Falling part 3
Title: Falling (part 3)
Author: Louisa and Tamoline
Thank you to nonpresence for looking it over and making it better
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/Emma Frost
Notes: This revolves around the events of Faces, told from Emily's point of view. (We really will get around to the sequel, but Falling is of sufficiently different form that we thought it best to make a seperate story for it.)
You will need to read Faces before reading this story:
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
The Hunt is suggested as well, as it deals with Emily prior to the events of Faces:
Groundwork Interrogation Contact Aftermath
Part 1
Part 2
Celia's welcoming smile fails to have quite its usual lifting effect on me. Possibly because I'm more than a little nervous.
She always has been able to read me like a book. And I rather suspect that she's going to be far too interested in the contents this time.
"Hey," she says, hugging me tightly.
"Hey," I reply as I settle myself down, coffee in front of me.
She waits until I'm seated, observing me with bright eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Truly we are witness to a week of wonders. The great and mighty Emily Prentiss has broken her usually ironclad routine not once, but twice. Not only did she stand me up for a coffee meet on a morning after one of her prowls," she pauses for dramatic effect and I wince a little. No, she definitely has not forgiven me for that yet. "But she requested the pleasure of my company out of the blue a few days after that. So..?" she waves a hand in the air, demanding elucidation.
"Yes, the two events are connected," I tell her.
She pumps an arm in victory. "Oh, yes! Let me guess, you found someone who you actually stayed the night with?"
I do my best attempt at an offhanded shrug. "I guess it had to happen sooner or later."
"*Not* what you were saying last time we had this conversation, but I'll let that pass for now. So tell me about this paragon of femininity already!"
"Caucasian female. Blonde hair, blue eyes. In good shape. Dresses well." Celia frowns, opening her mouth to, no doubt, let me know in no uncertain terms how unsatisfied she is with the identikit description. Not that I blame her, but it's not important right now. The next part is, and I hurry through it before she can actually voice her complaint. "And, well, I didn't just meet her a few nights ago."
Celia's eyebrows shoot up. "You *have* been holding out on me." There's a slightly hurt look in her eyes.
"My relationship with Emma can be mostly described as just plain weird." I say a little bluntly. I bite my lip for a moment or two. It's hard talking about this even with Celia. "She doesn't really fit neatly into any of my existing boxes," I manage, finally.
"Oh." Celia digests that for a second or so. She's aware enough of me to know how much of a big deal that is to me. My system of balances. "She must really be something special then."
I snort, breaking the tension. "She's certainly something, alright. Even how I met her doesn't really make sense."
"I sense a story," she asks, a small smirk on her face.
"Believe it or not, it started on our last trip to the S X Factor."
She giggles. "Only you could manage to pick a *girl* up there."
"Oh, it gets better..."
* * *
I hated this place. The so-called music (repetitive bass lines overlaid with garbled lyrics about hos and bitches), the drinks (watered down, overpriced swill), the temperature (stifling) and the smell (oh god, the smell). What was not to loathe? And then there was the detritus that littered the floor: slimy, greasy, filthy and just plain disgusting. Not just the stuff that clung to my boots but, worse than that, the mobile refuse that tried to cling to *me*.
This was the S X Factor in all its dubious glory.
And, just to make the experience that much more *magical*, I had to watch Celia attempting to cop off with a variety of strange men.
Wonderful. What a *fantastic* way to spend a Saturday night.
So, why was I here again? Even as I asked myself the question, I saw the answer standing at the bar, draping herself over some musclebound meathead. Briefly looking up from her latest conquest, she met my eyes across the room and flashed me a salacious smile. I knew that smile. It said: 'I'm getting lucky tonight.' Loudly. I raised my barely-touched glass in honour of her successful hunt, but she had already turned back to her primate of the moment.
I wished that meant my duties were done for the evening. That I could leave now. It wasn't like I was actually having fun here. But, like a fool, like some knight with delusions of chivalry, I stayed to watch over my best friend. To make sure that she was okay, to be here if she needed me. Just in case.
Because I knew what could happen. I'd seen the aftermath far too many times.
Lost in thought, it took me a few moments to realise that someone was trying to get my attention. Some sweaty, lycra-clad Conan-wannabe, minus the Cimmerian's wit and charm, was apparently making a rather drunken pass at me. Great. Just what I needed. Who knew that staring morosely into the distance somehow translated into "Please try to get into my pants"?
I half absentmindedly looked him over. Oh god. I swear that they make men at the Factor in industrial batches. Probably in the same vats they make the 'beer.' This looked like an example of the type I'd labeled Factor 12. I could almost recite his very probable profile in my sleep, no more work needed. I inserted the relevant snappy put down, thought up when I had more enthusiasm about the whole deal, and...
Oh look. The guy wilted, just like all his many clone brothers I've encountered before. What. A. Surprise.
I glowered into my drink, mustering up my courage to take another mouthful, as I prayed for something, *anything* to differentiate this night from the many others I spent here watching over Celia.
When I sensed someone else approaching with purpose, I could have groaned aloud. Hadn't I earned at least a few minutes' grace before the next wave? Determined to head this one off before he could actually start talking to me, I looked up... only to find myself faced with, not another marauding meathead, but a woman. An attractive woman. Huge blue eyes with the devil himself dancing behind them. Short, platinum blonde hair. Dyed, of course, but done well. It suited her. She was also impressively well-endowed. Not that I noticed. Much.
"Don't worry," she said, smiling. "I'm not yet another of the marauding, barely washed crowd." I guess anyone not completely body language illiterate would notice that I wasn't exactly welcoming company this evening. How depressing was it that, so far, she seemed to be the only person who'd picked up on that?
That and the smile just about cancelled out her cheap attempt at an English accent. Why do certain people *do* that? Seriously. Fake does not equal exotic. Though from the look of it, that was far from the only fake thing about her.
"So I see," I said, raising an eyebrow and slapping my inner bitch down firmly. The Factor must really be getting to me.
And she did somehow manage to carry the whole effect off quite well, much to my reluctant admiration. Quite well indeed.
And this was definitely different. It was almost enough to make me believe in prayer.
"Then there's obviously not enough hours in the day?" she said, laughing. "I have to say that I approve. Can I buy you a drink in the name of women everywhere?"
I almost blinked. Oh, yes, my dismissal line. I had to laugh. I'd really never thought that it would be an opening with someone. And I'd definitely never thought it would lead to a woman offering to buy me a drink here, of all places.
I took a longer glance at her, letting my training come to the fore. The first thing that came to my attention was her outfit. It was a little too familiar, which is probably why I hadn't twigged immediately. She was dressed in what I call 'rich girl's casual.' In depth knowledge of fashion wasn't really my thing, but I knew enough to be fairly sure that her outfit cost way more than anyone else's here. And that was including Celia. (Though to be fair, Celia actually did dress down for Factor trawling.) The reason why it was familiar was that girls at various of my schools had enjoyed slumming it. (And, okay, a few times to my shame I'd been one of those girls.)
But not quite like this. Then the girls had been flaunting themselves in a completely overdone fashion. This seemed almost to be saying 'Don't notice me' (rather than, say, 'I want to have your STDs').
Well, it was modest by the local standards anyway. I couldn't help noticing that it clung to her curves nicely.
And her attitude, the way she moved. That didn't say 'I don't want to be noticed.' It didn't say modest. And the way her gaze was drawn to my lips...
I groaned internally. I had *definitely* been here too long. I couldn't quite believe that a woman would be checking me out in this sea of hormonal heterosexuality.
But there was no way that I was going to look this gift horse in the mouth. She was far too interesting, no, fascinating for that.
Hey, it would be impolite to turn down a free drink. And I wouldn't want to be thought impolite. "When you put it like that how can I refuse? I'm Emily Prentiss, by the way."
"Emma Winthrop," she said. "So what brings you to a place like this? I'm guessing it's not the wares," her voice brimming with amusement.
Oh dear god no. I shuddered at the very thought. I'd seen far too many of the men here to consider it, even if I had still been under delusions of liking the opposite sex that way. "Please. A friend wanted to come here and her usual crowd cancelled at the last minute." I shrugged. "I didn't want her to be by herself." There's no way that I'd be willing to have a friend come here alone. Let alone Celia. I'd seen the statistics of places like this. But enough of such thoughts. I put them away and gave her a wry smile. "Though, when last seen, that's not going to be a problem for the rest of the night." Of course, that did lead to the question of why Emma was here. It definitely wasn't for the drinks or the music (or the quality of conversation my snark added). "You don't seem to be here for the nightlife either. So what's your story?"
Her voice was sardonic. "Reminding myself that being single is far from the worst fate that could happen to me. That and people watching."
"People watching?" It was dark and the music meant that you had to almost have your ear next to someone's mouth to hear them.
I couldn't help but notice that I wasn't exactly having a problem with that.
"While it may be too loud to actually hear what impending couples are saying to each other, I don't let that stop me putting words in their mouths. It's usually wittier and more articulate that way too."
"I see," I said in my best neutral voice. Although my inner bitch was having great difficulty not conceding that point, I had no intention of helping inflate her apparently all too healthy ego.
She apparently decided to explain the point. "Look at those two over there."
I followed her finger to a middle aged man dancing with someone who I wasn't sure was legal. She then proceeded to give me a rendition of her version of what they might be saying. Complete with actions and funny voices.
It was horrible. It was cruel. It really wasn't something that I should find at all funny.
God help me, I couldn't help but guiltily think it was hilarious.
This place really wasn't good for my general love of humanity.
And, on further consideration, I decided that I could definitely get used to her voice. Even if I wasn't willing to concede the accent.
That thought made me realise this had to stop now. I was *not* on a hunt, and, dammit, I was going to seal anything else away and just enjoy the one evening at the Factor that had the potential to not be made of total suck.
This was, of course, the point when she asked me to have a go.
I almost refused, saying that this kind of thing really wasn't me, that there was no way that I could do that. But she looked at me with those dancing blue eyes, just inviting me to participate. And then I remembered conversations with Celia where, a little the worse for wear, she insisted on blow by blow accounts of her evenings here.
Maybe I could do this after all.
A run through of a somewhat typical Celia encounter earned me a sufficiently snarky accolade that I must have achieved at least a passing grade in her eyes. Even if I did refuse to do the funny voices.
And once we'd started, there was no stopping us. I quickly realised that the effect this place had was nothing. *Emma* was going to be bad for my general opinion of humanity. Thankfully, it wasn't just wall to wall mockery, though I did have to dissuade men from coming up to speak to us periodically. (I did try to use a bit more flair than usual, and she seemed to appreciate my efforts.) She was an excellent conversationalist, though I noticed (mostly in retrospect) that we stayed away from anything of import. Not that that was precisely a problem for me - it felt like we made our own little bubble, sealed away from everything else.
I even forgot about Celia for a while. So thoroughly that I realised I had lost track of her. When I looked around, she was at the bar, nursing a drink and alone. That was definitely her 'I'm done for the evening' look. Crap. I hoped that she hadn't been waiting too long.
I looked back towards Emma. "Ah. Celia seems to have lost her partner and looks about ready to go," I said apologetically
"Thank you for the pleasure of your charming company," she said. She then pulled her cell phone out and waved it at me with a smile. "If you ever want to meet up again, here's my number."
The realisation that I *really* liked her smile came leaking out of the box, and I found myself cupping her hand with one of mine, steadying the phone. I had definitely had a little too much to drink, a fact reinforced by the certainty that I just didn't care. She really was very attractive. "There we go," I said as entered her number. Something made me add, "Now I have you."
"Bold, aren't you?" she asked teasingly, one eyebrow raised, not at all phased by my flirtation.
The encouragement was all I needed. I looked deep into her eyes and replied, "You know what they say about who fortune favours..."
"Personally, I've always found fortune a fickle bitch," she said, pulling back her hand. "At best."
Crap. I couldn't believe that I'd done that. What had I been thinking? If thinking was the word.
"I might take you up on that next time I'm in the area," I said as lightly as I could manage. A polite lie, of course. I really would prefer to forget this embarrassment. "But only if we can avoid this plague pit." I gave her a shudder. I might as well make the lie a believeable one.
"Maybe you can suggest somewhere better," she said, a slight purr entering her voice, sending me back into a state of mild confusion.
I was obviously too off my game to evaluate the situation now. That didn't stop me replying, "I know a few suitable places. Depending." Depending mostly on what I decided on in the cold light of day.
But it wasn't necessarily a 'no' anymore.
She added some extra heat to her smile. "Depending."
I touched her shoulder then moved off through the crowd towards Celia. My last thought before I got embroiled in the latest drama was that, if we did meet up again, I'd decided that she could keep the accent.
Note: The flashback is from the beginning of Part 1 of Faces