Paper House by Mydnyte Houre
Hi! Since this is the first time I've ever published in this fandom, I'm guessing most of you don't know me. I'm Lily, aka Mydnyte Houre. I'm a big Hotch/Em shipper, and I've been working on some oneshots in that realm, but I got the idea for this a couple days ago and wrote the first chapter pretty quickly, so I thought I'd post it. It takes place in Rome when Emily is 15, and I'm just writing a bunch of random scenes that trace the development of Emily's friendships with Matthew Benton and John Cooley. Each chapter will include two or three short scenes. There's definite passage of time between scenes, but generally the specific number of weeks isn't important. All my information on Em's time in Rome is based on "Demonology" and my own knowledge of the city. The story will hit a couple of dark points, and there will be more serious adult themes later, but for right now there are just some minor adult themes. There WILL be major "Demonology" spoilers.
Anyway, since it is my first CriMi fic, I'm dying to get some feedback. Both praise and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated, and I give genuine replies to every review. Thanks in advance for reading, and I hope you enjoy Paper House!
Emily purses her lips around her cigarette as Matthew's lighter flickers under the dying Italian sun. There is a faint red ring around the cigarette, a kiss on a cylinder of poison that dangles between too-small fingers. They sit lazily at a small table in the Piazza Navona, secretly proud of their small rebellion. Matthew sees a familiar face in the crowd and beckons to it with a shout. The face draws nearer, dark blonde hair above a wide forehead and knowing green eyes. He exchanges a handshake of typical male complexity with Matthew and leans one hip against the table.
"This is Emily Prentiss," Matthew says. "Emily, this is my friend John Cooley."
Emily shifts the cigarette to her left hand and extends her right, squinting her eyes against the sun as she smiles up at him. He takes her hand in his and shakes it confidently. His fingers are warm underneath hers. His eyes flicker almost imperceptibly over her blue sundress and down her bare legs. She crosses them self-consciously and takes a drag off her cigarette, careful to breathe the smoke away from him.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Emily," John says finally. He motions with his chin to an empty chair. "Mind if I join you?"
Emily nods before Matthew does, and John quickly slides into the empty chair. Matthew offers him a cigarette, but he waves him off and produces one of his own. The three sit in silence for a few minutes. Matthew idly folds and rips his napkin in indeterminate snowflake shapes; John runs a hand through his hair and flicks his troublesome lighter; Emily twists nervous teenaged fingers around her cigarette and prays that she looks comfortably aloof.
"Prentiss," John muses. "The Ambassador's daughter?"
She nods. "We moved here about a month ago." It's the first thing she's said since John arrived. Her voice is professional yet soft. It still lacks the diplomatic hardness that her mother's possesses, but it will come to her in time. "How long have you lived here?"
"Oh, about a year. We came with the Bentons."
"Our fathers work together for the FAA," Matthew interjects boredly.
John winks and adds, "Which means I'm sure I'll see you at some of the Embassy's bitchin' parties."
The wink makes Emily feel a sort of kinship with her new friend. She blushes—she hadn't known that the diplomats' children were having "bitchin' parties"—and smiles across the table at Matthew. The boredom vanishes from his face as he smiles back.
Matthew and John are stretched out in the chaises longues on Emily's back patio. She comes outside and closes the kitchen door behind her, careful not to disturb her parents upstairs. She hands each of them a beer and sits at the foot of Matthew's chair. The sky is purple-grey, darker in places where massive clouds drift across pinpricks of light. A yellow sliver of moon shimmers up at them from a rain puddle.
"Have a sip," Matthew offers, waving the bottle.
Emily wrinkles her nose and looks at John. He is tilting the bottle towards his lips and staring off into the distance, oblivious to their conversation. She follows his gaze and finds the Vittorio Emanuele II monument, ostentatiously cutting into the night sky with its brash, warm glow. The Italians hate it, and Emily feels inclined to agree. It sits above Rome and demands attention to its garish white expanse of marble like an overgrown, petulant child. Ambassador Prentiss thinks it's lovely; upon hearing this, Matthew had leaned close to Emily's ear and cheekily whispered, "Well, she would."
"Go on," Matthew is still urging. She takes the bottle from him with a certain reticence and lifts it to her nose, sniffing carefully.
John suddenly turns towards them, as though waking suddenly from some dream, and after a few moments smiles at her. His teeth gleam in the starlight. "You'll like it," he insists. "Come on, Emily. Be a beer-guzzling American. Don't you want to be loud and obnoxious enough to piss off the Italians?"
"Like Vittorio Emanuele?" she replies, grinning. John's eyes twinkle as his smile broadens. Emily finally takes a sip of the beer, expecting it to burn like the vodka the boys gave her last weekend. It doesn't burn, but the taste spreads across her tongue after she swallows. She licks her lips, testing the flavour. Matthew and John wait for her verdict. She takes a second sip, bigger than the first, and swallows it slowly.
"I… I kind of like it," she admits at last.
John mimes applause and reaches over to tap his bottle against hers. Emily looks down at her knees, pale and bare, and passes the beer back to Matthew with a shy smile. He smiles back and pushes his hair out of his eyes. "What was all that about Vittorio Emanuele?" he asks. Even in his curiosity, his accent is flawless; Emily has never understood how he learned it.
John looks away and drinks his beer, but Emily points over the wall at the back of the garden to the grandiose "wedding cake", as the locals derisively call it. "Just noticing how awfully big and vulgar it looks. It just seems so…" she trails off and sighs.
"Proud?" John supplies.
Matthew studies the structure with narrowed eyes and nods. "'Though his pride reaches to the heavens, and his head touches the clouds, he will perish forever'," he says in the low, breathy voice he always uses when he quotes the Bible. He takes a long swig of his beer, an act that seems a strange contradiction to his ability to conjure up Bible passages at will. Though the night is warm, he shivers when Emily's fingers unwittingly come to rest on his knee.
"That one," Emily says, pointing towards a bench where a smooth-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair flips lazily through the day's edition of Il Messaggero. They are standing in another piazza, and she is lighting another cigarette with Matthew's lighter. The weather is colder than in was that day in the Piazza Navona. The wind strokes their hair with silken fingers and tugs at the edges of their jackets. One of the equestrian statues of Vittorio Emanuele peers over the top of the buildings, but the three friends do their best to ignore it.
John shakes his head. "We need a tourist, someone American or English. Besides, you know how these local men are—he's probably leering at you over the top of his paper already."
Emily shifts her weight uncomfortably and pulls her jacket tighter over her arms. Seeing this, Matthew nudges her shoulder with his and winks. She looks up at him with a grateful smile. His gaze is warm and comforting.
"I found one," John calls over his shoulder, already striding away. Emily stamps out her cigarette, and she and Matthew hurry to catch up with John as he approaches a young couple. At first, they seem nervous to be suddenly accosted by three scampering teenagers, but they relax visibly when John greets them in English.
"Can we help you?" the woman says in a gentle southern accent. The wind whips around her bright red hair.
Emily holds up the bulky black camera she received for her fifteenth birthday last week and gives the woman her best smile. "Would you take our picture, please?" She lifts the camera strap from her shoulder.
The woman smiles back and takes the camera. "Of course, hon." She looks around the piazza. "Where should I take it?"
The three friends survey the area. "There," John says, pointing to a stretch of graying wall with a graffiti star painted in the middle. The tourists raise their eyebrows, but Emily's eyes light up as she nods in agreement. Matthew takes her hand and pulls her towards the wall, positioning her underneath the fading star. John takes her other hand, squeezing her fingers in his. They are red-cheeked and bright-eyed from the cold, but they grin at the American woman as she raises Emily's camera.
"Smile!" she says, the twang in her accent more evident as she raises her voice. Her husband stands behind her with his hands on her waist as she holds the camera steady and snaps the picture. The camera whirrs, and she calls out, "Do you want another one?"
Emily glances at Matthew. He shrugs and looks past her to John, who nods enthusiastically. "Yes, please," Emily calls back.
The woman raises the camera to her eye again, her gloved finger hovering over the button. At the last second, independent of any premeditated idea, Emily thrusts her hands in the air. Matthew's and John's hands follow, four clasped hands rising towards the crudely painted star on the wall. They cast wobbly shadows on the cobblestones at their feet. Emily grins exuberantly as she grips the hands of her two best friends. The two pairs of interlocked fingers form a frame around the star, and the woman snaps the picture.
Well, I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! The scenes will get more substantial as the story goes on, I think. I should be able to get another chapter up in the next week or so. Any and all feedback is super appreciated and rewarded with virtual cookies (review replies are edible, right?). Thanks so much!!
~Mydnyte Houre~