Chapter Text
I release a heavy sigh once the ignition is turned off. I eye the house warily; only lit up by the porch light and the soft glow emanating from the living room. I drum my thumbs against the steering wheel trying to conjure up the energy to get out of the car.
As Section Chief, the day had dragged into a grueling, unrelenting grind. The current case file–a monstrous stack of reports, forensic details, psychological profiles, and gruesome crime scene photos—loomed over the desk like a specter. The case itself was one of the worst the team had faced in recent memory: a serial killer whose twisted signature involved beheading his victims and concealing their remains in an underground labyrinth he'd somehow evaded discovery in for months.
The air in the office felt thick, stale, tainted by the horrifying details that had to be parsed, logged, and signed off on before the team could finally close the case. Every document was an unfiltered reminder of the terror that had haunted the victims and their families—pages filled with clinical descriptions of unimaginable violence. Exhaustion pulled at the edges of each thought, but the work demanded precision, unrelenting focus.
As hours wore on, a headache began to pulse behind my eyes, yet I couldn't afford to stop. Every signature, every checkbox meant progress, moving one step closer to finalizing this case and ensuring the evidence was airtight. But even in this victory, a sense of unease lingered, an awareness that this case would leave a lasting scar—a grim reminder of the darkness lurking just beyond the edges of routine duty.
And the one thing that manages to pull me from the darkness, is sitting in the house, a steady presence amid the chaos, surrounded by steaming boxes of Chinese takeout that I'm sure is filling the air with warmth and spice. She's more than a colleague now, no longer just a familiar face in the office. She's been a stranger, a friend, someone I could talk to and rely on in ways I never expected. And somehow, along the way, she became family—the kind I'd guard with my life without hesitation. I watch her walk past the window, a calm anchor in my storm, and realize she's become the reason I can still do this job, the only part that makes it feel worth it.
"It gives me you."
Those four words have echoed in my mind ever since she said them, slipping past her lips with such disarming sincerity that I felt the grip of them wrap around my heart. That was six months ago—back when we were just two best friends, a little high off life and edibles, talking through the haze of things we'd never dared say sober. She told me I was the reason she could keep going, the anchor in her life that kept her in the job. Not her kids, not her soon to be ex-husband, Will—just me. I wanted to say something just as meaningful, but the words jammed in my throat, blocked by the shock of it all. And then in an instant, her phone buzzed, reality intruded, and we were pulled back to the BAU, to work, to our usual roles.
In the months that followed, I've found myself in her orbit more than ever, somehow a fixture in her life as she drifts from the person she was with Will. No details of the split have come my way; she brushes off any attempt to pry, says it's simply a divide they couldn't bridge. So, instead, I silently promised to be there for her, to carry her through the gaps without asking questions. I've become her shadow, picking up the pieces she doesn't ask me to carry. Dropping off her boys when she's running late, showing up with her favorite coffee, wiping away her tears on those late nights when she drinks a little too much.
Our routines have blurred, our boundaries softer, my space becoming hers in ways that feel both dangerous and comforting. We share easy touches—her hand grazing mine a moment too long, her fingers slipping to my lower back like they belong there. But it's her eyes that unravel me the most, every glance charged with things unsaid. She'll look at me like she's about to speak, to spill something that's trapped in her heart, but then she shuts down, shields up. Her eyes are oceans, vast and deep, places I'd drown if she'd let me.
The nights are the hardest. She invites me over, and we talk, laugh, sometimes cry. We settle into the couch, share a blanket, our bodies pressed close until her scent, that soft intoxicating perfume, fills my lungs. I hold her, feeling the warmth of her, the strength that feels almost fragile in these quiet hours. But just when the ache becomes too much, when every nerve in my body screams to close the last few inches, to let this mean more—I get up, say goodnight and leave.
Six months. It's been six months of stolen touches, lingering looks, unsaid words, and nights that end too soon. And it's exhausting, the push and pull, the longing and restraint, the steady undercurrent that's pulling me toward her and threatening to break me.
My phone buzzes.
JJ: You coming in? Or you gonna just sit outside? Lol
A smile tugs at my lips.
Me: Just scoping out the neighborhood, making sure we have a safe movie night.
Her response is instant, teasing.
JJ: Even when you're off the clock you still manage to keep working. Your Kung Pao chicken is getting cold.
With a soft chuckle, I open the car door, the chill of the evening air hitting me as I step out, locking the SUV behind me. My footsteps are steady on the path to her front door, but I pause just before turning the knob, fingers hovering in the quiet. It hits me then—the simplicity, the ease of it all. I don't even need to knock. She trusts me enough to let me walk in without hesitation, to enter her space like it's already half mine. It's a quiet sort of intimacy, a level of comfort I didn't know I needed until now.
I finally step into the house, closing the door softly behind me as I shake off my racing thoughts. Slipping off my boots, I place them beside the small lineup of shoes by the door—scuffed tennis shoes, muddy cleats, each one a quiet testament to the life and warmth of this home. I set my keys in the dish on the foyer table, letting the familiar weight slip from my fingers, and start toward the kitchen. My heart beats faster with every step as I think of her, the woman who's somehow become the center of my thoughts, the one who makes my chest ache and flutter in the same breath. I shrug off my blazer, draping it over my arm, and just then, I hear the soft thud of the refrigerator door closing. Rounding the corner, I find her there, pouring red wine into two glasses, her movements calm and practiced. She looks up, meeting my gaze with a smile that holds a thousand unspoken things, and my heart skips, feeling both grounded and utterly unmoored at once.
"So, is the neighborhood safe enough for you, Chief Prentiss?" JJ teases, a mischievious smile tugging at her lips as she crosses the kitchen and slips my blazer from my hands, draping it over the back of a chair.
"Definitely no unsubs creeping around," I reply with a laugh, the lightness in my voice a welcome change.
She grins, turning on her heel. "Come on, food's getting cold, and it's your pick for the movie."
JJ heads to the living room, and I follow, taking in the cozy scene: takeout boxes scattered across the coffee table, a few of Michael's Marvel figurines mingling with the mess, like guardians of our impromptu feast.
"How was the rest of your night?" she asks, settling onto the couch and pulling open the boxes.
She divides our food in her usual way, leaving the orange chicken in the middle to share, a small gesture that always makes me smile. I take a seat at a polite distance, keeping the space between us in check, but she shifts closer, sitting just left of center on the couch. I raise an eyebrow, giving her a playful look.
"Well, kinda too early to tell since we haven't started drinking yet."
JJ rolls her eyes, smirking at my deflection.
"I meant the paperwork, Em." Her tone softens, but her gaze is knowing.
She's aware I stayed late again, finishing up the endless pile so the team could get some rest. The weight of this latest case has worn me down, more than I care to admit.
"This was a hard one, Jay," I confess, sinking back into the couch and picking up my container of chow mein. "I know we get cases that stick with us, chip away at us bit by bit, but that doesn't stop them from taking a toll."
I glance over at her, feeling the weight of those words as I speak them aloud. She watches me, her expression softening with a quiet understanding.
"We're allowed to be human, Em," she says gently. "We're allowed to feel tired. But no one's more equipped for this job than us." She gives me a small smile, reaching for the Roku remote and turning on the TV. "Next time, let me stay behind and help with the paperwork."
"No, Jay," I reply firmly, shooting her a pointed look. "The boys need you at home. You're not winning that argument."
I shovel a mouthful of noodles with my chopsticks, savoring the comfort of the meal as her gaze lingers on me, assessing. For a moment, it seems like she's going to press, but then she sighs, turning back to her own food. Yet I know she'll find some way around my words eventually, her persistence woven into the fabric of who she is.
JJ fiddles with her chopsticks for a second, muttering something under her breath about all of us needing vacations—especially me. I watch her in the warm, dim light of the room, captivated by the small details: the way her loose grey sweater falls against her frame, the black leggings that hug her toned legs, evidence of her strength and discipline. Her hair brushes just to the place where her bra would end, and for a moment, I'm lost in the memory of a younger JJ, her softer jawline and brighter eyes. She was so beautiful then, at twenty-nine, but looking at her now, years later, I realize she's never been more captivating. There's a depth to her now, a resilience born from everything we've been through, and it leaves me feeling as if I'm seeing her for the first time all over again.
"What?" JJ asks, her brows raised in curiosity when she catches me staring.
I blink, realizing I've been watching her for too long, lost in my own thoughts.
"What?" I retort, trying to play it off, returning my focus to the container of food in my hands.
She narrows her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips as she repeats herself, “I asked what movie you're picking."
She reaches for the orange chicken with her chopsticks, and I can't help but grin as I scroll through the options on the streaming service.
"Psychological thriller, obviously," I reply, finally landing on a category that feels right.
JJ chuckles, her amusement unmistakable as she leans back into the cushions. "So, what fictional serial killer are we profiling tonight?"
There's a glint of humor in her eyes, the hint of a smile that tugs at her lips, and it fills the space between us with an unspoken understanding—this strange mix of dark humor and comfort that only we could share, given everything we've seen.
"Silence of the Lambs or Long Legs?" I mutter, half to myself, scrolling through the options.
I feel JJ shift just a fraction closer, her shoulder brushing against mine, and my body tenses at the sudden warmth. After a moment, I let myself relax, settling into her touch.
"They both have FBI agents in it—go figure," she laughs softly, rolling her eyes.
"All right, Anthony Hopkins and Jodie Foster it is," I decide, pressing play.
Her shoulder remains pressed against mine, a gentle, grounding presence. But she catches the subtle tension in my posture, the tightness I can't quite shake.
"Are you sure you're okay, Em?" she asks, her tone suddenly more serious, laced with genuine concern.
I take a breath, steadying myself. "Been battling a headache for a while. I'm fine."
She frowns, the worry evident in her gaze. "I'll get you some Ibuprofen," she offers, already half-rising.
She doesn't realize that no pill could touch this kind of ache, the silent strain of feeling so much for her and having nowhere to put it. I reach out, lightly grasping her wrist to keep her there.
"Jay, really, I'm fine," I say, forcing a grin. "Besides, Jodie's sweaty and running through the woods—you're gonna make me miss my ogling."
She laughs, settling back down, but I catch her watching me, eyes soft and searching, and it only adds to the ache lodged deep inside me.
We settle into the movie, sharing bites of takeout, our attention drifting between the screen and our quiet companionship. JJ, as always, steals pieces of my Kung Pao chicken from my container, unapologetic as she plucks morsels straight off my fork. She never orders her own, knowing she prefers to swipe from mine, and I can't help but let her. Relaxing further into the moment, I fall into profiling mode, setting up an analysis of Buffalo Bill's behavior. I explain how our team would've tracked him down, how our profiles would have unraveled his patterns if we'd been assigned to his case. I catch her eyes on me, studying me with a quiet smile as I go on about how even Lecter himself would have met his match with the BAU—and with us.
By the time we finish eating, I'm gathering up the empty containers, gently shooing away her half-hearted attempts to help, insisting she stay put. She's already topped off our wine, and when I return to the couch, I find her holding the worn blanket we've started calling "ours", an unspoken invitation. She drapes it over us, and I feel her shift closer beneath its warmth. I try to keep my breathing steady, but inside, I'm unravelling. This is the part where it always starts to go south, where the proximity and softness become almost unbearable, tugging at feelings I've been trying to bury. But she's here, her knee brushing against mine, her scent filling the small space between us. And suddenly, all my careful control feels like it's slipping away.
The dull ache behind my eyes throbs in time with the movie's dark score, intensifying as JJ shifts beside me. Her hair brushing my cheek as she murmurs a quiet analysis of Hannibal Lecter's twisted psyche. Her words slip past me, blurring into the background as the pressure behind my eyes builds, drowning out her voice. Her hand, once resting politely in her lap, hovers closer to my thigh now, a barely there touch that sends a pulse of tension through me. The nearness of her is overwhelming, her warmth, her scent, all amplified by my aching head and the feeling of her nestled against me.
For a moment, I wonder if this is how Will felt, with her by his side—comforted, aroused, knowing she was his. But for me, this closeness is torture, a slow burn that twists something deep inside, leaving me teetering between longing and restraint. The desire to give in, to turn and close the small distance between us, is almost unbearable. And yet, I stay rooted, immobilized by the quiet agony of wanting something I can't reach. The ache in my head mingles with the ache in my chest, each beat a reminder of just how far she feels, even as she's pressed so closely to my side.
"What really happened with you and Will?" I whisper, my voice barely cutting through the quiet hum of the movie still playing.
It's a question I've wanted to ask countless times but always held back, sensing how fragile her boundaries are around it. But tonight, I let it slip, a reckless urge to know more, to peel back the layers of her silence. Immediately, I feel her tense beside me, her body going still, and my chest tightens, bracing for her to shut down, to ask me to leave. It's my not-so-subtle way of pushing her away, the same way I could've claimed the far end of the couch to silently demand distance.
Instead, she releases a sigh, irritated and tired. "I told you I wasn't ready to talk about this, Em."
Her voice is low, firm, reminding me just how much I've overstepped. My gaze falls to her sweater sleeves, noticing how she's tugged them over her hands, as if to protect herself. Ever sine BAU Gate, she's been more guarded, her mannerisms almost protective, as if she's still shielding herself from a violation she never saw coming. And I can't shake the guilt—my own part in the ordeal still heavy between us, a wound we haven't completely touched. I'd known about the dark website, the twisted images crafted to look like her. They were nothing more than clones, fake and degrading, but seeing them had left a sickening mark, an imprint of her in ways no friend should have to witness. I tried to protect her, tried to keep her from knowing, but that silence was a betrayal of its own, one she'll likely never forgive, though she's never said it aloud.
In this moment, with my question hanging in the air, I wish more than anything that I could find the words to apologize, to make her understand that everything I did was to protect her. But all I can do is watch her, feeling the walls she's built solidify, knowing that I may never be able to bring them down.
"It's just...I'm worried about you, that's all," I say, my voice barely a murmur as I stare down at my hands. "We haven't really talked about anything. Being high together wasn't really the apology I was working on giving. You found out about BAU Gate and now your separating from Will."
I pause, the words heavy between us.
"I'm just wondering why you're talking, but not really talking to me at all."
I don't look up, can't bear to meet her eyes, afraid of what I'll see there—maybe anger, maybe hurt.
JJ is quiet for a long moment, and when she finally speaks, her voice is edged with warning. "We aren't doing this, Emily," she says, her tone final, her jaw tightening.
I can see the muscle flex there, the way she clenches her teeth like she's holding back a storm. The movie ends, and the screen fills with the rolling credits, yet neither of us reach for the remote. The silence settles thick around us, loaded with the things we're both too afraid to say. I can feel her next to me, every inch of distance feeling like a chasm, yet I don't move, letting the stillness linger. We sit there, unmoving, both of us locked in this unspoken standoff, trapped in a space that feels too raw to leave but too painful to stay in.
"If you're leaving Will because of BAU Gate...because I only told him before you so he'd be ready to support you and the boys," I start, my voice strained, unable to hold back what's been festering inside me. "I know you feel violated. I saw you pulling away, zoning out at work. You started wearing clothes that cover you up more, like you were hiding. I noticed the signs and..."
My words trail off as she cuts me off, standing abruptly, the blanket slipping to the floor in a heap between us. Her eyes avoid mine, fixed on the ground, her arms folded tightly across her chest like a shield.
"I want you to leave, Emily." Her voice is cold, a finality in it that stings like a slap, leaving no room for argument.
JJ doesn't look at me, and I can feel the walls she's put up thickening, separating us like an invisible line I can't cross.
"Jennifer," I plead, my voice barely a whisper, laced with helplessness.
I don't even know what I'm asking for—for her to stay, to forgive me, to understand. Yet deep down, I know this is what I wanted, to push her just far enough that she'd finally kick me out. Anything to stop the inevitable spiral, the pain of wanting her so deeply. I repeat the mantra in my head, clinging to it like a lifeline: Don't let her get too close. Because keeping her at arm's length feels safer than admitting I love her, safer than apologizing for every time I've failed her in seventeen years.
I worry my lip between my teeth as I rise slowly from the couch, my body heavy with reluctance, torn between the desperate urge to flee and the need to stay and somehow make this right. The idea of going back to my empty apartment—a place of solitude, with nothing but my own silence—is both a relief and a punishment. But the thought of leaving her tonight, with her angry and closed off, twists painfully inside me. I pass her in the kitchen, grabbing my blazer from the chair and slipping it on deliberately, giving her time to say something, to tell me to stay. My heart aches for her to stop me, yet I know deep down I'd push her away again if she did.
JJ moves wordlessly, picking up our empty glasses and placing them in the sink, her back a quiet dismissal. I linger a moment longer, hoping for a reason to stay, but the silence presses in on me, deafening, leaving nothing to hold onto. In the foyer, I collect my keys and slide on my shoes, each movement mechanical, rehearsed, like I'm on autopilot. The door feels heavier than ever as I pull it open, glancing back once, wishing things could be different. I close it gently behind me, stepping into the cool night air, and press the alarm to unlock my car.
Once I'm seated, I lean back against the headrest, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I close my eyes, a soft curse slipping past my lips as regret and frustration pulse through me. I've hurt her, pushed her away when all I wanted was to keep her close. I tell myself I'll fix it. I'll see her Monday, I repeat, clinging to the hope like a lifeline. I'll see her Monday, and I'll make it right somehow.