Author's Note: The amount of reviews I received for my last update was amazing – you guys certainly know how to make a girl smile. :) I thanked most of you personally, but to those guest reviewers who I wasn't able to: thank you! It served as a great motivator, especially since this part of the story has been causing me some trouble. Please, keep 'em coming!
Author's Note 2: This chapter has been separated into two parts. I figured a 9000+ word count was just a little too much for a single update, and since we're approaching the part where some light will be shed on all of those questions Emily (and JJ) surely has, I didn't want any of the answers to get lost in a sea of random cuteness.
I look forward to hearing what you guys think. :) On with the story…
Chapter Five: Part I:
Christmas Day:
It's the scent of mint and rosemary that wakes me, soft hair tickling my nose as a warm mouth lingers somewhere against my chest, and my arms instinctively wrap tighter around her. The clock tells me I've been asleep just two hours, and the throbbing in my head reminds me how many units of alcohol I consumed last night, but no part of me wishes to go back to sleep. This moment is safe here, still shielded by darkness. In just two hours, the dawn will come and bath what I'm certain is a sin of some sort in far too many questions. I don't want those questions, not yet.
Surprisingly enough, this isn't the first time I've woken in this position. There was a case six months ago that caused JJ to unravel in ways I never thought possible. I'd always seen her so composed and unaffected until that point, but with sobs that I'm very certain she was trying to stifle with her comforter coming from the bed alongside mine, I'd only questioned it briefly before climbing in beside her and pulling her against my chest. My hands soothed through her soft-as-heaven hair much like they are now, while hers clutched at the shirt her tears were leaving small wet patches against. It's funny… I didn't say one word, no utterances of reassurance or comfort for fear that she'd see in every single one of those words just how much I loved her, but it took only minutes for her to relax and, soon after, sleep.
That night was never mentioned again, but the memory of waking to her nestled into the contours of my body never left me. There have been occasions since where she's walked by, and the scent of her shampoo has instantly transported me back to that night, that morning. Barely acknowledged at the time despite how debilitating those moments were, it's strange how I can place them now with full memory and feeling – place every memory pertaining to her with full, vivid feeling. It's almost like I've been given permission to love her, to remember her and cherish her. But as I listen to those peaceful breaths falling against my flesh, I realize in the most sobering kind of way that I haven't. I haven't been given that permission – I've been given the permission to love her physically, and even that was probably more alcohol-induced and taken advantage of than genuinely offered.
I'm disentangling myself from her before I even make it a conscious decision to do so, my feet padding across the carpet as she sleepily pulls the sheets up to her shoulders and curls into a fetal position. How can someone so innocent be the cause of such emotional hell? She isn't, of course, but it's easy to draw that correlation.
I locate aspirin and a bottle of water in my darkened kitchen, and knock them back like they're going to ease more than my headache. The still ignited fireplace in my living room mocks me, almost like it's the physical representation of my stupidity and/or the convictions I abandoned tonight. Because, just like that fire that was left to burn as it wished while I dabbled in sins of the flesh with a colleague and friend, nothing good could possibly result from it. What the hell was I thinking?
There's an anger in my chest directed at myself as I flick the switch beside the fireplace, and there's a definite thud in my step as I return to the bedroom. But when I enter to find the most soothing blue eyes I've ever seen smiling at me, and tan fingers reaching for mine, all anger dissipates.
"We forgot to turn off the fire." I tell her as I - despite the certainty I should be doing anything but - climb back into bed and lay on my side, facing her.
"I forgot to turn off the fire." She corrects me as she snuggles closer, and then sighs contently as she presses her lips to my hands. "But I think I can be forgiven when my Christmas wish was in the process of coming true."
"Your… your Christmas wish?"
"Mhmm." She nods sleepily, her eyes falling heavy as her nodding slows in a manner that tells me it wasn't voluntary. "You always were my Christmas wish, Emily. You just never saw it."
I can't tell if she's awake, or if I wasn't supposed to hear those whispered words… those words that are equal parts profound and perfect. Is this similar to the theory that alcohol makes people honest? Does being asleep make people honest too?
A smile naturally tugs at my lips as she rolls onto her side and pulls my arm around her, and I fall back to sleep that way: with a goofy grin on my face, and my hand once again pressed to her tummy like it's the only security blanket I ever needed to chase away the monsters I've always seemed to find beneath my bed.
CM-CM-CM
I open my eyes to an empty bed and snow falling outside of my window, and feel an engrained sense of hatred for it. I'd felt confident, just nine hours ago, that when I awoke, letting JJ go would be as simple as locking a box in my mind and getting on with my day – it always has been in the past. But as my clock radio plays that goddamn Christmas song that she was singing along to twelve hours ago - her pretty words resounding in my mind far louder than the gruff ones humming through the speakers - and the cold JJ-shaped indentation in my sheets mocks me, I realize it isn't going to be so simple this time. I realize I knew all along, somewhere behind my blind justifications, that it was never going to be that simple. Because it's JJ…
It's JJ.
As my brain rouses fully, I'm bombarded with an uninvited image of waking in the middle of the night and falling back to sleep with a lullaby of fairytale words resounding in my mind, and I close my eyes tight shut like that will erase the memory. Really, all it does is paints it with more color and life. Was I really blind enough to assume that those words, those beautiful words, really meant that history wouldn't repeat? Did I really think that changed anything?
"You should turn the volume up."
My eyes snap open, but I don't turn towards the source of the sound – partially because I'm afraid that in my lovesick state, I'm imagining it. Or maybe I'm still dreaming… Either way, turning my head seems like the most detrimental thing I could do right now; the safest, to simply close my eyes and pretend I never heard a damn thing.
But when I feel a soft breeze against my face and hear that taunting song suddenly increase in volume, I dare a peek… I dare a peek and am met with the most flawless, tan thighs I have ever seen in my life. They're bare of the stockings now, but I don't mind. I want to reach out and touch them, but become embarrassingly aware of the fact that I'm pretty much staring directly at her crotch and shift my gaze further upwards, to a spot that is far safer considering I'm likely seconds from receiving some cliché line: last night was fun, but that was last night and this is now.
I'll let her have it, I know, and I won't fight her when she leaves. I'll keep my dignity, and we'll never speak again of what transpired last night. We'll be friends. We'll be colleagues. We'll-
"Do you have plans for today? I wasn't sure…" She crouches to my level and brushes the sleep-tousled hair from my face. "I was a little concerned when I woke that I'd disrupted them by staying the night." She frowns guiltily, and then looks back to me with a grimace. "I'm sorry."
And without thought, I reach out to erase that frown. It has no business marring her face. "No plans. At least not until we head to Hotch's this evening."
Hotch's big Christmas dinner. It's been tradition ever since Haley died, and one that I've been equal parts grateful for and dreading of. On one hand, it provides distraction from a typically mundane and, often, soul-sucking day, but on the other, it's exhausting to watch couples upon couples enjoying the festivities while sneaking pitying looks to the single girl. Reid has even been known to bring a date.
But, whether it's for positive or negative reasons, I know that this year is going to be different. It's either going to be undoubtedly awkward to face those pitying looks when the only other single person in the room is someone who shared my bed just hours before, or it's going to be-
"So you…" She chews her lip, much like she was just last night, and this time, I do soothe it with my thumb. But it only takes one second for her teeth, undeterred by my efforts, to pick up their assault once more, and I barely have the chance to analyze her clearly unnerved demeanor before she's giving me all the findings in one quick tirade. "Look, Emily… I don't tend to sleep with a person that I don't foresee myself having any kind of a future with, and I've known you to have casual relationships in the past. Not that I'm judging…" She frowns sharply. "Oh god, I'm not judging… I just-I mean..." She slows, sighs, and then looks back to me with determined eyes. "Emily, if you want me to leave, you need to tell me that. Because, truthfully, I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing with my day than staying in this bed with you… But I can't afford to get more attached than I already allowed myself to. I broke a self-imposed rule last night, a rule that was in place for a very good reason, and I can handle that. But probably not if I go any further."
I try to stop it but I'm helpless to the dorky little smile that emerges on my face. I can tell she's trying to work out if I'm mocking her, or whether it's a genuinely positive reaction, and I run my hand from her cheek to her neck, and then graze my knuckles along the top of her breast in the hopes that that will give her a better idea. A shaky breath spills from her lips as I bite back that grin that I just know is making me look like a love-struck teenager… Not a look I typically adorn, but I also don't typically wake with a beautiful woman in my room on Christmas morning either. Well, not a beautiful woman who is both capable of and has no intention of continuing my Christmas curse.
"Emily…" She, with what I can tell is reluctance, takes my wrist and stills my movements, her voice wavering but firm. "Please don't do that unless you mean it."
"I mean it." I reassure quickly, leaning forward to press my lips briefly to hers. "I mean it."
She tentatively releases my wrist and gives my hand permission to wander, and I slip it beneath the silk of my robe as every single one of my questions and doubts and fears and dumb rules fade from memory… Why did I ever allow them to dictate my life? I feel like a smoker who just quit thirty years after picking up the habit. I feel free.
With my encouragement, she discards the robe and climbs beneath the comforter to straddle my waist, and I run my palms the whole length of her thighs, her hips, her sides, and back to her breasts. God, she makes the most beautiful sounds. They're not what I'd expected… But then I didn't allow myself to expect or dream up anything – sometimes the fantasies are as dangerous as the reality check. Sometimes the fantasies are what make the reality check so damaging.
Pushing back the comforter fully, I reach up to tangle my fingers in her disheveled, golden hair and pull her down. Her breasts brush against mine as she kisses me, deep and sincere, and the needy sound it pushes from my lips causes me to freeze. Allowing this to happen last night could easily be blamed on the alcohol. Right now, and whenever this fantasy falls apart, all I have to fall back on are the blinding and often traitorous desires of the heart. A justification that won't mean a damn when I come to recognize that I'm still ignoring gaping holes in just how this fantasy became mine to hold.
"Ask the questions…" She whispers, reading me like the book I apparently am to her. "Emily, ask the questions…"
I try to read her eyes, but I soon realize that I'm not searching for honesty, but attempting to erase it - mostly because I'm struggling to believe it's there. It makes no sense. I don't trust this world where I can trust her – or, rather, trust someone with my heart. It's so much easier when there's a line, when you know someone or something is bad for you, or can at least hold yourself convinced enough of that to stay away. Being practically certain that she is anything but bad for me is a scary place to find myself.
"I need to shower…" My eyes drop, even as my hands clasp hers together against my chest, almost like I'm utilizing them to pray for the courage to live this moment. And if I'm going to ask those questions, I do need the courage. Fuck, I need to be more awake than I am right now to make the decision on whether I even should ask those questions. I look back to her. "Is that okay?"
"That's okay." She nods, a smile in her eyes that validates the authenticity of her words, and I press my lips briefly to hers before I, somewhat reluctantly, climb out of bed.
When I return from the bathroom, she isn't in the bed where I left her and I think I'm glad. Clearly I don't think straight when a bed and JJ are combined. Apparently that's far worse kryptonite than those stockings… Those stockings that, with a smile, I find are no longer haphazardly strewn across the carpet, but purposely draped over the corner of the mirror where, in red lipstick, I've got a feeling, this year's for me and you xo, is written. It'll be quite some time before I recognize the relevance of those words, but in that moment, they sound perfect regardless.
Ruffling the towel in my hair, I toss it over a chair as I leave the bedroom and follow the scent of coffee down the stairs. She's stood in my kitchen, her own hair damp, telling me she utilized my guest bathroom, and my heart swells at the sight: she looks like she belongs.
"Your hosiery doesn't belong on my mirror, Jareau." I grin, and she turns with a mug of coffee in her hands and a certain air of smugness curling at her lips.
"Yes it does." She slips her bottom lip between her teeth, before eventually turning away with a shake of her head and pours an extra cup of coffee. "Do you feel better for your shower?"
"Much." I reply and take the mug she offers me. "Would you like some breakfast?"
She quirks her eyebrow. "I already checked your cupboards, but the fact you live like a frat boy is the reason you didn't have pancakes waiting for you when you were done with your shower. Thus, Emily, just what are you planning to feed me if I answer yes to that question?"
I shift my eyes around my kitchen, and then lower my lips to my mug to conceal the smirk that proves her point. "Cereal."
She chuckles, with something akin to fondness in her eyes - apparently my living like a frat boy is a good thing. "Maybe after this we can head to the store. Walmart are terrible to their employees, so I'm very certain they wouldn't close for a silly reason like it being Christmas Day."
"And your solution to that is to become an enabler?"
"I'm a bitch when I'm hungry." She responds unapologetically, takes one last sip of her drink and places it to the counter behind her. As she walks by, she leans over and presses her lips to mine. "And it's sacrilege to start Christmas Day off without pancakes."
As I watch her walk away, I want to call after her that there are far worse ways to start Christmas Day than sans pancakes, but I'm certain that would lead us right back to the conversation she so graciously allowed me to take a rain check on. It's not time for that, I realize – it's time for pancakes. And while there really are worse ways to start this day, I struggle to think of any possible better ways.
CM-CM-CM
Thirty minutes later, as we wander the aisles in search of pancake ingredients, I can't keep the smile from my face.
When she disappeared to ready herself for our trip to the store, I guess it occurred to her that the dress she wore last night isn't really Walmart-appropriate, because she returned soon after wearing my favorite t-shirt and jeans that - as I've come to realize several times in the past couple minutes - are a little too big for her. Every time she pulls them up and shuffles her hips in the vain hopes that they'll stay in place, I have to hold back my amusement - I'm certain my bottom lip has a permanent imprint of my teeth etched into it for the amount of times I've bitten down on it to suppress my apparent lack of maturity.
"Stop laughing." She hisses as she, with one hand holding her pants up, grabs flour from the top shelf.
This, of course, gives permission to every ounce of laughter I've been withholding. "I wasn't laughing."
"You were in your head." She turns and narrows her eyes at me, and for a moment I find myself in total awe that this is how I wound up spending Christmas Day. I never could have predicted it, even if it was one half of a 50/50 chance.
I bite my lip again, this time to quash my smile rather than my laughter, and hold out my hands in surrender. "Okay. You got me there. But I'm not laughing at you."
"You're certainly not laughing with me." She replies, even as she – blatantly – laughs.
"Are you sure about that?" I grin as I step up behind her, my hands resting at the waist of those pesky jeans that just won't stay in place. Pressing my lips to her hairline, I whisper, "I think there's a teeny tiny part of you that at least wants to smile."
She doesn't smile. In fact, as she sinks back against me and turns her head just enough to brush her cheek against my neck, her expression turns to one of sincerity. Her eyes close, and when she speaks, her voice is nothing more than a whisper. "They're idiots, Emily. Whoever made you fear this holiday. Whoever made you fear this."
My fingers brace a little tighter at her hips as the memories of years past rush in to drown this beautiful peace I seem to have found. It isn't the visual memories that haunt me, because if you think about something enough times it eventually begins to lose its bite - it's simply the memory of how it felt at the time. It's the knowledge that I allowed myself to be that vulnerable and open to damage. How can you ever trust yourself again at that point? She's so certain they're idiots, but isn't it technically me who's the idiot?
I drop my chin to place a kiss against her shoulder. I don't know how to respond, and I certainly don't know how to respond here. But when she speaks again in an upbeat tone-
"Would you like chocolate chip pancakes or plain?"
-I realize that she knows that, even without me having to say anything. Furthermore, she's allowing it. She's giving me the same room to grow that she did back in my bedroom; the same room to grow that, I now realize, is the real reason behind this little trip to the store.
She asked me last night why I trivialize that which is supposed to be sincere, and I think I just found the answer: because I've learnt enough times that if you make everything a joke, it isn't so much of a tragedy when you come to realize that, even before you trivialized it, it was all one big joke anyway. And in learning that answer, I find another question: what if trivializing those things is what, in the end, ensures they do wind up insignificant?
I don't want her to wind up insignificant. I don't want her to be another memory; a memory of a feeling; a memory of a feeling strong enough to coerce me into making her insignificant. I realize, in the middle of that almost empty store, that it's a cycle, and a cycle only I can break.
I will ask them, I silently promise her, but not in the middle of Walmart.
Spinning her in my arms, I press a chaste kiss to her lips. "Chocolate chip."
"Good choice." She grins and grabs a bag of chocolate chips from the shelf, before turning on her heel towards the checkouts.
For every step we take out of that store, I continue to suppress a giggle for the jeans that continually slip from her hips. And for every burst of laughter that makes it through, I find myself wondering if this beautiful fantasy really could be a long-term reality…
