Fic: Post-Modern: A Play in Five Acts (Act Five: Emily) (Criminal Minds, Rossi/Prentiss, FRAO)
Title: Post-Modern: A Play in Five Acts (5/5) - Act Five: Emily
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Spoilers/Warnings: Through Demonology.
Summary: Four times David Rossi made a mistake and the one time he managed to fix it.
Notes: Blame smittywing. I'm not sure where this came from, but she encouraged me that it was not a terrible idea. And then she helped make it work.
---
"The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows he cannot say to her, I love you madly, because he knows that she knows (and that she knows that he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say, As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly."
- Umberto Eco
---
Act One: Camille
Act Two: Angela
Act Three: Erin
Act Four: Maria Elena
Act Five: Emily
Emily's sitting on the couch and she's clearly waiting. There's no book in her hands, no music on the stereo - she doesn't even have her feet on the sofa. He guesses it's a good sign, but he's not sure. He's not actually sure about anything, least of all whether this has all been a really bad idea.
He sets his bag on the floor. She's still watching him. "Hi," Dave says eventually. "How was Rio?"
Emily stands slowly and walks over. He says nothing, because the few times Prentiss remembers that she knows how to do inscrutable, even her mother couldn't read her. She doesn't stop till she's well within his personal space, and when she does, she lifts her head to study his face so carefully that he has to look away. That's when she says, "You're such an idiot," and pulls him in close. It's like something cracks, then - Dave wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair and hanging on like she'll slip away if he lets go.
His chest feels tight, like it's going to burst, but Emily just wraps her arms around him and stays put. Eventually he realizes her head's buried in his shoulder and he's a little concerned about her ability to breathe, so he convinces himself it's okay to relax a little and pulls back, holding her by the shoulders. Emily straightens as well; when he looks at her, her eyes are warm and she seems quieter, somehow, than she has in weeks.
"Miss me?" he asks, aiming for a grin, but it comes out as something far different.
It doesn't escape Emily - she frowns briefly - but in the end she quirks a grin and says, "I'm pretty sure that Tulsa has been introduced to the wonders of the telephone. You could've called."
That, Dave thinks, is true in the generalities, but wrong in every way that actually counts. He doesn't know how to tell her that he wasn't actually sure what he was coming back to, or that she'd want to talk to him, since the words seem to be stuck in his throat. So all he says is "Thank you," relieved when it's clear that she understands what he means.
"We baked bread," Emily says, apropos of nothing. "I showed up on her doorstep and she set me to work kneading."
Dave considers. "Sounds about right. Last time I was there, she corralled Joe and me into clearing the gutters. I think I got the short straw."
Emily grins at him and he can't help it, he palms the back of her neck with one hand, cups her jaw with the other, his thumb tracing the corner of her smile.
"Prentiss - Emily. I -" He wants to reassure her, wants to explain, but he's not actually sure what he's struggling with.
She takes pity on him. "Lena's -" Prentiss pauses, looking for words. "She's something else."
He smiles. "Yeah. She is." He runs his fingers through the hair at her temple - he can't seem to stop touching her, and she doesn't seem to mind. "But she's - we're -" he huffs out a breath in frustration. "She's where she's supposed to be," he finishes, which is as near as he can come to what he actually means.
Emily's eyes are just a little bright; she blinks once - twice - and swallows. He can actually feel the blush in her cheek against his palm. "Funny," she murmurs, "So'm I." And that, Dave thinks, is the thing he needed to hear most, even if he didn't know it when he walked in the door.
He brushes a strand of hair back behind her ear and watches her eyes flutter shut as he leans in, until he has to close his own. She lifts her head, just a little, just enough, and he meets her halfway, simple and quiet, just the brush of his lips over hers, remembering the taste and feel of her mouth on his. He takes his time, savoring, listening to the hitch in her breathing, until he's kind of crazy for more, until he doesn't have a choice but to coax her to let him in. Not that it takes much coaxing. Emily's got one hand fisted in his shirt, the other fidgets with the button on his shirt until it slips open. She slides her hand in, warm against his skin, and that's when Dave forgets that his goal is to tell her how thankful he is, and just lets himself take.
Tongues, lips, teeth, it's all fair game - he needs her like air, like water, and he can't get enough. He should be careful, should go quietly, he knows, because this is fragile and surprising, for all it shouldn't be. The thing is, he realizes, letting his hands slide along her torso, down to her ass, swallowing her moan as he snugs her up against him - the thing is that she's with him all the way, giving everything before he can take it, and it only makes him ask for more.
He kisses her mouth, her cheek, the hollow of her jaw and the spot behind her ear that makes her curse and grab his shoulders. He wants every square inch of her, he thinks, running his hands down her sides, relishing the curve of her hips and the way she arcs against him when he drops his head and kisses the spot where her shoulder meets her neck, hard. Dave brushes his hands over her breasts and feels her shiver, and then decides they're wearing way too much clothing.
He tugs at her shirt, something soft and cotton and really in his way right now, and when she's slow to get the message her just slides his hands under the edge, all that silky skin under his palms, and pulls the damn thing up and over her head. It surprises her, making her yelp, and then there's a confusing minute involving sleeves and arms and the long cloud of her hair. He has no idea where the shirt ends up, because when she finally struggles free and looks up at him, laughing, dark hair and pale skin and just Prentiss, David Rossi has no spare attention for anything else.
Dave ought to feel a little guilty, he thinks, tracing the line of her collarbone, murmuring her name into her ear as he kisses her temple and rubs his cheek against her hair. He ought to take more time with this, ought to slow down, try to let his hands explain what his mouth can't seem to say. He ought to, but he can't seem to - and Emily doesn't seem to mind, because her mouth is hot on his skin and her hands have been busy unbuttoning his shirt. She shoves it off his shoulders and swears at the cuffs, and he gets tangled in the fabric as he pulls shirt and t-shirt off. She's popping the button of his fly when he finally frees himself and it's like he's a damn kid, the way the brush of her knuckles against his abs makes his hips jerk forward.
She laughs again, but it's low and dirty and there is just no way that they are making it upstairs, because now, now, now is becoming the imperative. Prentiss runs her thumbs over his nipples - bends her head and takes one into her mouth, nipping very, very, gently. He exhales on a hiss and she pulls back to laugh again, which makes payback mission-critical. He spins her around, hands on her hips till she finds her balance, and unhooks the clasp of her bra, admiring the lines and curves of her back, reaching out and tracing the arch of her spine. She shivers, and it's his turn to laugh. Then he slides the straps off of her shoulders and down her arms, till she shakes the thing off to puddle at her feet.
Dave loops his fingers through her belt-loops and pulls her back against him, her back to his front, their hips tight enough together that focus is kind of a struggle for a minute. He smooths a hand along the line of her jeans and drops his head to rest on her shoulder, before he lets himself fill his hands with her breasts. She leans back into him, letting him take her weight, and he lets himself take his time.
"Emily," he mutters, only half-aware he's speaking out loud. "Prentiss -" She turns in his grasp, leaning in and pressing close. He wraps his arms low around her waist, slipping a hand down under her jeans and palming her ass, grinning when she gasps.
Prentiss shifts to her tiptoes, her breath shivering against his neck. "Fuck me." she murmurs, barely more than a whisper, so low that he has to hold his breath to hear her. "Rossi. Fuck me."
Dave hadn't actually thought he could get any more turned on, but today is setting new records. "Jesus, Emily," he groans, but she eels out of his arms, taking a step back - two steps.
She kicks off her shoes, steps on the toe of one sock and tugs her foot free, then repeats. Her hands settle on the waistband of her jeans. "I want you," she says slowly, "to fuck me." She pops the button on her fly and tugs the zipper down slowly. "Here. Now. And if you stop to check the locks, I will kill you myself."
Clothes, Dave thinks, as Prentiss takes another step back and shimmies her jeans down till they're just barely clinging to her hips. He is still wearing way too many clothes. He fumbles with shoes and socks and has just started to shuck off his jeans when Emily lets her jeans fall - and then steps out of her underwear.
She's gorgeous, light and dark and long, long legs, and he knows his stare is greedy, but he can't seem to care. She flushes under his gaze, but he's pretty sure it's not embarrassment, because she meets his eyes without hesitation. When she raises a hand to her breast and rolls her nipple between her fingers, he's positive. "Dave," she says, sex on legs personified. "Naked. Now."
He is in no way dumb enough to ignore that command. The next few moments are kind of blur, but then he's laying down on the carpet, coffee table shoved somewhere best defined as "out of their way," pulling Prentiss down with him and getting her back under his hands. He feels like a damn kid, wound so tight he can't think straight, rolling around on the floor with his best girl. Dave can't help it - he drops his head to her chest and laughs against her skin, laughing harder as the vibrations make her arch.
She's chuckling too - at him or with him or more likely both, knowing Prentiss. Dave slips a hand down and finds she's wet - slick, really. He's kind of past the point of finesse, not that she seems to be complaining. He slips two fingers in - not hard, not fast, just taking his time, feeling her around him and trying not to rush. He slides them back slowly, pressing up gently as he passes over her G-spot, and Prentiss moans, needy, a sound that comes from deep down and goes straight to his cock. "Yes," she groans. "That, yes. Dave," she orders, as her hips move restlessly, "touch me - touch my clit." He obliges, and she practically sobs, pushing into the pressure.
"Please," she says, and he watches her haul in a breath as she wraps a hand around his shoulder. He palms her hip, brushing a circle with the pad of her thumb. She shudders, a whole body quiver, legs moving restlessly against the carpet. "Please," she says, tilting her head back, exposing the clean line of her throat. "Please, now." Her eyes are wide when she looks up at him. "I've been thinking about you all weekend and - now, Dave. I need you. Inside me. Now." She looks like she's fighting for words, and he understands the problem.
"Condom," he manages to say, wrenching his brain back to the only critical issue. "In my jeans," he says, and starts to pull away, which might actually kill him.
Prentiss's nails bite into his skin as she holds him still. "In the drawer," she grits out. Her free hand slides down between her legs and does something very, very right, because she freezes. "Now, Dave. Now."
He reaches, flailing for the drawer handle, managing not to dump the contents on their heads only by sheer dumb luck. He doesn't know how or when the condoms got there; he doesn't really care. Dave fumbles the foil packet; Emily lets go long enough to tear it open and roll it on him. He doesn't realize his eyes are closed until her hand brushes his cheek. "Dave," she says softly, and he turns his head to kiss her fingertips.
"Yeah," he answers, and shifts to cover her, settling between her legs. She wriggles, and he adjusts and then it's just one slow, sweet push. They're both breathing hard. He slips his arms under her, resting on his elbows; she cants her hips and he drops his head to kiss her. "Emily," he whispers against her mouth, and feels her smile.
"Dave," she says, voice a little hoarse, and leans up the fraction of an inch she needs to kiss him. "You're an idiot." Her hand riffles the hair at the nape of his neck. "I'm not walking," she says. "I'm not." She lifts her hips and wraps her legs around him, and Dave tells himself that's why he closes his eyes as he starts to move.
Her nails bite into his back and she groans his name. "Yes," she chants, "yes, please - this, yes." She leans up and kisses him. "God. You feel so good." She's clinging to him, her body keeping rhythm with his, and there's nothing else he can think of except the way she feels, tangled up with him, under him, around him. "Emily," he says, because all he can seem to remember is her name. She's taut, tense - he thinks she's close, and manages to pull himself together enough to change the angle just that little bit. Beneath him, she rises up hard, and he feels her tighten around him before her orgasm hits and pulls him over just behind her.
When he's thinking clearly, a few minutes too many later, he pulls out carefully and rolls to his back, taking her with him. She's practically boneless, one arm flung over his chest, her head in the crook of his shoulder. "We should move," he says, running his hand over her shoulder, because he can.
"Later," she mumbles.
"Later's good," he agrees, content. He reaches over blindly and manages to snag the edge of the blanket on the couch, finagling it over them. He's not actually tired, he realizes, just mellow, just coasting. He's not sure Emily's awake, and for a while he's content to run his fingers through the ends of her hair. Eventually Emily shifts with a soft sigh, curling tighter against him.
"Thanks," he says.
She's quiet for a long time; he's not actually sure she heard him until she finally says, "You realize you're setting a new standard for thank yous, right?" He laughs, and she presses a kiss to his chest. "I - we - I'm not good at this." He can't see her face, which might actually be making this easier. "I'm not good at surprises. And Strauss was a big one."
"I know," he answers. He tugs the blanket up over her shoulder, glances down at the top of her head, stares at the ceiling. "I know," he says again, and hopes she hears what he really means, which is some combination of I know and I'm sorry.
Prentiss manuevers herself up onto her elbow and just looks at him for a moment. She reaches out and brushes his cheek with a finger. He's waiting for something - he's not really sure what - but all she says is, "Come on. I have carpet burn on my ass. If you're lucky, I'll let you make it up to me."
He catches her hand and she stills. "I'm sorry," he says, letting go.
"I know," she answers, watching him quietly. "It's - it's not okay about Strauss, not exactly. I think - you were on a case," she says abruptly, and bites her lip. "I can't - that's not something I think can do."
"Emily," he starts to say, but she puts her fingers over his lips.
"I know," she repeats. "It was different. You were different - although not that different," she says, raising an eyebrow, and he wonders what, exactly, she and Lena talked about on Saturday. "But I - we -" she stops short, tries again. "It bothers me," she manages. "It bothers me that there's something of you she had that I can't."
Dave breathes in, lets it out slowly. "Prentiss. Emily. I'm pretty sure whatever Strauss got, you don't want."
"You're wrong," she says bluntly, and when he looks at her, there's nothing there but plain, unvarnished truth. It feels like a sucker punch to the gut.
Emily traces a line over his collarbone. "You're wrong," she repeats, a little more gently. "You're allowed to be human. You are, you know," she says, poking him in the side. "Popular opinion to the contrary." He laughs, and she grins back, then sobers. "And I'm allowed to be greedy. For all of it." She's blushing, just barely. "Even when you're being an idiot."
Dave's not actually sure he knows how to breathe. She smiles down at him, and there's something on her face that makes him think of Lena, and the way things could've been if they hadn't screwed it up. Maybe, he thinks unexpectedly, this time is different.
"Come on," Emily says again, brushing her thumb over his lips and hauling herself to her feet.
He follows, tossing the blanket on the couch before he reaches for her hand. She's still smiling when he brings it to his lips and salutes it carefully, looking for all the small, unexpected spots that make her eyes go heavy-lidded and dark. He lets go, only to tug her toward him, and she curves around him like she's meant to be there. "Emily," he murmurs as he leans in to kiss her.
"Dave," she breathes back. "I know." And that, he thinks, might actually be enough.
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Spoilers/Warnings: Through Demonology.
Summary: Four times David Rossi made a mistake and the one time he managed to fix it.
Notes: Blame smittywing. I'm not sure where this came from, but she encouraged me that it was not a terrible idea. And then she helped make it work.
---
"The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows he cannot say to her, I love you madly, because he knows that she knows (and that she knows that he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say, As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly."
- Umberto Eco
---
Act One: Camille
Act Two: Angela
Act Three: Erin
Act Four: Maria Elena
Act Five: Emily
Emily's sitting on the couch and she's clearly waiting. There's no book in her hands, no music on the stereo - she doesn't even have her feet on the sofa. He guesses it's a good sign, but he's not sure. He's not actually sure about anything, least of all whether this has all been a really bad idea.
He sets his bag on the floor. She's still watching him. "Hi," Dave says eventually. "How was Rio?"
Emily stands slowly and walks over. He says nothing, because the few times Prentiss remembers that she knows how to do inscrutable, even her mother couldn't read her. She doesn't stop till she's well within his personal space, and when she does, she lifts her head to study his face so carefully that he has to look away. That's when she says, "You're such an idiot," and pulls him in close. It's like something cracks, then - Dave wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair and hanging on like she'll slip away if he lets go.
His chest feels tight, like it's going to burst, but Emily just wraps her arms around him and stays put. Eventually he realizes her head's buried in his shoulder and he's a little concerned about her ability to breathe, so he convinces himself it's okay to relax a little and pulls back, holding her by the shoulders. Emily straightens as well; when he looks at her, her eyes are warm and she seems quieter, somehow, than she has in weeks.
"Miss me?" he asks, aiming for a grin, but it comes out as something far different.
It doesn't escape Emily - she frowns briefly - but in the end she quirks a grin and says, "I'm pretty sure that Tulsa has been introduced to the wonders of the telephone. You could've called."
That, Dave thinks, is true in the generalities, but wrong in every way that actually counts. He doesn't know how to tell her that he wasn't actually sure what he was coming back to, or that she'd want to talk to him, since the words seem to be stuck in his throat. So all he says is "Thank you," relieved when it's clear that she understands what he means.
"We baked bread," Emily says, apropos of nothing. "I showed up on her doorstep and she set me to work kneading."
Dave considers. "Sounds about right. Last time I was there, she corralled Joe and me into clearing the gutters. I think I got the short straw."
Emily grins at him and he can't help it, he palms the back of her neck with one hand, cups her jaw with the other, his thumb tracing the corner of her smile.
"Prentiss - Emily. I -" He wants to reassure her, wants to explain, but he's not actually sure what he's struggling with.
She takes pity on him. "Lena's -" Prentiss pauses, looking for words. "She's something else."
He smiles. "Yeah. She is." He runs his fingers through the hair at her temple - he can't seem to stop touching her, and she doesn't seem to mind. "But she's - we're -" he huffs out a breath in frustration. "She's where she's supposed to be," he finishes, which is as near as he can come to what he actually means.
Emily's eyes are just a little bright; she blinks once - twice - and swallows. He can actually feel the blush in her cheek against his palm. "Funny," she murmurs, "So'm I." And that, Dave thinks, is the thing he needed to hear most, even if he didn't know it when he walked in the door.
He brushes a strand of hair back behind her ear and watches her eyes flutter shut as he leans in, until he has to close his own. She lifts her head, just a little, just enough, and he meets her halfway, simple and quiet, just the brush of his lips over hers, remembering the taste and feel of her mouth on his. He takes his time, savoring, listening to the hitch in her breathing, until he's kind of crazy for more, until he doesn't have a choice but to coax her to let him in. Not that it takes much coaxing. Emily's got one hand fisted in his shirt, the other fidgets with the button on his shirt until it slips open. She slides her hand in, warm against his skin, and that's when Dave forgets that his goal is to tell her how thankful he is, and just lets himself take.
Tongues, lips, teeth, it's all fair game - he needs her like air, like water, and he can't get enough. He should be careful, should go quietly, he knows, because this is fragile and surprising, for all it shouldn't be. The thing is, he realizes, letting his hands slide along her torso, down to her ass, swallowing her moan as he snugs her up against him - the thing is that she's with him all the way, giving everything before he can take it, and it only makes him ask for more.
He kisses her mouth, her cheek, the hollow of her jaw and the spot behind her ear that makes her curse and grab his shoulders. He wants every square inch of her, he thinks, running his hands down her sides, relishing the curve of her hips and the way she arcs against him when he drops his head and kisses the spot where her shoulder meets her neck, hard. Dave brushes his hands over her breasts and feels her shiver, and then decides they're wearing way too much clothing.
He tugs at her shirt, something soft and cotton and really in his way right now, and when she's slow to get the message her just slides his hands under the edge, all that silky skin under his palms, and pulls the damn thing up and over her head. It surprises her, making her yelp, and then there's a confusing minute involving sleeves and arms and the long cloud of her hair. He has no idea where the shirt ends up, because when she finally struggles free and looks up at him, laughing, dark hair and pale skin and just Prentiss, David Rossi has no spare attention for anything else.
Dave ought to feel a little guilty, he thinks, tracing the line of her collarbone, murmuring her name into her ear as he kisses her temple and rubs his cheek against her hair. He ought to take more time with this, ought to slow down, try to let his hands explain what his mouth can't seem to say. He ought to, but he can't seem to - and Emily doesn't seem to mind, because her mouth is hot on his skin and her hands have been busy unbuttoning his shirt. She shoves it off his shoulders and swears at the cuffs, and he gets tangled in the fabric as he pulls shirt and t-shirt off. She's popping the button of his fly when he finally frees himself and it's like he's a damn kid, the way the brush of her knuckles against his abs makes his hips jerk forward.
She laughs again, but it's low and dirty and there is just no way that they are making it upstairs, because now, now, now is becoming the imperative. Prentiss runs her thumbs over his nipples - bends her head and takes one into her mouth, nipping very, very, gently. He exhales on a hiss and she pulls back to laugh again, which makes payback mission-critical. He spins her around, hands on her hips till she finds her balance, and unhooks the clasp of her bra, admiring the lines and curves of her back, reaching out and tracing the arch of her spine. She shivers, and it's his turn to laugh. Then he slides the straps off of her shoulders and down her arms, till she shakes the thing off to puddle at her feet.
Dave loops his fingers through her belt-loops and pulls her back against him, her back to his front, their hips tight enough together that focus is kind of a struggle for a minute. He smooths a hand along the line of her jeans and drops his head to rest on her shoulder, before he lets himself fill his hands with her breasts. She leans back into him, letting him take her weight, and he lets himself take his time.
"Emily," he mutters, only half-aware he's speaking out loud. "Prentiss -" She turns in his grasp, leaning in and pressing close. He wraps his arms low around her waist, slipping a hand down under her jeans and palming her ass, grinning when she gasps.
Prentiss shifts to her tiptoes, her breath shivering against his neck. "Fuck me." she murmurs, barely more than a whisper, so low that he has to hold his breath to hear her. "Rossi. Fuck me."
Dave hadn't actually thought he could get any more turned on, but today is setting new records. "Jesus, Emily," he groans, but she eels out of his arms, taking a step back - two steps.
She kicks off her shoes, steps on the toe of one sock and tugs her foot free, then repeats. Her hands settle on the waistband of her jeans. "I want you," she says slowly, "to fuck me." She pops the button on her fly and tugs the zipper down slowly. "Here. Now. And if you stop to check the locks, I will kill you myself."
Clothes, Dave thinks, as Prentiss takes another step back and shimmies her jeans down till they're just barely clinging to her hips. He is still wearing way too many clothes. He fumbles with shoes and socks and has just started to shuck off his jeans when Emily lets her jeans fall - and then steps out of her underwear.
She's gorgeous, light and dark and long, long legs, and he knows his stare is greedy, but he can't seem to care. She flushes under his gaze, but he's pretty sure it's not embarrassment, because she meets his eyes without hesitation. When she raises a hand to her breast and rolls her nipple between her fingers, he's positive. "Dave," she says, sex on legs personified. "Naked. Now."
He is in no way dumb enough to ignore that command. The next few moments are kind of blur, but then he's laying down on the carpet, coffee table shoved somewhere best defined as "out of their way," pulling Prentiss down with him and getting her back under his hands. He feels like a damn kid, wound so tight he can't think straight, rolling around on the floor with his best girl. Dave can't help it - he drops his head to her chest and laughs against her skin, laughing harder as the vibrations make her arch.
She's chuckling too - at him or with him or more likely both, knowing Prentiss. Dave slips a hand down and finds she's wet - slick, really. He's kind of past the point of finesse, not that she seems to be complaining. He slips two fingers in - not hard, not fast, just taking his time, feeling her around him and trying not to rush. He slides them back slowly, pressing up gently as he passes over her G-spot, and Prentiss moans, needy, a sound that comes from deep down and goes straight to his cock. "Yes," she groans. "That, yes. Dave," she orders, as her hips move restlessly, "touch me - touch my clit." He obliges, and she practically sobs, pushing into the pressure.
"Please," she says, and he watches her haul in a breath as she wraps a hand around his shoulder. He palms her hip, brushing a circle with the pad of her thumb. She shudders, a whole body quiver, legs moving restlessly against the carpet. "Please," she says, tilting her head back, exposing the clean line of her throat. "Please, now." Her eyes are wide when she looks up at him. "I've been thinking about you all weekend and - now, Dave. I need you. Inside me. Now." She looks like she's fighting for words, and he understands the problem.
"Condom," he manages to say, wrenching his brain back to the only critical issue. "In my jeans," he says, and starts to pull away, which might actually kill him.
Prentiss's nails bite into his skin as she holds him still. "In the drawer," she grits out. Her free hand slides down between her legs and does something very, very right, because she freezes. "Now, Dave. Now."
He reaches, flailing for the drawer handle, managing not to dump the contents on their heads only by sheer dumb luck. He doesn't know how or when the condoms got there; he doesn't really care. Dave fumbles the foil packet; Emily lets go long enough to tear it open and roll it on him. He doesn't realize his eyes are closed until her hand brushes his cheek. "Dave," she says softly, and he turns his head to kiss her fingertips.
"Yeah," he answers, and shifts to cover her, settling between her legs. She wriggles, and he adjusts and then it's just one slow, sweet push. They're both breathing hard. He slips his arms under her, resting on his elbows; she cants her hips and he drops his head to kiss her. "Emily," he whispers against her mouth, and feels her smile.
"Dave," she says, voice a little hoarse, and leans up the fraction of an inch she needs to kiss him. "You're an idiot." Her hand riffles the hair at the nape of his neck. "I'm not walking," she says. "I'm not." She lifts her hips and wraps her legs around him, and Dave tells himself that's why he closes his eyes as he starts to move.
Her nails bite into his back and she groans his name. "Yes," she chants, "yes, please - this, yes." She leans up and kisses him. "God. You feel so good." She's clinging to him, her body keeping rhythm with his, and there's nothing else he can think of except the way she feels, tangled up with him, under him, around him. "Emily," he says, because all he can seem to remember is her name. She's taut, tense - he thinks she's close, and manages to pull himself together enough to change the angle just that little bit. Beneath him, she rises up hard, and he feels her tighten around him before her orgasm hits and pulls him over just behind her.
When he's thinking clearly, a few minutes too many later, he pulls out carefully and rolls to his back, taking her with him. She's practically boneless, one arm flung over his chest, her head in the crook of his shoulder. "We should move," he says, running his hand over her shoulder, because he can.
"Later," she mumbles.
"Later's good," he agrees, content. He reaches over blindly and manages to snag the edge of the blanket on the couch, finagling it over them. He's not actually tired, he realizes, just mellow, just coasting. He's not sure Emily's awake, and for a while he's content to run his fingers through the ends of her hair. Eventually Emily shifts with a soft sigh, curling tighter against him.
"Thanks," he says.
She's quiet for a long time; he's not actually sure she heard him until she finally says, "You realize you're setting a new standard for thank yous, right?" He laughs, and she presses a kiss to his chest. "I - we - I'm not good at this." He can't see her face, which might actually be making this easier. "I'm not good at surprises. And Strauss was a big one."
"I know," he answers. He tugs the blanket up over her shoulder, glances down at the top of her head, stares at the ceiling. "I know," he says again, and hopes she hears what he really means, which is some combination of I know and I'm sorry.
Prentiss manuevers herself up onto her elbow and just looks at him for a moment. She reaches out and brushes his cheek with a finger. He's waiting for something - he's not really sure what - but all she says is, "Come on. I have carpet burn on my ass. If you're lucky, I'll let you make it up to me."
He catches her hand and she stills. "I'm sorry," he says, letting go.
"I know," she answers, watching him quietly. "It's - it's not okay about Strauss, not exactly. I think - you were on a case," she says abruptly, and bites her lip. "I can't - that's not something I think can do."
"Emily," he starts to say, but she puts her fingers over his lips.
"I know," she repeats. "It was different. You were different - although not that different," she says, raising an eyebrow, and he wonders what, exactly, she and Lena talked about on Saturday. "But I - we -" she stops short, tries again. "It bothers me," she manages. "It bothers me that there's something of you she had that I can't."
Dave breathes in, lets it out slowly. "Prentiss. Emily. I'm pretty sure whatever Strauss got, you don't want."
"You're wrong," she says bluntly, and when he looks at her, there's nothing there but plain, unvarnished truth. It feels like a sucker punch to the gut.
Emily traces a line over his collarbone. "You're wrong," she repeats, a little more gently. "You're allowed to be human. You are, you know," she says, poking him in the side. "Popular opinion to the contrary." He laughs, and she grins back, then sobers. "And I'm allowed to be greedy. For all of it." She's blushing, just barely. "Even when you're being an idiot."
Dave's not actually sure he knows how to breathe. She smiles down at him, and there's something on her face that makes him think of Lena, and the way things could've been if they hadn't screwed it up. Maybe, he thinks unexpectedly, this time is different.
"Come on," Emily says again, brushing her thumb over his lips and hauling herself to her feet.
He follows, tossing the blanket on the couch before he reaches for her hand. She's still smiling when he brings it to his lips and salutes it carefully, looking for all the small, unexpected spots that make her eyes go heavy-lidded and dark. He lets go, only to tug her toward him, and she curves around him like she's meant to be there. "Emily," he murmurs as he leans in to kiss her.
"Dave," she breathes back. "I know." And that, he thinks, might actually be enough.