moment of double vision so clear it makes his head spin.
"I don't know how I could have missed it," he answers slowly. He's really talking to himself; it's a trick of acoustics that bounces it over the asphalt and into her silence.
She turns her head to the side, not quite a flinch. "Don't worry. What could I possibly tell anyone?"
The bitterness in her voice stings, brings the world back into focus. That's not - he didn't - he doesn't know exactly what she's thinking, but he's damn sure it's wrong. "No," he manages, the word thick and stupid in his mouth. "Prentiss - Emily, no." He reaches out without thinking about it. She steps backward to avoid it, for all he's six feet away. Her back's practically up against the elevator door. Don't open, he thinks. Don't open. Not yet.
He lets his hand drop. Pay attention, his brain suggests, as he realizes that her shoulders are squared hard enough to ache. Her hand is holding her jacket so tightly her knuckles are white. "Twenty minutes," he says finally. "Give or take. I've known for twenty minutes."
She looks at him, which is at least progress. "I don't know if I'm horrified or flattered. Clearly," she says, swallowing, "I need a better moisturizer."
It is entirely possible that she's regaining her balance far quicker than he is. Of course, that would make sense if - "How long for you?"
"Oh," Emily answers, her voice cracking as it aims for blasé and misses. "Since I saw your photo on the book jacket when I was at the Academy."
Dave's brain is racing. "So when I started -"
She shifts uneasily. "I wondered if it would be a problem. But you - it wasn't -" she stops. "I didn't have the easiest start here." Emily tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wasn't going to bring it up unless -"
"Unless it became an issue." He nods, accepting her reasoning for what it is. It sounds like the Prentiss he knows. It explains a lot. Pretty much everything. "It wouldn't," he says, and honesty compels him to add, "not with you." Dave is fully aware that he can be a bastard, that even now he's not sure that if it had been someone else, someone who was not Emily Prentiss, that he would've let it lie. "It wouldn't," he repeats, uncomfortable with the admission. "It won't."
He doesn't miss the way the tension in her body eases. He's ruthless as he schools his face and smiles at her. Nothing's changed. Not really. A one-night stand well over a decade ago doesn't add anything of import to handful of what-ifs and half-considered possibilities. Common sense still applies. Twenty minutes hasn't changed a thing. "It's okay," he says, lying. "Good night, Emily."
Dave walks away, fumbling in his pocket for the car key. He's gone some eight or nine steps when her voice rings out behind him. "Funny thing is," she says calmly, "sometimes I wish it would."
The part of Dave's brain responsible for higher-level motor control ceases to function. He's getting old, he thinks. System overload is a terrible thing. He doesn't move.
"Sometimes," Emily says, and in the quiet of the garage he can hear her boot heels click as she takes a step forward. "I wonder. Because there was this guy, this one time." She pauses. He thinks he can hear her breathe. "Just after I finished at Yale."
Some synapse kicks back in and lets him turn around. "Yeah?" he says, as deadpan as he can manage.
"Yeah." He watches her as she fidgets, adjusting another lock of hair. "And he - well. I didn't - I was someone else. Just once. Just for that night."
David Rossi has been a profiler for almost exactly thirty years. He's talked to unsubs, victims, families, cops - he's developed strategies and techniques and methods. But now, when it counts, none of those skills are telling him where this conversation is going to end up. So he shuts up and listens like the world depends on it.
This time, Emily doesn't look away under his scrutiny. "Only the thing is," she says, "I wasn't. Not really. Part of it - so much of it - it was me." She smiles. "It was me, and it was amazing."
Dave swallows. "Amazing's a good word." There's a pressure in his chest that feels a little like hope. It's probably a heart attack. That's what happens when old men suddenly expand their horizons.
Emily blushes. She'd done that before, he thinks. That night. Before she'd left. It had been dark, but she'd lost enough of that pale, pale makeup on his shirt that he could see the tint on her cheeks. He can still remember the way the air had smelled, cigarette smoke and face powder and sex. "It's kind of terrifying when you're twenty-two," she admits. "It was huge." She takes another few steps toward him. "And all I ever said was 'thanks.'"
He doesn't know what he's planning to say when he opens his mouth, but then the elevator dings and they both jump. Hotch emerges, looking wrung out. He pauses when he sees them. An eyebrow lifts, speaking volumes, but all Aaron says is, "Problems?"
"No, sir," Emily says.
"Just discussing the pressing need for a decent glass of wine," Dave temporizes. "It's been a hell of a day."
Hotch's eyebrow doesn't move. Somewhere between Dave leaving and Dave returning, Aaron Hotchner has learned to bluff well enough that Dave can't always read him anymore. Damn proteges, he thinks, picking up useful skills when you're not around. Damn Hotch's timing, more to the point. "I have a bottle with my name on it," Dave offers. "You're both welcome to share." What he'll do if they both accept, Dave doesn't know. But while he can't read Hotch entirely, he can read enough of the man's body language to make a reasonable bet.
"The bottle?" Aaron asks drily.
"Hell no," Dave answers. "I'll find another for you. Even write 'Hotch' on there in permanent marker."
Hotch laughs. "I'll pass. But I'll take a raincheck."
"Done," Dave says. "Prentiss?" The parking garage isn't really where he wants to have the conversation they're currently muddling through. And with Hotch here, the invitation's natural. Easy. Not born of a sudden fear that she's going to turn and slip away.
"You know," she says slowly, "that sounds like a damn good idea. Just let me run home first."
"I'll call and leave you directions," he agrees. "Say, nine o'clock?"
Hotch says a quiet goodnight and walks off as Emily checks her watch. "Should be doable," she says. Her eyes are wide and dark as she glances up at him.
"Just wine," Dave says softly. "Just a drink."
"Nine o'clock," she answers and heads for the stairwell.
Dave doesn't move as he watches her go - it's not till he hears Hotch's car start that he realizes he's standing in the middle of the parking garage like an idiot, staring at nothing. Then he shrugs, shakes his head like it'll help clear it, and gets in his car.
Nine o'clock, he thinks. He wraps his hands around the steering wheel, but he's remembering the shape of her under his fingers - the arch of her back, the curve of her arm, the line of her jaw. He's thinking about the fact that half an hour ago, Emily Prentiss was safely out-of-bounds, off-limits, untouchable. He's thinking about the fact that just maybe, just maybe that isn't the case. Just maybe, memory and fantasy might actually be aligning. Just maybe, he'll be a luckier sonofabitch than he deserves.
He wonders if she'll really come. She hadn't run, even given a chance. He hopes she'll come. He thinks she will, but he's not noted for his record in this particular area.
He wonders as he leaves the garage, as he leaves a message on her cell, as he pulls out a red and a white and the corkscrew.
He wonders right up until nine o'clock, when the doorbell rings - at which point he wonders what the hell he'd been thinking. It's not that he regrets it - it's that he has absolutely no idea what happens next. Dave is generally someone who likes to have a gameplan.
From the look on Emily's face when he opens the door, he's not the only one wondering what's about to happen. He steps back and lets her in. "White or red?" he asks, taking her coat. He wants to linger, wants to run a palm over and down her shoulders. He settles for standing just a hair closer than necessary. She doesn't back away.
"White," she answers. Another night, she'd said red. He remembers the way she'd looked, licking droplets off her wrist. He remembers the taste of it on her tongue. She trails him to the kitchen, watches as he uncorks the bottle. No one says a word, but the silence isn't unpleasant. Just a stillness. A waiting. It's not fragile - still, he doesn't want to break it.
He hands her a glass and their fingers brush. He tenses. Her cheeks flush. He looks away and pours his own.
"You owe me," Emily says into the quiet.
Dave freezes, the glass halfway to his lips. "What?"
She grins at him. It's a little hesitant, but it's the same grin he's known for almost two years of field work. "You promised me a bottle with my name on it."
He barks a laugh. "C'mon." He waves a hand at her as he walks around the island. "Sit down."
He leaves her the couch, wanting to give her room, and settles into the armchair. She's toying with her glass, tracing the rim. The wine's a nice white, but neither of them are paying it the attention it deserves. "So," he ventures.
"So." Emily's eyes meet his. "I'm not twenty-two any more, Dave." It's not a challenge - just a simple statement of fact.
"I'm not thirty-eight." He takes another sip. "Thank God. Some things do change."
She smiles wryly, twisting the stem of the glass between her fingers. "Lots of things."
"Not everything," he says quickly.
Emily goes still.
"Not this," Dave murmurs. He watches her take a breath, looks at the color in her cheeks, the splay of her fingers around the glass.
David Rossi is nearly fifty-four and all his life, he's gone after what he wanted and regretted the things that got away. He's learned, in the same space of time, that you don't always get what you want, no matter how hard you try. But now Emily Prentiss is sitting on his couch and he'd bet his career that the tension in her body isn't fear. Nerves, sure. Something else, maybe, if he's luckier than he deserves. "Not this."
"What is this?" Emily demands. "I don't have any idea." She shakes her head. "Three hours ago," she says drily, "I was much better at compartmentalizing."
"Three hours ago," Dave replies, "I still wanted to touch you. I just didn't know that I knew what it felt like. I didn't know that you knew what it felt like."
Emily licks her lips and takes a drink. Her color's high and her breathing a little shallow, but he can't be sure he's right about what she's thinking. All he can do is hope. He watches the line of her throat as she swallows. "It was easier if I assumed you didn't know," she offers.
Sometimes, Dave thinks, maybe you get a second chance. "It didn't exactly matter," he says slowly. He's never been so tongue-tied. He leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table, fully aware that he's avoiding her eyes. He rests his hands on his knees - at least that way they're holding onto something. He's so damn full of want he doesn't trust them not to reach out and take. "It's been almost two years since I first wanted to kiss you." He considers that sentence. "Again. Apparently."
A long, slender finger traces over his knuckles. He twists his wrist and catches her hand before it pulls away. He's too greedy not to. When he looks up, her eyes are dark. "Promise me," Emily says, "that we'll talk about the difficult stuff in the morning."
"I promise," Dave manages, ninety-five percent of his brainpower stuck on "in the morning." "I really do." He feels a slow grin start. "I suppose I should warn you," he adds, watching her smile grow to match his own, until they must look like a pair of lunatics, "I'm about thirty seconds from kissing you."
It is a blessedly short distance from the armchair to the couch. Movement, it turns out, doesn't actually require conscious thought. Dave's kneeling in front of her, joints be damned, without knowing exactly how he got there. He's got one hand in her hair and one on her cheek and he's tugging her face down to his.
"What the hell took you so long?" Emily murmurs, even as he watches her eyes flutter closed.
"Damned if I know," he says, and then he pulls her in and kisses her, letting his own eyes fall shut. It's simple, quiet and undemanding, stretching out around them. Her hands feather over his cheek and jaw, coming to rest on his shoulders. Her hair is silky against his palm. His other hand slips to her neck, feels the thud of her pulse, rapid but steady, strong and real. He tastes the wine on her lips, tests the corner of her mouth, and lets her steal his breath away.
He doesn't let go when the need for air forces them to pause. He's not sure he knows how, and he's positive he should be more alarmed by that fact than he is. He just tips his forehead to lean against hers. "Damned if I know," he says again, "but I got there in the end."
Emily sits back and studies his face, her hand on his cheek, her thumb tracing over his skin. The bone-deep need that's been simmering all evening is rising, clamoring for attention, and Dave's done trying to hide it. She bites at her lower lip and he sees an answering spark in her own eyes. "Thank God," she replies. "It's about time."
When she kisses him back, it isn't simple at all.
Dave's never forgotten that night. From the moment she'd walked away, he'd set himself to remembering. He'd been newly single and rawly bitter and entirely floored by what he'd intended as simple amusement. So he'd wanted to remember the taste of her mouth and the scent of her skin and the touch of her hair - not out of some hopeless sense of romance, he'd assured himself, but because something that good just didn't happen twice. Only now he can feel the beat of her pulse under soft, soft skin, and he can hear the murmur trembling in her throat, and he can taste her, dark and sweet and familiar, and all those memories pale in comparison.
He pulls her off the sofa without stopping to think; he's greedy now, all that caution and hesitation overridden by the desperate ache in his fingers, his arms, his spine, his cock. He folds her against him, hearing her laugh in surprise. He's got a hand buried in her hair, cradling the curve of her skull, strands of hair catching against his fingertips. He should stop, give her space to breathe, but Emily doesn't seem to want it. Her hands are everywhere and her mouth on his is insistent. When she presses against him, one hot palm sliding under his jeans and boxers to cup his ass, he bucks hard against her.
He's vaguely aware that he's saying her name, saying Emily and Prentiss in the space between kisses, breathing her in like he's been drowning for years. Be reasonable, part of him thinks, but the rest of him isn't paying attention, because here, now, reason has nothing to do with it. He slips his hands in the back pockets of her jeans and tugs her closer, smiling as she nips at the corner of his mouth and then hauling in air as she curves into him, the pressure and friction against his dick so damn good. He rucks up her sweater, wanting the heat of her skin, and stops when his fingers find satin and boning and the trailing edge of a ribbon.
In a smoky room, a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl in a dark corset holds a glass of wine in her hand, chin tilted and eyebrow raised, her lips curving into something sweet and sly and hot. For a moment, he's not sure where he is. Then he spans her waist with his hands, the fabric snagging gently on his palms and fingers, and when he opens his eyes, it's Emily looking back at him, still dark-eyed and dark-haired, lips full, hair rumpled and wild, cheeks brightly flushed. It's her, it's that girl, but now, too, it's Emily Prentiss. It's not the same - it's not even the same corset - and yet somehow, it is - only better, memory and reality combining into something more. It's just better, because now he knows what put the wariness in her face, what accounts for some of the small creases around her mouth, why there's something just a little careful in her eyes. It's Emily, someone he trusts at his back, at his side, on his team, and she's watching him, and the small smile quirking her lips is still sweet, still hot - but just a little wiser.
"I did stop at home," she says after a moment, and Dave's glad, because speech appears to have deserted him entirely. "And I thought, well, why not? Maybe it won't be just a drink." She bites at her lip, studying his face, and then her smile turns into a full-on grin. "And then I thought, maybe he wouldn't mind knowing how hard wearing one makes me come." She traces a finger over the outline of his dick as she says it, and he groans.
"That sounds like a dare," Dave says, trying for nonchalant and completely betrayed by the ragged edge to his voice.
He feels her laugh under his hands. "Consider it a challenge," she says, pressing hungry, open kisses along his neck. Her hands are untucking his shirt.
"Accepted," he manages, then pulls them both to their feet before she can distract him any further. "But that means I set the terms. And my terms say the bedroom is a much better choice." He's not sure he's ever made it up the stairs so quickly. He doesn't release her hand, doesn't ask himself why, but she doesn't protest at being towed. It's not till they're in his room that he lets go and turns to look at her.
The heat's still there - his pulse is rapid and the stairs aren't the reason. The urge to touch, to haul her up against him still tingles in his fingers. But he isn't thirty-eight any longer, and some part of him needs to give her this one last chance to walk away. "Prentiss," he says, letting his hands fall to his sides.
"Dave," she answers, her voice calm. "Stop giving me chances to run." She tugs her sweater over her head and walks to stand in front of him, jeans low on her hips, her skin creamy against blue satin of her corset. It's a soft color, not pale, but delicate, setting off the flush on her skin. It laces up both sides and Dave has a desperate need to undo it, to pull the laces free and watch it slide away. "I didn't before." She puts a hand on his chest, undoes the highest button. "I don't want to now."
The noise he makes should be embarrassing, but he can't seem to care. He cups her face, falling into the heat of her mouth as he kisses her, falling into the play of her muscles as he lets go and smooths his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. She fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, grumbling at them between kisses; in the end, her patience gives out and she just yanks, popping the last two off.
"Easy," he says, breathless. We've got time, he wants to say, but he's distracted by the rise and fall of her breasts, caught by the corset, round and warm and just right in his hands. He brushes his thumbs over the satin, feeling her shudder. The heat of her hands on his bare chest makes him tense, his eyes tight shut, only to fly open as she leans in and sets her tongue to his nipple. Her hands tug gently at his belt, pop his fly and slip into his boxers. He's been some variant of hard since before she walked in the door, and even if he wanted to, he couldn't stop the noise he makes when she touches him. "Easy," he says again, catching her wrists.
She looks up into his face, and there's more than just need written there. "I want to touch you," she demands, eyes bright, but she takes the hint and eases her hand away. "I want - I never -"
"I know," Dave answers, because he does, he does. "Emily, I know. But we have all night." Maybe more than that, he thinks, and promptly shoves that to the back of his brain. That's for later, for the morning. This is just for them. He lifts her hand to his mouth and salutes it, an old-fashioned move, maybe, but he's sort of an old-fashioned guy, and it makes her eyes go hot and heavy-lidded.
"That's true," she admits. "And this time there's no one ten feet away."
"Not a damn soul," he answers. She taps his cheek with one slim finger and smiles, at which point Dave gives up the pretense of any kind of control over the evening.
"Rossi," Emily Prentiss says slowly and clearly, "get naked. Now." She's skimming out of her jeans and underwear even as she speaks. Dave doesn't hesitate, toeing off shoes and socks and shedding clothing as fast as he can manage.
He's just shrugging off his shirt when she starts to reach for the lacing on the corset. "No," he says, and she freezes. "You made me a promise."
Emily looks blank for a moment, then grins, smoothing her hands down her sides. "I think you've got it reversed." She takes a step towards him and he remembers that sway in her hips. "I think you promised to show me how hard I could come."
She's close enough that he can reach out and pull her to him, the satin cool against his cock, her skin warm under his hands. "I think," he says against her ear, leaning down just enough to let his breath brush against a certain half-remembered spot, "that I can make you come even harder after I take it off."
Her hands fist against his shoulders as her head falls back. Dave's been watching the line of Emily Prentiss's throat for nearly two years, and it's still one of the most gorgeous things he's ever seen. She swallows hard, rubbing her calf along the outside of his leg. He can feel her breathing, feel the quick intake, feel satin and boning catch and hold, forcing the exhale. She shivers again, then opens her eyes. "First," she says, pulling back just enough to put her hands on his chest, pushing him backwards until he bumps up against the bed, "first, I get to touch you."
He sits when she nudges at his shoulders, but he's never been particularly good at consistently following orders, so he reaches for her, pulling her closer, his hands tracing down her thighs. Her breath hitches, but she just pushes back, till he's flat on the bed, feet on the floor, entirely at her mercy and likely to die a very, very happy man. She cat-crawls up the bed next him, propping herself up on one arm, the other laying trails across his chest, down his stomach, along his collarbone. She plucks gently at his nipple and laughs gently when he hisses. "I wanted this," she says quietly. "After. When I went home." They're watching each other.
He reaches out, running the back of his fingers over her cheek and answers the question she isn't asking. "I was there for a case the first time." Her hand glides lower and he fights to keep his eyes open, to hold onto the train of thought. "The second time," Dave breathes in sharply as she skims her nails along his thighs, "the second time I was there to look for you." He loses the battle, eyes shutting with the effort of hanging on to willpower.
She shifts, and the next thing he can feel is the her hair against his stomach. He fists his hands in the duvet, willing himself not to grab. He's tense with anticipation, so much so that when her fingers brush his balls, it's a shock. "I went home and got myself off, the first time" Emily says, and his dick throbs in answer. "Didn't even make it out of the corset." Her breath is hot against his stomach.
"And the second time?" Dave manages, voice thick.
"I thought about doing this," Emily answers and closes her mouth around the head of his cock. Dave's world actually sort of greys out. It's hot and wet and suction and most of all, it's something that was wholly impossible all of five hours ago, which may be why he can't help thrusting up, just a little, because he hasn't quite processed that this is real. She settles her free hand on his hip, holding him steady, her thumb tracing tiny circles over his skin. "Shhh, Dave," she murmurs, pulling back to breathe. "Shhh. Easy." He can hear the grin as she tosses his words back at him; he answers with a shaky laugh.
Then she licks a long, slow stripe along his cock and Dave loses his train of thought entirely, focusing instead on not going off like some kid, because it's too much, too good. He chokes out her name and reaches out until he can touch her, feel the muscles in her thigh flexing as she shifts. Strong, he thinks, trying desperately to distract himself by watching her body move. There's strength there - he knows it, knows the way her body looks as she runs, as she kicks down a door, as she aims a gun. He tries not to grab, not to hold too hard, but he knows she's not fragile. There's another meaning there, but he just doesn't have enough brainpower to chase it, not with her finger sliding down to tease the skin behind his balls.
Dave tries to bring a knee up, shifting on the bed, looking for some kind of purchase, but she won't let him, just holds him still and works him over. He can feel the tightness in his belly, feel his balls drawing up, and it's only the fact that he's not ready for this to be over that lets him do something about it.
"Emily," he rumbles, sliding his hand along her skin. She hums an answer and he reminds himself to breathe. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Dave reasons. She's leaning over just enough that he can palm the curve of her ass, and as she goes down on him again he reaches out and traces a finger lightly along her pussy, barely touching her clit. Her gasp is entirely gratifying - as is the shudder he can feel as she sits up and back, her eyes wide and mouth open.
Her laugh is breathless and shivery and beautiful. "Oh," she manages, looking a little blindsided. "Oh."
"My turn," Dave says, before she can start thinking again, and tugs her down. She makes a thoroughly greedy noise against his mouth as he kisses her, tasting himself, tasting her. She moves with him as he rolls them, his skin tingling with the slip of satin, the slickness of ribbon, the slide of her thighs over his. Her pulse is racing; she's breathing in little gasps, little needy noises that go straight to his dick.
He tries to shift downward and she mutters in protest, arching up against him, hands catching at his shoulders. He murmurs back, soothing, dragging his hands down her sides, over her hips, down her legs, till he's exactly where he wants to be. For a moment, he just watches her breathe, letting her calm, and then he brushes a kiss against her inner thigh and settles himself on his stomach. He slides his hands under her ass, tracing the line where fabric meets skin, and then he sets his mouth to her.
The short, sharp noise she makes, her voice tight and cracking, may be the best thing he's ever heard. She's as tightly wound as he is, her muscles quivering as he wraps his hands around her and tugs her closer. He settles into long, slow, broad strokes, firm pressure even as he moves up and over her clit, savoring the way she tastes. She's breathing hard, her hips moving against him when he slips his tongue in further and sets his thumb just under her clit, circling it slowly. She jerks hard, letting out another one of those achy cries, and he has to refrain from rubbing off against the mattress. It's when he slides his fingers in, sweet and easy, her body slick and hot and clinging, that she starts to talk, her voice tripping over his name, over "please" and "yes" and curses, and he'd laugh except he's answering her back, promising her more, promising her the moon, if she just hangs on tight, because she's so gorgeous, so good, and he's got her here, right here.
She curves like a bow when she comes, her body clutching his fingers tight, rippling around him. He can see the corset catch at her, make her fight for the huge, needy breath she takes right before she cracks apart, shuddering hard, and that's enough, that's all it takes, he wants it off of her, wants all of her, wants it gone. He slips his fingers free and yanks at the bow, grateful when the knot slides free without trouble. "I want you," he manages to say, not sure she's in any state to hear him, pretty sure he's being anything but gentlemanly, entirely sure he doesn't give a good god damn. "Want to touch you."
Her hand joins his, loosening the lacings as he works his way up her side, moving just as feverishly. "Yes," Emily agrees. "Fuck, yes." The boning leaves marks when he peels the fabric away, faintly reddened indentations that he tries to smooth away under his thumbs. She twists in his hands and he thinks of the way she danced that night, loose and easy and free. It's not the same, he thinks, filling his hands with her breasts, lapping at the hollow of her throat, stretched out over her, skin-on-skin. It's not the same, it's so much better, and he hadn't ever counted on that. Because it's Emily Prentiss twined around him, her hand in his hair, her hand on his cock, her hips curving against his. "Emily," he groans, slipping a hand between them, pressing gently against her clit. "Please."
"Condom," she mutters, and he fumbles blindly at the nightstand until she laughs and bats his hand away. There's a moment of confused, slightly clumsy choreography, legs bumping, knees touching, as they rearrange, and then she's reaching down and rolling the condom on him, her fingers too light, too gentle, too quickly gone as she settles herself back against the pillows.
Dave's kneeling between Emily's legs. She's laid out in front of him, skin flushed, hair tangled against the pillows, eyes dark, looking him over just as greedily as he's watching her. "Hey," she says quietly, bumping him gently with her knee. He wraps a hand around it, smooths his palm over it, along her thigh, cupping her pussy with just enough pressure to make her close her eyes and arch her back.
"I want to see you," he says, surprising himself. "I want to watch." Emily opens her eyes and smiles at him, and it's all the agreement he needs. He reaches for her, tugs her hips into his lap. He slides into her so sweet, so easy, her cunt tight and hot around his dick, her body arching away from him, her hands fisted in the covers, her breasts full and nipples pebbled. It's so right, it has to be, to make her rock against him, to make her hands tangle with his as the breath catches in her throat. He pulls back, thrusts in again, changing the angle, and she cries out - so he grins and does it again, and again, and again, because there's nothing on earth that's going to convince him to stop.
Emily's beautiful and responsive and impatient, pulling him forward, over her, till their legs are tangled and their bodies flush. He gathers her close, his weight on his elbows, rocking slowly into her, watching her face as she matches him, her legs wrapped around him, keeping him close. He drops his head to kiss her temple, her jaw, her hair, her mouth - anything he can reach. Emily just holds him tighter, dragging her nails gently over his shoulder, down his back, managing a laugh when he shudders and curses.
He's lost in it, lost in her - when she rolls them over, he goes willingly. She's kneeling over him, demanding everything from him, holding nothing back. The light from the bedside lamp gilds her face, the brilliant, needy expression she isn't trying to hide. His whole body's alive, demanding, sparking as he fights to keep up, to give her what she needs, what they both want. She reaches down, her hands finding his and clinging, her pussy tightening, not quite there, and suddenly there's nothing he can do to stop the orgasm that's about to wash over him. "I can't," he gasps, feeling his body tightening with that deep, aching need . "Emily. I -"
"Yes," she answers him. "Yes, Dave, come on. Come. I want to see. Please," she gasps, and that's all it takes. He's spilling into the condom, her body tight and clutching and everything he ever wanted. It takes the last of his available brainpower to free a hand, to circle her clit, but it's worth it, because then Emily Prentiss is falling apart in his arms, curling over and into him as she shakes with the force of it, and this time he knows her name and where she'll be come morning.
I never should have let her go, he thinks. Holding her to him, his hand tangled in her hair, her body slowly relaxing around his, it's a simple statement of fact. It should terrify him. He thinks about the way she'd frozen against him, all those years ago, the way he could practically hear her brain ticking over. It should terrify him. In the morning, it might.
"You're thinking," Emily mumbles against his ear. "How can you have enough energy to be thinking?" She shifts off of him, and he lets her go, rolling over to dispose of the condom.
This time, Dave thinks, they have the luxury of waiting till tomorrow. "'M not," he slurs. "I don't." It's mostly true. He feels loose, like he's drifting, like the world's starting to go fuzzy.
Emily snorts, but all she says is, "Good." He curls into her shoulder, draping an arm over her, breathing in sweat and sex and Emily. Her hand comes to rest against his neck, drawing sleepy patterns on his skin, and Dave lets go.
The next time he opens his eyes, it's morning and she's stolen all the covers, but her arm's around his waist. She's still there.
---
A strange thing is memory, and hope; one looks backward, and the other forward; one is of today, the other of tomorrow.
-- Grandma Moses
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Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Author's Notes: The title has its roots in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For smittywing, just because, with huge kudos to mingsmommy and smacky30, for cheering, beating, and betaing. The fact that there are no mysterious extra limbs is due to their influence. The fact that I ignored their comments about the past perfect is no one's fault but my own. This started out as kink!meme comment!fic but got long. Stop laughing.
Prompt: "At a college goth party/club, Prentiss has sex with a guy she later recognizes as David Rossi. Either Rossi figures it out later, or she tells him before they sleep together again. Bonus points for Rossi in a priest collar (first encounter) or Prentiss digging out one of her old corsets because it makes her come hard."
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Part One
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What we anticipate seldom occurs, but what we least expect generally happens.
-- Benjamin Disraeli
-----
David Rossi really never expected to come back to the BAU. But Gideon finally had the breakdown they all knew was coming and Erin Strauss had landed the position she'd been gunning for since time immemorial, and Dave has always liked Hotch way too much not to do him this favor. Even if Hotch wasn't the one that had asked. Besides, Dave figures, financial independence counts for a lot. He can always leave.
Except he doesn't actually want to.
He likes this team. Likes the way they work together. If he'd had a team like this, he thinks, he might never have left. Not that his BAU had been familiar with the concept of team - at least not like this. Dave is sufficiently self-aware to acknowledge that in all probability, he'd been a chunk of the reason for that fact.
But he does like them, individually and in aggregate. He likes Morgan's refusal to back down unless given reason. He likes Reid, although he's grateful not to have the care and feeding of him. He likes JJ's ruthless blend of steel and femininity, and her ability to use both as needed. He likes Penelope Garcia, for all he doesn't have words to describe her.
And he is slightly, irrationally fond of one Emily Prentiss, for reasons he's not entirely sure he understands.
At first it had been easy to chalk it up to Emma. Some torches are slow to burn out, and Dave's never denied he has a type. They're hardly twins - Emily's tall and leggy to Emma's petite curves - but there's a certain similarity related to dark hair and pale skin and eyes that give away more than intended. In Prentiss's case, her eyes had warned him early on that she was wary of him. It hadn't affected anything - Emily Prentiss, he has learned, is a champion at compartmentalization - but that look had been there. Sometimes, every now and then, it still is - and he wonders why.
Dave's never so much as blinked inappropriately in the direction of any of the women on this team. He's far too attached to his balls: if the injured party didn't remove them, the rest of the team would be waiting. He is well aware that his reputation precedes him. But he's always tried to tread carefully, and so it stings a little, that even now he'll still catch that look in her eyes.
Because it's not just Emma - and it hadn't taken long to figure that out. If pressed, he'd probably chalk it up to a bar in Indiana and her refusal to back away from the miserable bastard he'd been set on being that day. It's not just that, though. She's a damn good agent, competent and intelligent and intuitive in the field. That complete fuck-up of an affair over in Colorado had been excruciating, and he knows Morgan and Hotch would say exactly the same. Dave doesn't have to guess what Reid would say - he'd seen the kid's face when he'd stumbled clear of the explosion, and after, when the EMTs had been patching Prentiss up.
So yes, Emily Prentiss has the drive and passion to number among the best. And that explains why he likes working with her, but not why he can't seem to get her out from under his skin. It might be her sense of humor, from which no one escapes, not even Hotch. It might be the fact that she tries hard to be kind, that he's seen her stop and remind herself to be patient. It might be her sense of loyalty, and the fact that he knows full well she'd put herself on the line for anyone she thought deserved it. He's honored to be among that august group. It might be her temper, or her stubbornness, or her tendency toward sarcasm when she's frustrated or tired or simply undercaffeinated, or the weirdly familiar tilt to her chin when her dander's up.
He's spent a slightly terrifying amount of time thinking about this, but he can't figure it out and he can't shake it.
Even if he could, he wouldn't want to any more. Not since he saw her walk into the BAU looking like the world was ending. Not since an old friend warned him to take care of her and he realized just how much he wanted to. Not since she broke his heart in a vacant lot over a cup of really terrible coffee.
He should be way too old for this shit - only apparently he's not. What he is, however, is old enough to know that Emily Prentiss is not the kind of girl to endanger the job she loves with ill-considered shenanigans, and that he likes her too much to even propose it. He's also old enough to be content with a working relationship that's turned into a remarkably comfortable friendship. But he does regret that she's still not quite sure about him - even if it's only every once in a while.
Today, with the entire defense community on red alert and an anthrax attack in full swing, he's glad of that stubborn streak, of that ability to stay focused. If they're going to hell in a hand basket, she's the person he'd choose to partner up with.
He knows it's costing her. He knows what it's costing him. It's why he's so short with her at Nichols' lab. It's why he warns her off at Nichols' house. She's asking all the questions he doesn't like the answers to, and the fact that she's right only makes the answers harder to offer her. "Don't Emily me," she retorts, with a lift of her chin. He deserves it. He deserves it, and for the life of him, he can't figure out why that particular tic of hers is so damn familiar.
It's not till he's back at his desk, resisting the urge to rest his forehead on his blotter and pass out, that the epiphany occurs. He doesn't know what provokes it - it may simply be that they've had a hell of a run of cases and his brain's so tired that his internal filing system's broken down. One minute he's replaying the conversation in his head, laughing at Prentiss's response and admitting he owes her an apology. The next minute he's remembering a very similar gesture in a very different context, from a pale young woman in a black corset in a club he'd never set foot in a third time, as she considered whether or not to accept a glass of wine.
Dave doesn't think he actually stops breathing, but he's pretty damn sure that it's not healthy for realization to hit someone quite so hard. He should have spotted it long ago. Garcia, Reid, and Morgan have made certain to show him Prentiss's high school yearbook. He knows she'd been at Yale - even knows when she'd graduated. The ages work out about right, although the gap's a little worse than he'd copped to at the time. And knowing what he does now, there's suddenly a huge chunk of that very, very fond memory that makes a lot more sense.
"Fuck," he mutters, rubbing his hands over his face. It doesn't technically change anything. Except that now, any time he thinks about the possibility of Emily Prentiss, he's going to have a very, very vivid picture of what, exactly, that possibility might be like.
None of which, he realizes, changes the fact that he owes her an apology for today, or the fact that she appears to be getting ready to head for the door. Epiphany or not, he wants the immediate issue settled before today is over. Dave grabs his keys, shoves back from the desk, and flicks off the light.
It's easy enough once he catches up to her - she lets him off the hook far easier than he'd expected. She still doesn't like his answers. He can't really blame her.
"And yet - next time, I probably won't hesitate to lie again," she says.
Dave tries to focus on the conversation. He feels like he owes her something, some reassurance, but he's damned if he knows what and half his brain's just been entirely distracted. He keeps his eyes on the door, struggling for some kind of equilibrium. "We've got a lot of things to take with us to the grave," he replies as the doors slide closed. There's a brief silence. Looking back, Dave isn't ever sure what provokes him into adding, "Some of them are better than others."
"Oh really?" she drawls. The doors open onto the lobby and he follows her across to the parking elevators. "Such as?"
He could back out. There are a million answers he could give - David Rossi knows full well he's been a pretty lucky guy. He doesn't have to dig this hole. He really shouldn't. With a clearer head, maybe he wouldn't. Only it's been a revelatory fifteen minutes in Dave's life and he's not that good. He waits until the doors close again, hands in his pockets, feigning nonchalance - feigning it badly, he's pretty sure. Somewhere between P1 and P2, he answers, "For me? July twenty-first, nineteen ninety-three. One night with a gorgeous woman in a black corset in a Goth club in New Haven. She left me," he says, as the door slides open on P4, "without looking back. This is my stop," he adds unnecessarily and steps out. "See you Monday." He sounds flippant, he knows, but his palms are sweating. He hears the doors shut and wonders what the hell just possessed him. He knows full well he's already regretting it.
Except then he hears Emily's voice behind him, low and a little choked. "How - you know," Emily says. "How long have you known?"
Dave never forgets the first thought that makes it through his head: she didn't have to say that. She didn't have to blow her cover. She could have played it off. She could have stayed on the elevator. She didn't have to say that.
It's what lets him turn around.
Emily's face is pale, two spots of color high on her cheeks. The fluorescents overhead don't spare a damn thing: the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth, the slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes. The light catches on her hair, on the line of her cheek, on the small gold pendant at her collarbone. But then she lifts her head a fraction and says, "How long?" again, the demand clear, and there's a moment of double vision so clear it makes his head spin.
"I don't know how I could have missed it," he answers slowly. He's really talking to himself; it's a trick of acoustics that bounces it over the asphalt and into her silence.
She turns her head to the side, not quite a flinch. "Don't worry. What could I possibly tell anyone?"
The bitterness in her voice stings, brings the world back into focus. That's not - he didn't - he doesn't know exactly what she's thinking, but he's damn sure it's wrong. "No," he manages, the word thick and stupid in his mouth. "Prentiss - Emily, no." He reaches out without thinking about it. She steps backward to avoid it, for all he's six feet away. Her back's practically up against the elevator door. Don't open, he thinks. Don't open. Not yet.
He lets his hand drop. Pay attention, his brain suggests, as he realizes that her shoulders are squared hard enough to ache. Her hand is holding her jacket so tightly her knuckles are white. "Twenty minutes," he says finally. "Give or take. I've known for twenty minutes."
She looks at him, which is at least progress. "I don't know if I'm horrified or flattered. Clearly," she says, swallowing, "I need a better moisturizer."
It is entirely possible that she's regaining her balance far quicker than he is. Of course, that would make sense if - "How long for you?"
"Oh," Emily answers, her voice cracking as it aims for blasé and misses. "Since I saw your photo on the book jacket when I was at the Academy."
Dave's brain is racing. "So when I started -"
She shifts uneasily. "I wondered if it would be a problem. But you - it wasn't -" she stops. "I didn't have the easiest start here." Emily tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wasn't going to bring it up unless -"
"Unless it became an issue." He nods, accepting her reasoning for what it is. It sounds like the Prentiss he knows. It explains a lot. Pretty much everything. "It wouldn't," he says, and honesty compels him to add, "not with you." Dave is fully aware that he can be a bastard, that even now he's not sure that if it had been someone else, someone who was not Emily Prentiss, that he would've let it lie. "It wouldn't," he repeats, uncomfortable with the admission. "It won't."
He doesn't miss the way the tension in her body eases. He's ruthless as he schools his face and smiles at her. Nothing's changed. Not really. A one-night stand well over a decade ago doesn't add anything of import to handful of what-ifs and half-considered possibilities. Common sense still applies. Twenty minutes hasn't changed a thing. "It's okay," he says, lying. "Good night, Emily."
Dave walks away, fumbling in his pocket for the car key. He's gone some eight or nine steps when her voice rings out behind him. "Funny thing is," she says calmly, "sometimes I wish it would."
The part of Dave's brain responsible for higher-level motor control ceases to function. He's getting old, he thinks. System overload is a terrible thing. He doesn't move.
"Sometimes," Emily says, and in the quiet of the garage he can hear her boot heels click as she takes a step forward. "I wonder. Because there was this guy, this one time." She pauses. He thinks he can hear her breathe. "Just after I finished at Yale."
Some synapse kicks back in and lets him turn around. "Yeah?" he says, as deadpan as he can manage.
"Yeah." He watches her as she fidgets, adjusting another lock of hair. "And he - well. I didn't - I was someone else. Just once. Just for that night."
David Rossi has been a profiler for almost exactly thirty years. He's talked to unsubs, victims, families, cops - he's developed strategies and techniques and methods. But now, when it counts, none of those skills are telling him where this conversation is going to end up. So he shuts up and listens like the world depends on it.
This time, Emily doesn't look away under his scrutiny. "Only the thing is," she says, "I wasn't. Not really. Part of it - so much of it - it was me." She smiles. "It was me, and it was amazing."
Dave swallows. "Amazing's a good word." There's a pressure in his chest that feels a little like hope. It's probably a heart attack. That's what happens when old men suddenly expand their horizons.
Emily blushes. She'd done that before, he thinks. That night. Before she'd left. It had been dark, but she'd lost enough of that pale, pale makeup on his shirt that he could see the tint on her cheeks. He can still remember the way the air had smelled, cigarette smoke and face powder and sex. "It's kind of terrifying when you're twenty-two," she admits. "It was huge." She takes another few steps toward him. "And all I ever said was 'thanks.'"
He doesn't know what he's planning to say when he opens his mouth, but then the elevator dings and they both jump. Hotch emerges, looking wrung out. He pauses when he sees them. An eyebrow lifts, speaking volumes, but all Aaron says is, "Problems?"
"No, sir," Emily says.
"Just discussing the pressing need for a decent glass of wine," Dave temporizes. "It's been a hell of a day."
Hotch's eyebrow doesn't move. Somewhere between Dave leaving and Dave returning, Aaron Hotchner has learned to bluff well enough that Dave can't always read him anymore. Damn proteges, he thinks, picking up useful skills when you're not around. Damn Hotch's timing, more to the point. "I have a bottle with my name on it," Dave offers. "You're both welcome to share." What he'll do if they both accept, Dave doesn't know. But while he can't read Hotch entirely, he can read enough of the man's body language to make a reasonable bet.
"The bottle?" Aaron asks drily.
"Hell no," Dave answers. "I'll find another for you. Even write 'Hotch' on there in permanent marker."
Hotch laughs. "I'll pass. But I'll take a raincheck."
"Done," Dave says. "Prentiss?" The parking garage isn't really where he wants to have the conversation they're currently muddling through. And with Hotch here, the invitation's natural. Easy. Not born of a sudden fear that she's going to turn and slip away.
"You know," she says slowly, "that sounds like a damn good idea. Just let me run home first."
"I'll call and leave you directions," he agrees. "Say, nine o'clock?"
Hotch says a quiet goodnight and walks off as Emily checks her watch. "Should be doable," she says. Her eyes are wide and dark as she glances up at him.
"Just wine," Dave says softly. "Just a drink."
"Nine o'clock," she answers and heads for the stairwell.
Dave doesn't move as he watches her go - it's not till he hears Hotch's car start that he realizes he's standing in the middle of the parking garage like an idiot, staring at nothing. Then he shrugs, shakes his head like it'll help clear it, and gets in his car.
Nine o'clock, he thinks. He wraps his hands around the steering wheel, but he's remembering the shape of her under his fingers - the arch of her back, the curve of her arm, the line of her jaw. He's thinking about the fact that half an hour ago, Emily Prentiss was safely out-of-bounds, off-limits, untouchable. He's thinking about the fact that just maybe, just maybe that isn't the case. Just maybe, memory and fantasy might actually be aligning. Just maybe, he'll be a luckier sonofabitch than he deserves.
He wonders if she'll really come. She hadn't run, even given a chance. He hopes she'll come. He thinks she will, but he's not noted for his record in this particular area.
He wonders as he leaves the garage, as he leaves a message on her cell, as he pulls out a red and a white and the corkscrew.
He wonders right up until nine o'clock, when the doorbell rings - at which point he wonders what the hell he'd been thinking. It's not that he regrets it - it's that he has absolutely no idea what happens next. Dave is generally someone who likes to have a gameplan.
From the look on Emily's face when he opens the door, he's not the only one wondering what's about to happen. He steps back and lets her in. "White or red?" he asks, taking her coat. He wants to linger, wants to run a palm over and down her shoulders. He settles for standing just a hair closer than necessary. She doesn't back away.
"White," she answers. Another night, she'd said red. He remembers the way she'd looked, licking droplets off her wrist. He remembers the taste of it on her tongue. She trails him to the kitchen, watches as he uncorks the bottle. No one says a word, but the silence isn't unpleasant. Just a stillness. A waiting. It's not fragile - still, he doesn't want to break it.
He hands her a glass and their fingers brush. He tenses. Her cheeks flush. He looks away and pours his own.
"You owe me," Emily says into the quiet.
Dave freezes, the glass halfway to his lips. "What?"
She grins at him. It's a little hesitant, but it's the same grin he's known for almost two years of field work. "You promised me a bottle with my name on it."
He barks a laugh. "C'mon." He waves a hand at her as he walks around the island. "Sit down."
He leaves her the couch, wanting to give her room, and settles into the armchair. She's toying with her glass, tracing the rim. The wine's a nice white, but neither of them are paying it the attention it deserves. "So," he ventures.
"So." Emily's eyes meet his. "I'm not twenty-two any more, Dave." It's not a challenge - just a simple statement of fact.
"I'm not thirty-eight." He takes another sip. "Thank God. Some things do change."
She smiles wryly, twisting the stem of the glass between her fingers. "Lots of things."
"Not everything," he says quickly.
Emily goes still.
"Not this," Dave murmurs. He watches her take a breath, looks at the color in her cheeks, the splay of her fingers around the glass.
David Rossi is nearly fifty-four and all his life, he's gone after what he wanted and regretted the things that got away. He's learned, in the same space of time, that you don't always get what you want, no matter how hard you try. But now Emily Prentiss is sitting on his couch and he'd bet his career that the tension in her body isn't fear. Nerves, sure. Something else, maybe, if he's luckier than he deserves. "Not this."
"What is this?" Emily demands. "I don't have any idea." She shakes her head. "Three hours ago," she says drily, "I was much better at compartmentalizing."
"Three hours ago," Dave replies, "I still wanted to touch you. I just didn't know that I knew what it felt like. I didn't know that you knew what it felt like."
Emily licks her lips and takes a drink. Her color's high and her breathing a little shallow, but he can't be sure he's right about what she's thinking. All he can do is hope. He watches the line of her throat as she swallows. "It was easier if I assumed you didn't know," she offers.
Sometimes, Dave thinks, maybe you get a second chance. "It didn't exactly matter," he says slowly. He's never been so tongue-tied. He leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table, fully aware that he's avoiding her eyes. He rests his hands on his knees - at least that way they're holding onto something. He's so damn full of want he doesn't trust them not to reach out and take. "It's been almost two years since I first wanted to kiss you." He considers that sentence. "Again. Apparently."
A long, slender finger traces over his knuckles. He twists his wrist and catches her hand before it pulls away. He's too greedy not to. When he looks up, her eyes are dark. "Promise me," Emily says, "that we'll talk about the difficult stuff in the morning."
"I promise," Dave manages, ninety-five percent of his brainpower stuck on "in the morning." "I really do." He feels a slow grin start. "I suppose I should warn you," he adds, watching her smile grow to match his own, until they must look like a pair of lunatics, "I'm about thirty seconds from kissing you."
It is a blessedly short distance from the armchair to the couch. Movement, it turns out, doesn't actually require conscious thought. Dave's kneeling in front of her, joints be damned, without knowing exactly how he got there. He's got one hand in her hair and one on her cheek and he's tugging her face down to his.
"What the hell took you so long?" Emily murmurs, even as he watches her eyes flutter closed.
"Damned if I know," he says, and then he pulls her in and kisses her, letting his own eyes fall shut. It's simple, quiet and undemanding, stretching out around them. Her hands feather over his cheek and jaw, coming to rest on his shoulders. Her hair is silky against his palm. His other hand slips to her neck, feels the thud of her pulse, rapid but steady, strong and real. He tastes the wine on her lips, tests the corner of her mouth, and lets her steal his breath away.
He doesn't let go when the need for air forces them to pause. He's not sure he knows how, and he's positive he should be more alarmed by that fact than he is. He just tips his forehead to lean against hers. "Damned if I know," he says again, "but I got there in the end."
Emily sits back and studies his face, her hand on his cheek, her thumb tracing over his skin. The bone-deep need that's been simmering all evening is rising, clamoring for attention, and Dave's done trying to hide it. She bites at her lower lip and he sees an answering spark in her own eyes. "Thank God," she replies. "It's about time."
When she kisses him back, it isn't simple at all.
Dave's never forgotten that night. From the moment she'd walked away, he'd set himself to remembering. He'd been newly single and rawly bitter and entirely floored by what he'd intended as simple amusement. So he'd wanted to remember the taste of her mouth and the scent of her skin and the touch of her hair - not out of some hopeless sense of romance, he'd assured himself, but because something that good just didn't happen twice. Only now he can feel the beat of her pulse under soft, soft skin, and he can hear the murmur trembling in her throat, and he can taste her, dark and sweet and familiar, and all those memories pale in comparison.
He pulls her off the sofa without stopping to think; he's greedy now, all that caution and hesitation overridden by the desperate ache in his fingers, his arms, his spine, his cock. He folds her against him, hearing her laugh in surprise. He's got a hand buried in her hair, cradling the curve of her skull, strands of hair catching against his fingertips. He should stop, give her space to breathe, but Emily doesn't seem to want it. Her hands are everywhere and her mouth on his is insistent. When she presses against him, one hot palm sliding under his jeans and boxers to cup his ass, he bucks hard against her.
He's vaguely aware that he's saying her name, saying Emily and Prentiss in the space between kisses, breathing her in like he's been drowning for years. Be reasonable, part of him thinks, but the rest of him isn't paying attention, because here, now, reason has nothing to do with it. He slips his hands in the back pockets of her jeans and tugs her closer, smiling as she nips at the corner of his mouth and then hauling in air as she curves into him, the pressure and friction against his dick so damn good. He rucks up her sweater, wanting the heat of her skin, and stops when his fingers find satin and boning and the trailing edge of a ribbon.
In a smoky room, a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl in a dark corset holds a glass of wine in her hand, chin tilted and eyebrow raised, her lips curving into something sweet and sly and hot. For a moment, he's not sure where he is. Then he spans her waist with his hands, the fabric snagging gently on his palms and fingers, and when he opens his eyes, it's Emily looking back at him, still dark-eyed and dark-haired, lips full, hair rumpled and wild, cheeks brightly flushed. It's her, it's that girl, but now, too, it's Emily Prentiss. It's not the same - it's not even the same corset - and yet somehow, it is - only better, memory and reality combining into something more. It's just better, because now he knows what put the wariness in her face, what accounts for some of the small creases around her mouth, why there's something just a little careful in her eyes. It's Emily, someone he trusts at his back, at his side, on his team, and she's watching him, and the small smile quirking her lips is still sweet, still hot - but just a little wiser.
"I did stop at home," she says after a moment, and Dave's glad, because speech appears to have deserted him entirely. "And I thought, well, why not? Maybe it won't be just a drink." She bites at her lip, studying his face, and then her smile turns into a full-on grin. "And then I thought, maybe he wouldn't mind knowing how hard wearing one makes me come." She traces a finger over the outline of his dick as she says it, and he groans.
"That sounds like a dare," Dave says, trying for nonchalant and completely betrayed by the ragged edge to his voice.
He feels her laugh under his hands. "Consider it a challenge," she says, pressing hungry, open kisses along his neck. Her hands are untucking his shirt.
"Accepted," he manages, then pulls them both to their feet before she can distract him any further. "But that means I set the terms. And my terms say the bedroom is a much better choice." He's not sure he's ever made it up the stairs so quickly. He doesn't release her hand, doesn't ask himself why, but she doesn't protest at being towed. It's not till they're in his room that he lets go and turns to look at her.
The heat's still there - his pulse is rapid and the stairs aren't the reason. The urge to touch, to haul her up against him still tingles in his fingers. But he isn't thirty-eight any longer, and some part of him needs to give her this one last chance to walk away. "Prentiss," he says, letting his hands fall to his sides.
"Dave," she answers, her voice calm. "Stop giving me chances to run." She tugs her sweater over her head and walks to stand in front of him, jeans low on her hips, her skin creamy against blue satin of her corset. It's a soft color, not pale, but delicate, setting off the flush on her skin. It laces up both sides and Dave has a desperate need to undo it, to pull the laces free and watch it slide away. "I didn't before." She puts a hand on his chest, undoes the highest button. "I don't want to now."
The noise he makes should be embarrassing, but he can't seem to care. He cups her face, falling into the heat of her mouth as he kisses her, falling into the play of her muscles as he lets go and smooths his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. She fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, grumbling at them between kisses; in the end, her patience gives out and she just yanks, popping the last two off.
"Easy," he says, breathless. We've got time, he wants to say, but he's distracted by the rise and fall of her breasts, caught by the corset, round and warm and just right in his hands. He brushes his thumbs over the satin, feeling her shudder. The heat of her hands on his bare chest makes him tense, his eyes tight shut, only to fly open as she leans in and sets her tongue to his nipple. Her hands tug gently at his belt, pop his fly and slip into his boxers. He's been some variant of hard since before she walked in the door, and even if he wanted to, he couldn't stop the noise he makes when she touches him. "Easy," he says again, catching her wrists.
She looks up into his face, and there's more than just need written there. "I want to touch you," she demands, eyes bright, but she takes the hint and eases her hand away. "I want - I never -"
"I know," Dave answers, because he does, he does. "Emily, I know. But we have all night." Maybe more than that, he thinks, and promptly shoves that to the back of his brain. That's for later, for the morning. This is just for them. He lifts her hand to his mouth and salutes it, an old-fashioned move, maybe, but he's sort of an old-fashioned guy, and it makes her eyes go hot and heavy-lidded.
"That's true," she admits. "And this time there's no one ten feet away."
"Not a damn soul," he answers. She taps his cheek with one slim finger and smiles, at which point Dave gives up the pretense of any kind of control over the evening.
"Rossi," Emily Prentiss says slowly and clearly, "get naked. Now." She's skimming out of her jeans and underwear even as she speaks. Dave doesn't hesitate, toeing off shoes and socks and shedding clothing as fast as he can manage.
He's just shrugging off his shirt when she starts to reach for the lacing on the corset. "No," he says, and she freezes. "You made me a promise."
Emily looks blank for a moment, then grins, smoothing her hands down her sides. "I think you've got it reversed." She takes a step towards him and he remembers that sway in her hips. "I think you promised to show me how hard I could come."
She's close enough that he can reach out and pull her to him, the satin cool against his cock, her skin warm under his hands. "I think," he says against her ear, leaning down just enough to let his breath brush against a certain half-remembered spot, "that I can make you come even harder after I take it off."
Her hands fist against his shoulders as her head falls back. Dave's been watching the line of Emily Prentiss's throat for nearly two years, and it's still one of the most gorgeous things he's ever seen. She swallows hard, rubbing her calf along the outside of his leg. He can feel her breathing, feel the quick intake, feel satin and boning catch and hold, forcing the exhale. She shivers again, then opens her eyes. "First," she says, pulling back just enough to put her hands on his chest, pushing him backwards until he bumps up against the bed, "first, I get to touch you."
He sits when she nudges at his shoulders, but he's never been particularly good at consistently following orders, so he reaches for her, pulling her closer, his hands tracing down her thighs. Her breath hitches, but she just pushes back, till he's flat on the bed, feet on the floor, entirely at her mercy and likely to die a very, very happy man. She cat-crawls up the bed next him, propping herself up on one arm, the other laying trails across his chest, down his stomach, along his collarbone. She plucks gently at his nipple and laughs gently when he hisses. "I wanted this," she says quietly. "After. When I went home." They're watching each other.
He reaches out, running the back of his fingers over her cheek and answers the question she isn't asking. "I was there for a case the first time." Her hand glides lower and he fights to keep his eyes open, to hold onto the train of thought. "The second time," Dave breathes in sharply as she skims her nails along his thighs, "the second time I was there to look for you." He loses the battle, eyes shutting with the effort of hanging on to willpower.
She shifts, and the next thing he can feel is the her hair against his stomach. He fists his hands in the duvet, willing himself not to grab. He's tense with anticipation, so much so that when her fingers brush his balls, it's a shock. "I went home and got myself off, the first time" Emily says, and his dick throbs in answer. "Didn't even make it out of the corset." Her breath is hot against his stomach.
"And the second time?" Dave manages, voice thick.
"I thought about doing this," Emily answers and closes her mouth around the head of his cock. Dave's world actually sort of greys out. It's hot and wet and suction and most of all, it's something that was wholly impossible all of five hours ago, which may be why he can't help thrusting up, just a little, because he hasn't quite processed that this is real. She settles her free hand on his hip, holding him steady, her thumb tracing tiny circles over his skin. "Shhh, Dave," she murmurs, pulling back to breathe. "Shhh. Easy." He can hear the grin as she tosses his words back at him; he answers with a shaky laugh.
Then she licks a long, slow stripe along his cock and Dave loses his train of thought entirely, focusing instead on not going off like some kid, because it's too much, too good. He chokes out her name and reaches out until he can touch her, feel the muscles in her thigh flexing as she shifts. Strong, he thinks, trying desperately to distract himself by watching her body move. There's strength there - he knows it, knows the way her body looks as she runs, as she kicks down a door, as she aims a gun. He tries not to grab, not to hold too hard, but he knows she's not fragile. There's another meaning there, but he just doesn't have enough brainpower to chase it, not with her finger sliding down to tease the skin behind his balls.
Dave tries to bring a knee up, shifting on the bed, looking for some kind of purchase, but she won't let him, just holds him still and works him over. He can feel the tightness in his belly, feel his balls drawing up, and it's only the fact that he's not ready for this to be over that lets him do something about it.
"Emily," he rumbles, sliding his hand along her skin. She hums an answer and he reminds himself to breathe. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Dave reasons. She's leaning over just enough that he can palm the curve of her ass, and as she goes down on him again he reaches out and traces a finger lightly along her pussy, barely touching her clit. Her gasp is entirely gratifying - as is the shudder he can feel as she sits up and back, her eyes wide and mouth open.
Her laugh is breathless and shivery and beautiful. "Oh," she manages, looking a little blindsided. "Oh."
"My turn," Dave says, before she can start thinking again, and tugs her down. She makes a thoroughly greedy noise against his mouth as he kisses her, tasting himself, tasting her. She moves with him as he rolls them, his skin tingling with the slip of satin, the slickness of ribbon, the slide of her thighs over his. Her pulse is racing; she's breathing in little gasps, little needy noises that go straight to his dick.
He tries to shift downward and she mutters in protest, arching up against him, hands catching at his shoulders. He murmurs back, soothing, dragging his hands down her sides, over her hips, down her legs, till he's exactly where he wants to be. For a moment, he just watches her breathe, letting her calm, and then he brushes a kiss against her inner thigh and settles himself on his stomach. He slides his hands under her ass, tracing the line where fabric meets skin, and then he sets his mouth to her.
The short, sharp noise she makes, her voice tight and cracking, may be the best thing he's ever heard. She's as tightly wound as he is, her muscles quivering as he wraps his hands around her and tugs her closer. He settles into long, slow, broad strokes, firm pressure even as he moves up and over her clit, savoring the way she tastes. She's breathing hard, her hips moving against him when he slips his tongue in further and sets his thumb just under her clit, circling it slowly. She jerks hard, letting out another one of those achy cries, and he has to refrain from rubbing off against the mattress. It's when he slides his fingers in, sweet and easy, her body slick and hot and clinging, that she starts to talk, her voice tripping over his name, over "please" and "yes" and curses, and he'd laugh except he's answering her back, promising her more, promising her the moon, if she just hangs on tight, because she's so gorgeous, so good, and he's got her here, right here.
She curves like a bow when she comes, her body clutching his fingers tight, rippling around him. He can see the corset catch at her, make her fight for the huge, needy breath she takes right before she cracks apart, shuddering hard, and that's enough, that's all it takes, he wants it off of her, wants all of her, wants it gone. He slips his fingers free and yanks at the bow, grateful when the knot slides free without trouble. "I want you," he manages to say, not sure she's in any state to hear him, pretty sure he's being anything but gentlemanly, entirely sure he doesn't give a good god damn. "Want to touch you."
Her hand joins his, loosening the lacings as he works his way up her side, moving just as feverishly. "Yes," Emily agrees. "Fuck, yes." The boning leaves marks when he peels the fabric away, faintly reddened indentations that he tries to smooth away under his thumbs. She twists in his hands and he thinks of the way she danced that night, loose and easy and free. It's not the same, he thinks, filling his hands with her breasts, lapping at the hollow of her throat, stretched out over her, skin-on-skin. It's not the same, it's so much better, and he hadn't ever counted on that. Because it's Emily Prentiss twined around him, her hand in his hair, her hand on his cock, her hips curving against his. "Emily," he groans, slipping a hand between them, pressing gently against her clit. "Please."
"Condom," she mutters, and he fumbles blindly at the nightstand until she laughs and bats his hand away. There's a moment of confused, slightly clumsy choreography, legs bumping, knees touching, as they rearrange, and then she's reaching down and rolling the condom on him, her fingers too light, too gentle, too quickly gone as she settles herself back against the pillows.
Dave's kneeling between Emily's legs. She's laid out in front of him, skin flushed, hair tangled against the pillows, eyes dark, looking him over just as greedily as he's watching her. "Hey," she says quietly, bumping him gently with her knee. He wraps a hand around it, smooths his palm over it, along her thigh, cupping her pussy with just enough pressure to make her close her eyes and arch her back.
"I want to see you," he says, surprising himself. "I want to watch." Emily opens her eyes and smiles at him, and it's all the agreement he needs. He reaches for her, tugs her hips into his lap. He slides into her so sweet, so easy, her cunt tight and hot around his dick, her body arching away from him, her hands fisted in the covers, her breasts full and nipples pebbled. It's so right, it has to be, to make her rock against him, to make her hands tangle with his as the breath catches in her throat. He pulls back, thrusts in again, changing the angle, and she cries out - so he grins and does it again, and again, and again, because there's nothing on earth that's going to convince him to stop.
Emily's beautiful and responsive and impatient, pulling him forward, over her, till their legs are tangled and their bodies flush. He gathers her close, his weight on his elbows, rocking slowly into her, watching her face as she matches him, her legs wrapped around him, keeping him close. He drops his head to kiss her temple, her jaw, her hair, her mouth - anything he can reach. Emily just holds him tighter, dragging her nails gently over his shoulder, down his back, managing a laugh when he shudders and curses.
He's lost in it, lost in her - when she rolls them over, he goes willingly. She's kneeling over him, demanding everything from him, holding nothing back. The light from the bedside lamp gilds her face, the brilliant, needy expression she isn't trying to hide. His whole body's alive, demanding, sparking as he fights to keep up, to give her what she needs, what they both want. She reaches down, her hands finding his and clinging, her pussy tightening, not quite there, and suddenly there's nothing he can do to stop the orgasm that's about to wash over him. "I can't," he gasps, feeling his body tightening with that deep, aching need . "Emily. I -"
"Yes," she answers him. "Yes, Dave, come on. Come. I want to see. Please," she gasps, and that's all it takes. He's spilling into the condom, her body tight and clutching and everything he ever wanted. It takes the last of his available brainpower to free a hand, to circle her clit, but it's worth it, because then Emily Prentiss is falling apart in his arms, curling over and into him as she shakes with the force of it, and this time he knows her name and where she'll be come morning.
I never should have let her go, he thinks. Holding her to him, his hand tangled in her hair, her body slowly relaxing around his, it's a simple statement of fact. It should terrify him. He thinks about the way she'd frozen against him, all those years ago, the way he could practically hear her brain ticking over. It should terrify him. In the morning, it might.
"You're thinking," Emily mumbles against his ear. "How can you have enough energy to be thinking?" She shifts off of him, and he lets her go, rolling over to dispose of the condom.
This time, Dave thinks, they have the luxury of waiting till tomorrow. "'M not," he slurs. "I don't." It's mostly true. He feels loose, like he's drifting, like the world's starting to go fuzzy.
Emily snorts, but all she says is, "Good." He curls into her shoulder, draping an arm over her, breathing in sweat and sex and Emily. Her hand comes to rest against his neck, drawing sleepy patterns on his skin, and Dave lets go.
The next time he opens his eyes, it's morning and she's stolen all the covers, but her arm's around his waist. She's still there.
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A strange thing is memory, and hope; one looks backward, and the other forward; one is of today, the other of tomorrow.
-- Grandma Moses
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