Chapter Text
You watch through the slim rectangle in the door, eyes keen as a silver-haired woman enters your line of sight, conversing with the ageing man who had sat across from you for the past hour or so, asking inane question after inane question.
You are beyond bored despite the initial excitement of being arrested. You are bone-tired, limbs numb from occupying a damned metal chair, and you had been made intrinsically aware (as had the tan man who was testing your patience) after only a few minutes of questioning that you had missed lunch.
You would kill for a burger.
The thought makes you chuckle, the irony too much. The only crime you had ever committed was confirming that you had a TV license. There had clearly been some mix up, a realisation you hope to witness as you groan at the prospect of spending another hour listening to that insipid detective- or whatever he said he was.
Leaning forward in your chair, you spy on the conversation happening on the other side of the door. As you witness the exasperated sigh of…Rossi you think his name is, you grind your teeth in frustration. If he steps back in, still hellbent on getting you to confess to doing it (you’re still unsure what exactly ‘it’ is), you’re either going to cuss him out or cry.
Just as you’re contemplating dragging the table that you’re cuffed to against the wall so that you have a crack at smashing the blackened window that you know is one-way glass, your gaze fixates on the silver-haired woman talking to Rossi.
She removes her jacket.
Ok, sure, she’s probably just hot. She looks damn good in that silk shirt, though.
She undoes a button.
Your mind goes blank, eyes glued to the exposed skin. You squint, cheeks warming as you catch a hint of black lace.
She fluffs up her hair and spins on her heels so that she’s facing the door. She walks towards it, features elegant and purposeful in equal measure.
Oh shit. Oh shit. She’s going to interrogate you.
You panic, fully-fledged and vibrant, in a way that getting cuffed in the street didn’t seem to elicit. Perhaps because you knew that you hadn’t committed some heinous crime, the kind of crime that involved the fucking FBI. They’d eventually work that out even if it was taking longer than you had hoped.
But now, now, this mature, beautiful woman had her fingers on the door handle, ready to pry secrets out of you that you don’t even have.
You lift your boots to brace them on the edge of the table and yank as hard as you can on the metal handcuffs. You fall off your chair with an undignified grunt just as the door is pushed open.
Squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment, you let your arms hang from atop the table, as you sag against the cold, hard floor.
“Hello,” you murmur, waving your wrist as best you can.
When silence greets your pitiful welcome, you pry open your eyes. You’re not surprised when your breath catches in your throat.
She’s standing over you, her heeled boots inches from your sprawled legs.
Reticent eyes trace the press of her slacks until they morph into the buttons of a shirt that stop lower than should legally be allowed. By the time your gaze softens to stroke the gentle wrinkles of her face, your blush is potent enough to stop traffic.
Her eyes are narrowed, scrutinising you like you’re the crackhead at the gas station.
You’re still about a minute away from forming any kind of coherent sentence, so you’re glad when her lips part.
“Are you drunk?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up within you, partly because your sober self is clumsy enough to be mistaken as pissed (by the FBI for crying out loud), but mostly because this woman even sounds hot.
Your amusement tapers off though when you witness her brows drawing together in consternation. Right, she probably thinks you’re laughing at her.
“I’m not drunk,” you murmur, as you try to stand, “just…weird.”
Her brows rise, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards slightly as she steps back to watch you try to move.
A moment later you’re on your feet, back arched awkwardly while your wrists remain cuffed to the table. You glance towards the chair laying on its side, kicking your foot out to try and nudge it towards you.
When you meet her gaze this time, her amusement is barely concealed, her eyes crinkling as she watches your jerky movements.
You huff, your shoulders slumping. “Might you be able to-“
She’s moving before you can finish the question, sweeping past you in a cloud of sweet-smelling professionalism, forearms flexing as she lifts the chair.
You’re struck dumb, entranced by her proximity. Sitting silently in the chair offered to you, you watch with wide eyes as she takes her position on the other side of the table.
“I’m Section Chief Emily Prentiss. Do you know why you’re here?”
Emily Prentiss.
The name rings mellifluously in your ears.
“Uhhh,” you stall, “for the tea party?”
She bites her bottom lip with a small smile.
You feel a warmth blossom within you. If you gain nothing from this interaction, you can at least make this glorious woman laugh.
“There have been a series of gun attacks in the area. Targeted, we think. You know anything about them?” Prentiss folds her arms across her chest, the movement pushing her breasts together.
You blanch, eyes skimming the tan skin of her sternum before avidly looking anywhere else.
“What’s a gun?”
She actually chuckles this time.
You forget that you’re hungry and tired.
“Look, Rossi is determined that you’re hiding something, aside from being…weird, of course.” her lip tugs upwards again, making you hard pressed to look anywhere else.
She has nice lips. They look soft. She looks soft.
“Rossi? The crusty guy that spent an hour asking me the same questions then getting progressively pissier when I gave him the same answers?” you don’t mean to roll your eyes with such vitriol but the whole hour with him seems such a waste considering Section Chief Emily Prentiss has been floating about the building.
You would’ve stirred some shit up a whole lot quicker had you known she was next in line to question you.
“Hey, that’s my colleague you’re talking about,” she asserts, stiffening her stance into something more dominant.
“Um, respectively, the guy sucks. Had to forgo my frickin’ sandwich ‘cause he cuffed me. Can’t imagine why.” you huff, pouting as you rant. “Maybe it was the knife hanging out my ass.”
You think you hear a stifled snort but your pent up frustration finally has an outlet, so the tirade continues.
“Not to mention he reeked of cigar smoke. He acted like this was a set in the godfather, only the closest I’ve ever been to the Italian mafia was when I got mugged in France!” you move to throw up your hands but the cuffs jolt you back with a thunk. You groan, emphatically, yanking harder.
“Woah, hey!”
A soft hand reaches across to cover your wrists, the skin angry and red from your wriggling.
You’re too worked up to react to her touch, your blood boiling in vexation.
“He hasn’t even seen Lord of the Rings! And I’m the criminal?” you pause, eyes wide as you realise your words. “That wasn’t me confessing. Are you recording this? You’re not, right? Oh fuck, are there actually people behind there?” you motion to the darkened window, ignoring the wince of pain as the panic seeps in.
Your breathing grows shallow, eyes wide with alarm as you fix them on Section Chief Emily Prentiss, waiting for any kind of response. Your gaze travels with her as she moves, gliding around the table to settle next to you. Fingers fiddle with her belt before she’s leaning over you, the scent of rich coffee and something citrusy settling your mounting trepidation. Her hip bumps your shoulder and you freeze, the warmth of her body flushing your cheeks.
The cuffs clink open but you’re too preoccupied by her touch to celebrate your freedom.
Her cool fingers soothe the slight welts on your skin and she kneels in front of you, cradling your hands together.
You try not to instinctively look straight down her shirt.
“He didn’t know what second breakfast was.” you whisper, your tone laced with an embarrassing amount of dejection.
She chuckles softly, her skin crinkling in amusement. “Now, that is a crime.”
“Yeah.” you mutter, “it is.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you I was his boss?”
Delight flits across your face, matching the mirth of her own expression.
The moment seems suspended in time, your earnest gaze tracing the crows feet that paint her warmth, an emotion you get the feeling she rarely exhibits. That you, with your fumbling ineptitude and rambling impatience, get to witness such a show is a blessing you’re not quite ready to part with.
So, when she retracts her touch and clears her throat, your heart sinks.
“I’m sorry you got wrapped up in this.” she offers with a degree of sincerity, “You’re free to go.”
She smooths down her shirt and flicks her hair back with both hands, an action that betrays some measure of her detachment. A safety precaution, you realise. A necessity in her line of work. Maintaining an austere facade must be vital when you work with all kinds of freaks and weirdos.
You wince at your own wording.
“That’s it?” you question, your tone so stooped in incredulity it verges on impolite. It feels more like a challenge than a probe for reassurance. “Just like that?”
She nods, curtly, though the movement is softened by the pursing of her lips.
You watch her mouth, enraptured. Your freedom is appearing less and less appealing.
“You know,” she relents, “not many serial killers ask us to look in on their cat.”
“Captain von Trapp gets sad if he has too much alone time,” you maintain, “and I didn’t know how long I’d be!”
Emily Prentiss squints at you, the seconds stretching out as she seems to weigh up whether she wants to know more. With a sigh, she capitulates.
“Captain von Trapp?”
You nod enthusiastically, happy to talk about your cat. Even happier when it’s with the present company.
“Georg, when he’s being a little shit.”
Emily rolls her eyes with a soft smile, her walls crumbling.
“C’mon,” she motions, “let’s get your stuff.”
You nod, stepping behind her. Your progress is quashed though as you catch a glimpse of black lace, the material visible as Emily turns.
You bite your lip, torn between pretending to be nonchalant about the mouth-watering sight and telling her so that others don’t get to see her as you have.
You’ve known this woman for less than an hour and you’re already getting possessive.
You take the plunge, letting your jealousy get the better of you. You just hope her reason for undoing that damned button was to manipulate you into confessing something and not because she’s trying to catch someone’s eye.
Ever the fool, you hear your voice call out.
“Hey, um-“
She turns on her heels, gaze expectant, wholly unaware of the effect she has on you. The sudden movement throws her perfumed scent into the space between you and you inhale, jaw clenched as you attempt to remain poised.
“Your…um-“ you mumble, skin inevitably flushing as you motion downwards, eyes skimming her cleavage.
When you drag your gaze upwards though, she has the gall to look confused, brow furrowed adorably.
Surely she isn’t going to make you say it. Surely she can see how flustered you are.
Surely…unless she’s being intentionally obtuse.
The thought is rather left field but the longer you ponder it, the more plausible it appears to be.
Emily said she knew you weren’t dangerous because Rossi had told her you asked him to check in on Captain von Trapp and yet she still-
You manage to suppress your grin, only marginally, the thrill of such a beautiful woman seducing you under the guise of an interrogation sends a shiver down your spine, one that reverberates with enough intensity that Emily’s apparent confusion seems to blossom some sincerity.
Stepping forward with all the confidence you can muster, you raise your hands, willing their trembling to cease.
She seems to have misjudged your nerve because her sharp intake of breath flutters against the skin of your forehead as you dip your head, her body growing rigid.
You desperately hope you’re not overstepping.
As if sensing your deliberation, she delivers a jerky nod as you gaze up at her.
Fiddling with the edge of the silky fabric, you try to ignore the heat of her skin as it warms your fingertips. When her pale sternum grows irrevocably pink though, you can’t help the shaky exhale that stalls your movements.
Her chest rises and falls beneath your fingers, black lace stroking your trembling hands imperceptibly on every inhale.
You work quickly, securing the button and threading it through the smooth fabric, willing yourself to step away before you do something impulsive like rest your forehead against her flushed skin and press your lips to her breast bone.
You rub your clammy palms against your jeans and avert your gaze, the flaming of your cheeks already damning enough to betray your thoughts.
When Emily clears her throat though, your attention is drawn with pathetic ease.
“Thank you.” she murmurs, her voice rich enough to have you clenching your teeth.
Her cheeks are pink. Not a patch on your own crimson, but reassuring nonetheless.
You want to cup her jaw, grace your thumb over the painted skin until her lids close in contentment; skin dichotomously soft compared to her strong persona.
It’s a hopeless dream, one that has your eyes rolling in self-loathing as she turns her back to you.
The door creaks open and you step into the office space that you had previously been led through when you had been a hardened criminal. Desks occupy the floor in various geometric patterns, most piled with papers, few in use.
Your eyes land on the agent who had arrested you. The grimace is instantaneous and you quickly glance away, keen on avoiding a confrontation. Though you talked a lot of shit, you weren’t about to throw hands with the FBI.
You follow Emily with your head down, eyes glued to the worn carpet lest they stray and you get caught staring at her ass. It’s a very nice ass, but it would be terribly impolite.
She inevitably stills under a struggling bulb, fingers on the handle of a metal door as she meets your gaze.
“I won’t be long.” she reassures and then, after a short pause adds, “Will you be ok?”
Her concern ignites a fluttering of yearning in your stomach, your subsequent smile softer than you would’ve liked.
You nod with a gulp, settling yourself against the dark wall to prove your point. Teeth sink into your bottom lip as she returns your smile, emotions volatile and rampant behind your crumbling facade.
You sigh a trembling sigh as she disappears behind the door, determined to use the time to reassert your self-assurance rather than yielding to the submissive part of you that wants to melt into a puddle under her direction.
Drumming your fingers against your thigh for a minute or so, you try to ignore the flickering lightbulb above your head. The intermittent flashing has you grinding your teeth in frustration. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to occupy your mind but after another thirty seconds or so you’re scanning the hallway for a solution.
A few numbered doors line the walls and you try the handle on each one, hoping to find a utility closet. Unsurprisingly, nothing budges, most requiring a fob or some kind of barcode identification to enter. You’re on the verge of retracing your steps to just throw your jacket over your eyes when a familiar figure appears from around the corner, his expression determined before he clocks onto your presence.
You both stand stock still in the hallway, somehow the pair of your resembling the deer in the headlights. It’s only as Rossi slumps his shoulders with enough resignation to garner some pity, that the tension seeps from your frame.
“I-uh,” he tries, fingers fiddling with his navy lanyard. “You look very similar.” He settles on, the statement pulling a quizzical look from you.
He steps forward hesitantly, digging his phone out his pocket with one hand while the other unfolds his glasses.
You wait silently as he taps the screen, too bewildered to feel any sort of resentment.
After a minute or so, he angles the screen to face you, a series of mugshots staring back at you.
He’s not wrong. You have similar features, and your skin tone is off by only a few hues, but you’d like to think you appear a little more put together than the woman in the photo. She looks as if she’s been on the run for a good while.
“I’m sorry,” he offers.
You don’t need to scrutinise his expression to gauge his sincerity.
“Damn,” you mumble “Well that explains why you kept calling me Rosa.”
When he notices your grin, he gives you a good-natured huff, his mouth quirking upwards as he pockets his phone. You’re both glad the tension can dissipate.
“Apology accepted.” you reaffirm. “On two conditions.”
His posture stiffens but he nods, keen to make amends.
A quarter of an hour later, he’s steadying the step ladder as you unscrew the bulb that had been pestering you.
“You said two conditions.” he murmurs beneath you. “I’ve let you raid the storage room-“
“-for your benefit.” you cut in with a pointed expression.
“Yes, and we are thankful,” he grumbles, though his smile is thinly veiled as he studies your own.
“The other is more…personal.” you explain as you motion for him to take the faulty bulb.
“Fire away.”
“Um…Chief Prentiss-“
“I’m not going to-“
“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”
David Rossi sighs, one hand risking your safety to indicate his frustration by rubbing his beard.
“The only man in the picture is Sergio.”
You heart plummets, your mood immediately souring.
“Is…is he nice?” you stammer, half-wishing you had just kept your trap shut.
“I really don’t think-“
“Oh shit, he’s nice isn’t he?” you interrupt, the colour draining from your face. You would quite happily participate in a little home wrecking if the guy was a douche.
“I hardly know you!” Rossi protests, handing you the new bulb as you reach out your hand.
“You mean you didn’t learn enough during our previous rendezvous?” you mutter, brows scrunching as you concentrate.
“Ah,” David acquiesces,”those questions were a little pointed.”
“Yeah, no shit.” you snark, “just…” your tone softens, “do ya reckon I have a chance?”
“Well,” he chuckles,”she is very fond of Sergio. He’s quite the handsome chap.”
You groan, head lolling back as you verbally vent your disappointment. Section Chief Emily Prentiss is involved. For the umpteenth time, you mentally chastise yourself for getting swept up in her stunningly formidable presence.
She is taken. She is fond of the man. Very fond of the man.
You hadn’t even know if she was gay, for pete’s sake. For all you knew, this Sergio prick struts about the FBI hallways, a disgustingly smug expression on his face as Emily intentionally flashes him her lingerie.
You feel nauseous. A completely healthy reaction, you argue, to finding out the that the woman you’d known for all of two hours is in a happy relationship.
The step ladder wobbles beneath you, jerking you from your spiralling.
“What?” you hiss, harsher than need be.
David rolls his eyes at your blatant display of emotion and steadies both hands on the ladder now that he has your attention.
“Just ask her.” he implores.
“I thought you didn’t like me,” you squint, dubious about his intentions.
“Oh please,” he scoffs, “even I have to admit you’d be handy to have around.”
“That a job offer?” you grin, gesturing for him to try the light.
“Yes.” he deadpans, flicking the switch. “We were just looking for a criminal lookalike who’s too chicken to ask out the woman she likes.”
“Who’s too chicken?”
You freeze, eyes wide as you stare at David. He looks infinitely calmer than you feel, probably because his pride is not on the line.
“What the hell is going on?”
Emily’s voice is measured, though you can tell that irritation is eating into the facade. Her silver hair reflects the light from your handiwork but it also shadows her features, her fatigue pronounced. You want to remedy it; want to card your fingers through her soft hair and reassure her that not only is she exceedingly capable, she’s also the most enchanting woman you have had the pleasure of meeting. Irrefutably, so.
Your eyes catch on the ziplock bag she’s holding, through which you can see your keys and phone.
Ah. She was looking for you.
“I’m so sorry Section Chief Emily Prentiss-“ you breath, “-there’s was a faulty bulb and-“
Your rambling is halted by a snicker behind you, forcing you to server your gaze with Emily so you can glare behind you. David looks unapologetic.
“I know you told me to wait there-“ you sigh, “-but this bulb was really pissing me off and then I bumped into-“ you motion to Rossi with a grimace, “-and he showed me where the utility closet was and…well, the light isn’t flickering anymore…”
Your confidence tapers off as Emily’s brow gets progressively higher, her expression walking the line between amusement and incredulity.
“You asked David for help? Crusty David?”
“Woah, you called me crusty?”
You grimace, suddenly feeling the need to be on solid ground.
“You arrested me,” you bite back before fixing your glare on Emily, “and, the last time I checked, you talk shit behind someone’s back because you don’t want to say it to their front, Section Chief Emily Prentiss.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she curses, “just call me Emily.”
You have to pretend like her sharp tongue isn’t the most attractive sound to have graced your ears. You have to suppress the shiver that rattles your spine.
There’s not much you can do about your blushing, though.
“Sorry Emily.” you whisper, capitulating to the effect her name has on your body. It’s difficult to focus on anything when she’s studying you so intently.
The ladder wobbles, your heart plummeting through your chest as gravity seems to take you- and then a cool hand, fastened to the skin of your hip. Emily breaths into the crook of your neck, your back pressing against her chest as you lean into her.
And god does it feel good.
You close your eyes as you attempt to steady your breathing, your hand jumping down to lace agile fingers with your own, keeping them flush to your skin.
“Come on,” she murmurs, her other hand placing your things on the ground before it comes to rest on your bicep, guiding you down the rungs of the step ladder. Her scent permeates the air around you, sweet like jasmine, thick with magnetism.
You gulp as your feet feel solid ground, determined to ignore the squeeze of your hip as she steps away.
You wonder what you would have to say to taste the skin of her neck.
You wonder what level of confidence it would require. Certainly not one in your repertoire.
“Ok!” David announces, intent on severing the cloying tension. “I’m going to-“
“JJ needs to speak with you,” Emily interrupts, “And Reid made progress with the unsub, so check in with him before you clock out.”
David nods with a hum, folding up the step ladder. He waves over his shoulder, ladder clutched under his arm as he disappears down the corridor.
Your gaze fixes on Emily, a sheepish smile stretching across your lips.
“I really am sorry.” you murmur.
“Hey, stop that.” she admonishes, “I should be thanking you. That light has been driving me crazy.”
“You’re lying to make me feel better.” you state, your nose scrunching as a manifestation of her kindness.
“Well, you were arrested. I’m sure you’ve had better days.”
No, you haven’t. You met Emily today.
You shrug your shoulders as a deflection, eyes trained on her warm gaze so they don’t stray to her lips.
When she reaches down to hand you your belongings though, you know your time together is drawing to a close.
You purse your lips tightly, willing yourself to work up the goddamn nerve to a create a reason to see her again.
“Oh hey,” she smiles, “Sergio would love him.” Her eyes trace your phone case, a nonplussed kitty occupying the space.
And, just like that, reality winds you with the force of unrequited attraction. Your jaw clenches in dejection as you pull a stiff smile.
“Captain von Trapp doesn’t like men.” you grit out.
Emily frowns, your change in attitude all too prevalent.
“Sergio is the perfect gentlemen.” she assures. “His time at the shelter has made him very tolerant.”
Oh, fucking hell. Sergio volunteered at an animal shelter. Emily was so not going to give you a chance.
You smile politely, pocketing your keys and phone before you make your, arguably first, emotionally healthy decision.
“It’s been really lovely meeting you, Emily Prentiss.” you murmur, voice soft with longing.
Because it has. It has been too lovely.
“But I need a sandwich and Captain von Trapp needs some company.”
“Of course.” she whispers, her masked professionalism slipping over her features. She steps away, clearing her throat as she distances herself.
“Get home safe.”
You nod, your jaw tensed to the point of pain, and turn your back on Section Chief Emily fucking Prentiss- your inevitable hyper fixation for the weeks to come.