Author's Note: The song that prompts JJ to randomly announce that it's Christmas is 'Fairytale of New York' by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl. And you're crazy if you don't like that song. ;)


Chapter Three

Forty-five minutes later and she's a totally different JJ. It's like she underwent a personality transplant somewhere between the restaurant and our table in this overcrowded bar. She's two shots ahead of me and yet she's holding her own like a pro. Her words aren't slurred; she isn't swaying or squinting to shake the buzz in her mind. She just seems free, content, alive.

It's amazing to see. I could watch her in this setting all night. Though, let's be honest, I could watch her all night in any setting. It's tragically ironic that I wound up spending my Christmas with the one person I'd ever even consider breaking my seasonal affection rule for; it's ironically tragic that that person is the one person I'd never have reason to break it for.

"Oh my god, oh my god!" She pulls the lemon she's been sucking on for a second or two out of her mouth and claps excitedly. "It's officially Christmas!"

I look to my watch and question that theory – it's only 10:05. "I think you're two hours early, sweetheart."

"No, fool." She rolls her eyes at me. "This song. It's my parents' favorite. My dad, he…" She pauses momentarily to bob her head along with the song as it shifts suddenly from piano to a medley of instruments, before continuing with a sentimental smile sparkling in her eyes. "He calls my mom, no matter where either of them are, whenever he first hears this song each year. He says it's officially Christmas when you hear it play on the radio."

I smile. Genuinely smile at just how beautifully heartwarming that is, and even find myself wondering how I could have allowed myself to become so warped about this holiday. It's really not that bad through her eyes… but the whole world isn't so bad through her eyes. She sees the beauty in everything. I wish I could hold such a pure view of the planet and its inhabitants.

And yet in her presence, I do. We sit in that bar for almost another full hour, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and not once do I feel the cold shiver of dread creep over my spine for the fact that it's Christmas. Not once do I think about the empty apartment I'm heading back to at some point, or the fact that, considering the typical alternative, I'm grateful for that. I don't think about the tornado of emotions that I have to place extra effort into containing at this time of year, and I don't think about just why that is. I don't think about anything but her… Her and that utterly free-spirited smile she tosses my way every so often. Her and those sparkling blue eyes that hold an indestructibly flawless view of everything they see. Her and how entirely safe she makes me feel at a time of year where I generally feel anything but.

It's only when she places her palms flat against the table and fixes her narrowed gaze directly on me later into our impromptu drinking date, and poses a question-

"Why do you pretend to like Christmas?"

-that I'm reminded of my defects. The question seemingly comes out of nowhere, but when I look to her, I can see in those determined eyes that she's been itching to ask me for more than the past second or two.

"I…" I shake my head and look away. Am I really that transparent? "I don't. I like Christmas."

"Oh wow… That wasn't even slightly believable." Her laugh is husky from the shot she just downed, but she reaches out to confiscate my drink. "I'm cutting you off. Your poker-face abilities are clearly dwindling with each unit of alcohol you consume."

"He-ey!" I chuckle and grab it back, both of our fingers now wrapped around the tall glass in a battle of wills. "Okay, okay." I relent – mostly because with those units of alcohol in my system, it isn't just my poker-face abilities that are affected, and I'm more than mildly concerned that if I don't remove my hand from hers now, I'll find myself in the same position I did back in that restroom. "How about a compromise?"

Apparently that's good enough because she releases my drink, rests her chin on her open palm and taps her fingers against her lips. "I'm listening."

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, finally placing consideration into the compromise I now realize wasn't my wisest move, and lean forward. "I'll tell you why I don't like Christmas, if you tell me the real reason you ducked out on Prince Charming?"

She becomes instantly tense and unnerved, like that's the worst possible thing I could have suggested, and for a moment I'm certain she's going to decline. She stares at me for several seconds, her eyes fearful and searching, before eventually nodding with a timid and obviously reluctant, "Okay."

I don't like the tone of her agreement, mostly because it tells me I'm going to have to offer something substantial. Whatever left her so damn conflicted over answering a simple question is going to warrant more than, I just don't get it.

Funnily enough, that's what I find myself going with. "I just don't get it. All of that obligatory merriness is really just a way to remind you of all that is not merry."

She appraises me, slipping her pinky briefly into her mouth and I loathe and love it the same way I do every time she does it. "You could look at it that way… Or you could look at it in the sense that it's a new chance to fix whatever it is that you find misery in."

Hypnotized by her logic, I find myself entertaining it. "…But what if it's not within my power to fix that which I find misery in?" I hate the question, because it isn't like I'm miserable. I'm just… proactive. I'm ensuring that I don't blindly place myself in a moronic, enlightening position again - ironic considering just where I am and who I'm with tonight. Regardless, I'm being sensible, and logical. It's possible I'm being irrational, but we'll ignore that.

"That which you find misery in…" She leans forward, her eyes somehow telling me that absolutely nothing matters more than this conversation. "How many times did it happen before it finally had somewhat of a Pavlovian effect?"

A puff of air, similar to a scoff, bursts from my lips and my eyes drop. At this point, I'm not even certain that it's a result of feeling exposed, or because I'm wondering how the hell she managed to put that puzzle together with the few pieces I gave. I think it's simply that, in that surprisingly simple moment, I feel like a weight has been lifted. Apparently this, what I do every day, the masks I alter for any given scenario, is exhausting. It won't last, but for that moment at least, I'm not wearing any. I'm just Emily. I forgot what it feels like to be just Emily.

"Three." I reach for the straw in my drink and absentmindedly stir the liquid. "It seems there is no in-between. Christmas is either a time for finding yourself in the midst of the most beautiful fairytale fathomable, or it's a time for getting your heart broken in, often, the shittiest kind of way."

"…So to erase the memories you find yourself with at this time of year, you pretend you love Christmas. Possibly because you're hoping that if you pretend hard enough, you'll even convince yourself, and then you won't have to acknowledge that, for you, deep down, it's an issue that you don't know how to resolve." She deduces all of that like the honorary-profiler she is, her voice softening right along with her eyes. "Is there anything you don't have a mask for?"

That, ironically, right after a split second to feel sadness for her words, is the catalyst strong enough to return said masks. The answer to her question is no, of course, and that answer is one too devastating for me to directly address right now. If I don a mask for absolutely everything I say and do, then how can I even be certain that that moment, a few minutes ago, was truly me?

Like I imagine she's expecting me to, I bypass the question with my own- "Why do you actually love Christmas?" –and confirm her suspicions that I'm wearing one of those apparently infamous masks once more. She lets me have it, and I suddenly realize that she always lets me have it.

"It's just… amazing, Em." Her eyes wander, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth even as she smiles and when she releases it, she laughs breathily. "I wish I had more to support that statement, but it's more a feeling than something you can see or touch, or even explain."

"Come on…" I wink. "Make a believer out of me." But the lightheartedness to my demeanor fades considerably when I notice she suddenly isn't laughing anymore – is no longer even smiling. I frown, until it occurs to me why she looked so perturbed by the question I posed minutes ago. I knew I shouldn't have let her walk away from him. "Sweetheart…" I lean forward and, against my better judgment, take her hand. "You really did like him, didn't you? That's what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong." She replies calmly, and I can't read the blue eyes that shift to our joined hands.

Her thumb tracing the crevices of my knuckles is pretty much the only thing that keeps me from tearing my hand away, and I can't help but swallow whatever bizarre feeling it is creeping up my chest and throat. But it won't stop coming, and before I know it, I'm pushing her as far away from me as I possibly can without just getting up and physically extracting myself from the situation. "You should call him and tell him you had a momentary lapse in judgment or something – he'll understand. He's the first decent guy you've met in a very long time, JJ. And god knows we don't get many opportunities for a happily ever after. You should-"

"I don't want to." She cuts me off firmly and meets my eyes again. "I am happy here with you. I couldn't imagine spending Christmas Eve any other way."

"But I'm not half as cute and charming as he is." I smirk playfully and reach for my drink, solely so I can return my hand to a safe distance from hers.

"Why do you always do that, Em?" I can see her frown out of my peripherals but don't dare meet her eyes directly – they suddenly seem more dangerous than ever. "Make a joke out of something sincere?"

Red light: profilers are not meant to ask that of each other. We all have ways of making it through, and we all know that. It isn't spoken of, for fear of disrupting the fragile integrity of any defense mechanism. Ignorant by nature, they'd crumble under any kind of direct light. JJ would never do that to me. Which tells me she knows the answer, in this regard, is nothing at all to do with our job, but tragedy I found on my journey elsewhere.

I think that's worse. Why would she ask me that? She never does. She always lets me have it. And then I realize: this is the question she's been silently asking me all night. Furthermore, I finally recognize the tone in which she posed the question: soft, defeated, and somehow hopeful. She's not seeking to expose my vulnerabilities – she's baring her own. Her own being that, apparently, I hurt her when I do that.

Lifting my eyes to hers, I open my mouth to speak, but the words die on my tongue when I realize that that too would have been a trivializing joke. Jesus, do I actually know any string of words that wouldn't be that? "You looked beautiful tonight, JJ. Look… beautiful. I don't know what happened with Will, maybe he just isn't the guy I read him to be, and I know you're more than reluctant to tell me so I'm not going to push. But you're beautiful, and I really hope you know that."

Oh, apparently I do. Closed 'til Spring. Closed 'til Spring. Closed 'til Spring.

She's studying me again with something intense in her eyes, and I'm equal parts captivated and baffled by it. I'm almost certain it's relief that I'm seeing, but why would that be so? What possible reason could she have to be relieved that I just told her she's beautiful? It's reasonable enough to put it down to the chance that she's probably not feeling so beautiful after ditching Will, but when something new flickers through those now dark blue eyes and she speaks-

"You're pretty damn beautiful yourself, Emily Prentiss."

-my stomach twists in the most delectable way. If I didn't know any better, I'd bunch that compliment right along with the gentle fingers that have found their way to mine more than once tonight, and deduce that she's flirting with me. But I do know better – or at least well enough to remain aware of the fact that she's at least mildly drunk, not to mention straight.

This time, it's she who looks away first – drops her eyes shyly and smiles - and I'm grateful. Things just shifted in a way I have absolutely no idea what to do with. Apparently I don't have a mask for this little turn of events.

"We need more drinks." She pushes herself out from the booth and walks away, and I watch her until she's enveloped by a crowd of people. It leaves me feeling uneasy, not being able to see her, or even the small hands that she held up above the mass of bodies to slim herself out for a better maneuver. But I blame that fully on the job we do, and not on any kind of protectiveness on a personal level.

I turn back to my almost consumed drink–

"We gotta go!"

-but the sudden grip on my arm causes me to instinctively reach for a weapon that isn't there, and lucky for the panicked yet amused blue eyes staring at me, I'm already half out of my seat.

"Jayje, what the hell?"

She looks quickly in the direction I swear I watched her head just ten seconds ago, and shakes my arm- "Quick. Coat. Now." –and when I look over to the bar to see two familiar male faces, an involuntary giggling 'oh' passes my lips and suddenly I'm the one ushering her out of the door.

I run both like my life depends on it, and like I'm willing to get caught, sneaking quick glances behind me to ensure my partner in crime – or evasion - is following, despite already knowing that since I have a firm grasp on her hand.

She's laughing so freely – drunkenly, of course – and it's a sight to behold. I never see that. I doubt anyone ever sees that. I doubt she herself sees it all that frequently… And it affects me more than I ever thought possible, her whole-hearted chuckle reflecting off of her lips and onto mine. My cheeks burn from grinning as I run faster from the duo who are not – nor were they ever – chasing us; ducking and swerving through crowds of passersby and taking quick glances back to make sure she dodged them too.

We're grown women, running hand-in-hand through the streets of DC with almost no logical reason and giggling like schoolgirls who just got kicked out of an R-rated movie; and when we turn a corner to find refuge in an alley… I'm kissing her. She's against the wall with my blind encouragement, and I'm kissing her, hard, and I know I shouldn't be, for far, far more than the fact that she's my colleague, but I can't stop. I can't stop and she's…

She's kissing me back. Not politely, not drunkenly, but like there's nothing she wants to be doing more. Like she's wanted to forever. Like her entire world is going to fall apart if she stops, and it only encourages the part of me that never did heed my seasonal affection warning.

My fingertips tangle in her hair as I cup her cheeks, and it's her tongue that slips into my mouth – something I store away to use as my primary argument at a later date when she's berating me for crossing a boundary tonight. And when her hands slide beneath my jacket, solely to run up my back and then down again, my case becomes solid: this was not my fault. Well… not totally.

Still, it's me who pulls back. "What are we doing?" I can feel the shakiness of my own words vibrate against her lips. "More importantly… what am I doing?"

"You're kissing me in an alley." She breathes the words directly into my mouth, her fingers now gripping my shirt like she's afraid I'm going to run. It's probably not an unjustified fear. "I took you as more of a conservative kinda woman."

"You've… thought about it?" I hate the naive vulnerability in my voice, almost as much as I hate the fact that, yes, I am kissing her in an alley. Totally not what I fantasized about in those moments that I actually allowed myself to fantasize about it.

Her gaze turns to one of seriousness, an almost frown playing against her brow that I know is supposed to depict her sincerity. "More times than you'll ever believe."

She's not wrong there, especially since I'm having trouble even believing that this is happening. Or rather, that she isn't offended or repulsed, but actually seemingly elated about it.

I brush my lips over hers once more, simply to feel and savor their softness, half of my mind certain that this one single perfect second is going to come to an end all too soon and never be returned to me except in memory. And true to form, I'm the one who stops it before she can. Controlling the uncontrollable, I tell myself, but it's not lost on me that we've probably already crossed that point of no return. "I should stop."

"I don't want you to, Emily." She places one gentle, lingering kiss against my lips. "I really don't but…" She must sense the hurt in my eyes even before I open them, because she clutches tighter at my shirt and smiles. "But in our haste to flee that bar… I left my coat. I'm freezing."

My apartment is two blocks away, and I instantly bite my lip to oust the invitation that I'm terrified will be misconstrued. This moment is far too hazed in lust and alcohol for me to pull logical thought out of the ambiguity, because while I got a literal answer to my question, I'm still none-the-wiser as to just what it is we're doing – the more important part of that query being: what is it that she's doing?

"Lucky for me…" She whispers. "The woman I would love to make out with some more – out of the dank confines of the city alleys – happens to have a warm, cozy apartment two blocks from here. I mean…" She shifts uncomfortably in my arms and I hate the feeling of the cold that rushes in between us. "Unless you'd rather I didn't." She grimaces. "That was really presumptuous, wasn't it?"

I want to tell her that it isn't as simple as that. That there are rules, rules that have already been broken in the past several minutes… Lots of rules, and reasons for those rules, and naivety for those reasons, and that crazy thing they call love for that naivety. But perhaps it could be as simple as that… It is Christmas after all – what better time for a miracle?

My lips capture hers once more- "I like presumptuous-JJ." –before I wrap my jacket around her shoulders, shift one full step away, and hold out a hand for her to take.

I should be questioning why she wants to spend her evening kissing me when, just two hours ago, she had a more than willing, male companion, and one who undoubtedly would have given anything to spend the night with her. I should be questioning a lot of things…

…but what I actually find myself pondering as I walk those DC streets back to my apartment with a shivering blonde nestled into my side, is whether I left that apartment in an acceptable state before I headed out this evening.