Falling part 6
Title: Falling (part 6)
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
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
"And you know what she said when I asked her how it went with that guy? She said: 'What guy?' Completely deadpan. Wouldn't give anything away."
I am in hell. There had obviously been a traffic accident on the way here. I had been killed and I am now in hell.
The only consolation I currently have is that Morgan probably has no idea quite how nightmarish I'm finding this. The crossing of boundaries between personal and professional is excruciating enough at the best of times, without Emma being here as well.
She shoots me a look, then smirks a little. "What *guy*, huh?" When that doesn't get a reaction, she adds "Honestly, I'm feeling distinctly insulted, darling."
That forces a laugh from me. "Well, I did tell Morgan it was a hypothetical question. It's not my fault if he drew certain conclusions." I take a sip of my drink and, thus fortified, I smirk back at her. "Besides, there's no way it could involve you. I mean, surely you'd never admit to being at such a declasse place, would you?"
Emma forbears to reply, so I count that as a win, and suddenly I'm feeling a little better. Now to get my revenge on the miscreant himself.
"But let's not make this evening about me," I purr. "After all, there's so much that I can tell you about Morgan, Emma."
Morgan has the sense to look mildly unnerved as Emma turns back towards him.
When you swim with sharks, Morgan...
"Really? Do tell." The smile on Emma's face is nothing short of predatory as she leans forward, expectantly.
Of course I oblige. After all, as I'm sure Morgan would ordinarily be the first to agree: turnabout is fair play.
"That isn't how it was at all," Morgan protests.
I smile sweetly at him. "Oh? Are you saying my facts are inaccurate?"
"Well..." He really wants to say yes, but he can't. Not honestly. Not where there are people present who might correct him, anyway. Instead, he compromises with: "You're giving entirely the wrong impression." He appeals to Emma, as if there's mercy to be had from that quarter. "That isn't me at all. Scout's honour."
"Were you a scout?" I ask, interestedly.
He shoots me a cautious glance. "Maybe."
Emma has that look on her face, like she's about to say something salacious, probably something about Morgan in shorts. Or how scouts are supposed to be ready for anything. Unfortunately, Garcia picks this moment to derail -- I mean, join -- the conversation. I suppose it was only a matter of time before she took pity on her main man.
"I bet you looked so *cute* in your little uniform." Or not. Garcia and I share a smirk. Emma rolls her eyes and forebears to comment. Well, I guess Garcia's interjection is a rescue after all. Of a sort, anyway.
"Are there pictures?" I wonder.
"I bet I could find 'em!" Garcia makes as if to pull out her laptop.
Morgan snorts. "Like I'd let anything like *that* get online. If it existed in the first place. Which it doesn't."
"Darn." Garcia pouts for a moment or two, then brightens. "I bet your mom would tell me. In fact, if I asked nicely, I bet she'd even send a few of them over. Y'know, for Morgan's bestest BAU buddies."
"Good idea." I let my amused smile shade towards evil. I don't *think* Garcia would go so far as to call Morgan's mother but, well, you never know. She did dig up that godawful goth picture of mine, after all.
Morgan sighs deeply, resting his head on his hands and looking up at Garcia with soulful eyes. "Really, Baby-Girl? You'd drag my mother into Prentiss' vendetta? My own mother? Seriously?"
I resist the urge to say, mulishly: 'he started it'. Instead I just roll my eyes at the way he's hamming it up, leaving it up to Garcia to respond.
"Awww, Morgan." She thwacks him lightly on one arm. "You know I can't resist the puppy-dog eyes."
"Does that mean you're going to drop this?"
I idly wonder what proportion of Morgan's conquests said yes on the strength of those eyes. They're very expressive, when he wants them to be. I know before Garcia's sigh that he's managed to prevent -- or at least postpone -- the Doom of the Childhood Photos.
"For now," she grouses, holding the glower for all of one second before the dimples break out again. "But you have to stop hogging Emily and Emma!"
"You got it, Dollface." He shows the palms of his hands in mock-surrender.
"I wasn't aware that I was a commodity to be hoarded," Emma observes lightly.
"Of course you are!" Emma is treated to the full force of the Garcia smile. "It's so fantastic to actually meet one of Emily's, ah, friends. She never tells us *anything* about her life outside the BAU. Apart from her mother, I think you're the only person *not* connected to her work life I've ever met. And I only met her mother because of a case!"
"Emily is a very private person," Emma observes, her tone drier than the desert. I can't help a flash of relief at her response. She does take offense at the darndest things sometimes, and I want... Dammit, I want my colleagues to like her, and vice-versa. I want this to go well.
Even if that means suffering through a few more jokes at my expense.
"You can say that again!" Garcia's enthusiastic agreement draws an amused smile from Emma. And Morgan. And Reid. And... Well, let's face it, this end of the table *is* tonight's entertainment. "If I wasn't the doyenne of data, we wouldn't even know her *birthday*."
"When is that again?" Emma slips the question in so casually she almost gets away with it, Garcia innocently starting to answer her.
"That's cheating, Emma!"
Oh, great. Now they're all looking at me. Damn their eyes.
Her royal smugness favours me with one of *those* smiles. "Oh? I think not. The terms of the bet don't forbid me from asking questions."
"But..." I bite off my words before I can finish the rest of that sentence. When we made that stupid bet, I wasn't expecting to be introducing her to my work colleagues.
Morgan raises his eyebrows at both of us. "You made a bet about Emily's birthday?" His tone invites further explanation.
"She wouldn't tell me when it is," Emma pouts. "Even though I asked *ever* so nicely." Against my will, an unseen shiver runs through me, my traitor flesh remembering all too well where that expression, that tone of voice tends to lead with us. No, dammit, this isn't the time or the place. As I struggle to fend off this out of context problem, the agent of it is still speaking. "I said I'd find out for myself; she said I wouldn't be able to." A languid shrug. "And so: a bet."
"So... What are the terms?" Reid leans forward, interested. Not surprising for a Vegas kid, I suppose.
Apparently deciding to indulge his curiosity, Emma favours him with a smile. "I have to find out her full birthdate by the end of the month. I can't go through her diary or calendar and I can't ask her mother. I'm also not allowed to trick or persuade her into telling me herself. Which I think is rather unfair, but what's a girl to do?"
"That's it?"
"That's it, darling. There's nothing there forbidding me from asking *friends*, or from telling them about the bet."
An oversight on my part, I admit. I suppose I was rather distracted at the time. Not that I'd admit that to *her*, and certainly not in the present company.
Morgan laughs. "Sounds like she's got you dead to rights, Prentiss."
I muster up a rueful smile. "It certainly looks that way."
"So...." Emma drawls the word, drawing it out until everyone is looking at her. When she has their attention, she favours them with a brilliant smile. "When was Emily Prentiss born?"
Everyone draws breath to answer her question -- gee, thanks guys -- but, surprisingly, Hotch is the one who speaks first. I hadn't even realised he was paying attention. He, Rossi and JJ had looked like they were deep in conversation about something-or-other; almost certainly work-related. I suppose I should have known better: Hotch *always* pays attention.
"Thank you, Agent Hotchner."
"You're welcome." His eyes crinkle a little at the corners, no doubt in amusement at my expense. "And please call me Hotch. Everyone does."
Yeah, thanks a lot, Hotch. Thanks for nothing. Still, I can't really complain about Emma taking advantage of an opportunity I never predicted, no matter how much a part of me would like to. She did play by the rules I set, after all. So I yield with reasonably good grace when Emma repeats the date back to me, giving her a mock salute in honour of her victory.
"Looks like you win the bet," I proclaim. And if my tone is a little dry, well, I don't think anyone would blame me. Least of all her.
"I knew I would."
Why does that not surprise me.
"So, what do you win?" Morgan wants to know.
The flick of her eyes in my direction is almost imperceptible, but I know it's not accidental. I'm fairly certain my colleagues see it, leaving me to wonder what they think it means. Her expression, however, is utterly demure.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly discuss the details of a negotiation in progress, darling. That would be unprofessional."
Even as part of me curses the infernal woman, I can't help but give her a small smile. Emma returns it -- not a smirk, just a smile -- and for the first time since we entered the restaurant, I start to think we might actually pull this off.
"Awwww!" The noise Garcia makes is so high-pitched that I half-expect the wine glasses to shatter. "You guys make *such* a cute couple."
Emma's smile disappears. "We're *not* a couple."
Uh oh.
I can almost hear my colleagues start to profile *that* statement. It's nothing obvious, but I sneak a peek at Emma anyway. She can be uncannily perceptive at times, usually the most inconvenient ones. From the look in her eyes, this is one of those occasions. The smile is back, but this time it's fake, brittle.
If the profilers on the team had but one face, I'd be *so* tempted to slap it just at this moment.
I need to head this off *now*.
I turn to Garcia, shaking my head, forcing my tone to lightness and keeping the smile in place with an effort. "You *always* seem quick to jump to conclusions about me and coupledom. I remember how you reacted that day last week when I was late to the office." I use the only bait I have to hand: myself.
Let's face it, as far as this group is concerned, any points they can score off me are worth far more in the Game than any they can score off a friend, however close we might be.
"But you did look like you were walking on air..."
I note with relief that my colleagues are starting to focus on me again, the prospect of juicy gossip about such out of character behaviour luring them away from Emma. I sense, rather than see, her start to relax besides me.
I've done it. She's safe.
Now if only someone would save me...
* * *
I was more or less at the F.B.I. parking lot before the euphoria from waking up with Emma, not to mention the night before, faded. I very carefully brought the car to a stop and then gripped the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles went white.
What the hell had I been thinking?
The only answer I could come up with was that I hadn't been. At all.
I briefly considered having a quick meltdown here in the lot. Upon further consideration, it probably wouldn't look good on my yearly appraisal. Besides, I was late enough for work as it was.
Maybe the paperwork from our last case would distract me. It had to be good for something beyond deforestation and carbon capture.
The hell of it was, I found myself thinking as I waited for the elevator, that on the face of it, having sex with Emma last night hadn't actually been that bad an idea. By sex I did of course mean fucking her, I clarified as the door slid open and I stepped inside. After all, for me sex was a release of tension, both physical and emotional. The emotional part, of course, being the most important.
No, last night's exercise was a success. There had just been... complications.
All her protestations aside, things between us seemed to be veering dangerously close to relationship territory. I knew what that meant, and I didn't want to go there.
I carved into myself jagged reminders of what that kind of entanglement meant. What the last one had meant.
That alone should be enough for anyone, but I found myself continuing anyway, chewing over what had happened afterwards.
What had happened, of course, was that I hadn't taken into account how damn good Emma was at sex. Of course she'd want to reciprocate. And I should have known how vulnerable that would leave me.
Not that I'd been in this position for a good long time. Nowhere near *this* careless.
And, after *that*, literally sleeping with her seemed almost excusable.
There was a ping and here I was at my floor. Marvellous.
I looked around cautiously. No one *seemed* to be paying me any more attention than usual. Maybe my lateness had gone unnoticed, just chalked up to the fact that we'd gotten back a little later than usual after closing the case.
Or maybe they thought that after what had happened, me being a little late was entirely excusable. Generally I didn't like to give the impression that *anything* could phase me, but, at the moment, I'd take what I could get.
People are so much easier to deceive if they think they already know the truth. It can be a little harder with profilers, but all that means is that we tend to play the percentages and look for the things that don't fit.
In some ways, it can be even easier to lie to us if you know what the percentages are ahead of time.
At this point I realised that I'd logged onto my computer and had started moving towards the coffee machine on instinct. I gave an internal shrug and kept on moving. It's always best not to do anything unusual like, say, stop mid-meander and go back to my desk. Anyway, a little more coffee surely couldn't hurt.
"Good morning," came Garcia's dulcet tones, breaking through the fog of my introspection. She had, apparently, also made the trek to the great provider of caffeine and was standing there, cup in hand.
I mustered up a smile, my mind still on the problem of Emma, wheels spinning, trying to avoid the elephant in the room.
"Morning," I replied.
"Hey, you're in late today," she trilled, smiling at me.
And, like that, I was unable to avoid the subject of what I'd done this morning, what I'd said.
*Where* I had invited Emma.
Oh god.
What *had* I been thinking?
"Yeah," I agreed, doing my best to show nothing of what was going through my mind. I just kept the smile, the mask, on my face.
Garcia put down the carafe and clapped her hands to her cheeks, eyes widening. "Oh. My. God! Emz, did you have a good time last night?"
Maybe I had overdone the smile a little.
Still - "I guess you could call it that," I said, my smile starting to feel a bit more natural. Because it had been, truly. Weirdly.
It didn't stop my hand from itching, from wanting to pick up my phone and cancel tonight's plans. And any other plans we might make in the immediate future. Maybe just take a break from each other for a while.
Until I just felt like me again, until my world started making sense again.
I had opened up to her way, way too far, and now I was feeling raw, exposed and like I wanted to hide.
Nothing good had ever come of leaving myself as vulnerable as this.
"Wow, I don't think I've ever seen you like this," Garcia said wonderingly, as she searched my face. My heart almost stopped before I registered her tone and realised that she really didn't know what was going through my mind. "Is it serious? Who is he?" she asked, then continued without allowing me to answer. "No, don't tell me. Tall, dark and handsome?"
"Not exactly," I answered honestly. Did I really want to just break things off now?
But who could I ask? I knew what Celia would say already. And I couldn't open up to anyone here.
It didn't feel like I had nearly enough time before this evening would arrive, before I'd have to make a decision.
"Do I know him?"
"I don't think so. It's not someone I met through work."
Why the hell had I invited her to my apartment? And why did she have to look so pleased at the prospect?
It would be a lot easier if I didn't have to risk disappointing her. Especially after last night.
And that just led me round in a circle.
"Um, I think you might want to stop pouring any moment now." Garcia's words registered just as the coffee overflowed from the mug I'd been filling, unseeing, spilling over the countertop and cascading onto the floor.
"Shit!" I scalded my hand as I tried to prevent further disaster, flailing around in search of something to wipe up the steadily spreading pool. Garcia, evidently taking pity on me, handed me a wad of paper towels and started mopping up the mess on the counter-top. "Thanks," I muttered, bending to deal with the small lake of coffee on the floor. Well, maybe 'lake' was an exaggeration. It was a puddle at best, and not a particularly large one. Fortunately, it didn't take that long to clean up.
Dumping the sodden paper towels in the bin, I turned around to find Garcia staring at me, wide-eyed. Her eyebrows were raised so high that they practically merged with her hair. She pointed at me with one fuschia-tipped finger.
"Agent Emily Prentiss," she said in a tone that was equal parts shock, horror and admiration. "Is that a *hickey* on your neck?"
I glanced down. My shirt collar had gotten a little askew during all the bending and mopping, revealing a neat little bruise at the base of my neck. If you looked close enough, there were probably neat little teeth marks, too.
Emma did like to bite.
I thought briefly, idly, of trying to trace Emma through her dental records, but the phantom sensation of teeth on my skin distracted me. Oh, treacherous flesh... It took some effort to drag my mind back to my current situation.
I tugged the neckline of my shirt back into place, and did my best to recover my elusive composure. My cheeks felt hot -- I only hoped they weren't flushed -- and it wasn't just from embarrassment.
I essayed a smirk in Garcia's direction. "Is *that* what you think it is?"
I had no idea what I was suggesting. And, from the looks of it, neither did she. Excellent. Distraction as planned.
I smoothly cut in as she was opening her mouth."I *could* tell you, but I'd hate to corrupt such an innocent little flower as yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must put on another pot of coffee."
Suiting the action to the words, I turned away and started fussing with the coffee machine. The sound of spluttering from behind me almost made up for me not being able to see the expression on Garcia's face.
"I'm not *that* innocent," she muttered.
I half-turned back to her, one eyebrow quirked enquiringly. "Oh? Now, *that* sounds like a story." Did she have a thought about what else it could be? I was always open to new ideas.
"Well, it isn't!" She glowered at me, starting to say something else.
I overrode her with: "Maybe I should talk to Kevin..."
"Don't you dare!" She wagged her finger at me. "And stop trying to change the subject! We were talking about you, not me!"
I would have continued winding her up, but she looked thoughtful again, studying my face intently. "You look happy," she said softly, a small smile quirking her lips.
I didn't quite know what to say to that. Was I happy? I'd thought I was, this morning. I'd been walking on air, this morning.
But now?
"Are you saying that I usually look miserable?" I replied, smiling at Garcia to make it clear I was only joking.
"No, but you don't usually look like this." She waved a hand vaguely in my general direction. "Whoever your mystery man is, he's obviously good for you." She hesitated a moment, then ploughed on, looking like she already knew the answer to her next question. "Any chance I can meet him?"
I liked Garcia. I really did. In many ways, she was the person I was probably closest to here nowadays. But...
"No, sorry" I replied equally softly, giving her an apologetic smile to soften the refusal. "You know what I'm like regarding home and work."
She looked disappointed for just a second, before grinning widely and hugging me hard. I managed to avoid stiffening just in time. I hated physical contact, but for her, just this once, I'd make an exception.
"Best of luck, Emz," she said, normal volume once again. "I guess I'll leave you to your coffee. You probably need it after your heavy night." With a waggle of her eyebrows and a cheery wave, she headed back to her lair.
Sadly, tonight was likely to be heavier.
I poured myself some coffee and took a sip, barely tasting it as I fought my panic down. It didn't belong here, not in this office. And, maybe, once it was in its box, I could think about this logically.
I walked slowly back to my desk, greeting people as I neared them or made eye contact, taking the hits as they made jokes at my expense. The jibes didn't matter. Even if they hadn't been friendly, they were sufficiently wide of the mark that they wouldn't cause anything more than a mild sting. What was important was the ritual. With every greeting and every response, I forced myself into a more normal mode of thought, locked the panic into an ever smaller box.
By the time I was back at my desk, I was feeling something that vaguely resembled normality. At least compared to the state in which I'd entered the building.
Time to think about this logically. Because, heaven knew, I'd been doing precious little of *that* lately.
Did I *want* to break things off with Emma? To walk away and never see her again? Or, best case scenario, to let our relationship (I couldn't help an internal wince at the term) turn into the kind of friendship I had with Eileen? Light, fluffy and, more importantly, nonthreatening.
My body moved on autopilot, sipping coffee, tapping keys, making sure that I looked busy as I worked through my current problem. I supposed I should feel guilty at devoting the processing power normally earmarked for work to personal stuff, but this was too important. Besides, I reasoned, I needed to sort this out now -- at least in my own mind -- if I was going to be at all productive for the rest of the day. Emma... unbalanced me, my carefully built walls slipping and sliding, letting things leak through the edges.
How could I rebuild them when I couldn't make myself decide where to draw the boundaries?
I thought about how she made me feel. I thought about the risks; the many ways in which things could go horribly, disastrously wrong. I thought about what at least a part of me had apparently decided when I invited her round to my home; my sanctuary.
And I thought that for better, for worse, I was already committed. I was already in freefall, and the best way to guarantee that I'd be hurt would be to have second thoughts now.
So. The invitation would stand. Tonight, Emma was going to visit me in my apartment. Unless she had second thoughts of her own, which would tell me something in and of itself.
I smiled inwardly, wryly, as I realised that, for all my metaphorical hand-wringing, I'd just effectively decided to do nothing. At least for the time being. I'd just let events proceed on their existing course, and re-evaluate when I had more information. In other words, 'wait and see'.
And, despite the residue of my internal yammering, I was surprisingly comfortable with that.
After all, however it turned out in the end, it could hardly be worse than what happened with Amanda.
As the tension left my body, I looked up to see Garcia smiling in my direction. I could practically hear the soundtrack playing in her head as she doubtless imagined me lost in a romantic haze. Imagined me to be in love.
I hid a smile of my own, and got back to work.
Author's Note: The flashback takes place between part 5 (The Art of Shopping) and part 6 (Resonances) of Faces.
Given the recent problems with LJ, it's worth nothing that I also post these stories to Archive of Our Own. (Also to Dreamwidth, but I'm not so good about updating that.)