*Light Warning: Briefly touches (very lightly) on the fact Doc might have some "messy" dating history and compartmentalizes it away*

Emily's eye twitches—a small, involuntary movement that gives away the tension simmering beneath the surface. Her normally composed demeanor is slipping, and the way her fingers curl into fists by her side isn't lost on Penelope.

Garcia, ever the perceptive one, picks up on it immediately. "You want to talk about this before we head back to the hotel, don't you?" she says gently, her voice soft but pointed.

Emily tries to force a smile, but it comes out all wrong—more of a grimace than anything. "Fine," she mutters, though her eyes flash with frustration. The thought of Doc leaving with Marlowe, tipsy and vulnerable, had nearly sent her over the edge. The brunette had been holding herself together by a thread the moment the door shut behind the two of them. The idea of their very tipsy submissive being in the company of the 'rent-a-cop'—as Emily dismissively called her—was like nails scraping across a chalkboard in her mind.

JJ stands nearby, arms crossed but face equally strained. She's no less anxious than Emily, her posture stiff as if ready to spring into action at any moment. Penelope notices the subtle ways JJ's jaw tightens, the way her fingers tap restlessly against her arm. They want to rush back to the hotel, to swoop in and reclaim their little triangle before Marlowe gets any ideas.

But Garcia isn't about to let them off that easily. She knows what's really at stake, and it's not just jealousy driving her coworkers—it's something much deeper.

"I talked with Doc," Penelope begins, keeping her voice calm and measured, like she's breaking delicate news to a child who might throw a tantrum. "And she's really broken."

Emily, who had been fidgeting a moment before, suddenly goes still. The anxious energy dissipates, replaced by something sharper—something that puts a knot in Garcia's stomach.

"What?" Emily's voice is a low growl, but it's laced with concern. The anger she's been clinging to fades, replaced by a protective edge. Her shoulders tense, eyes narrowing as if preparing to hear the worst.

JJ's face mirrors Emily's, the sharp lines of her usually composed expression faltering. She leans in closer, her gaze locked on Penelope with an intensity that demands more. "What do you mean?" she asks, her tone pressing but gentle, not unlike how she interrogates witnesses—soft but firm.

Penelope lets out a small sigh, her own memories of failed relationships flashing briefly through her mind. She's no stranger to heartbreak, and she can see the telltale signs in Doc—the kind of emotional damage that doesn't just go away with time or new partners. "I mean, she's been through some really bad relationships," she says, shaking her head. "Not just a messy breakup or two— bad relationships. I don't know the details, but it's clear that whatever happened left her scarred."

Emily's jaw clenches again, this time not out of frustration but out of guilt. She stares down at her hands, her mind racing. They had known Doc had been hesitant, cautious even, but they hadn't truly understood how deep those wounds ran.

Penelope's voice drops to a soothing murmur, like someone attempting to calm a storm before it rages out of control. "You two need to calm things down. She doesn't like messy. She told me that herself. She's scared of it, and with the way she talks about her past, I can't blame her."

Emily's shoulders slump, the tension in her body folding in on itself like a house of cards. "Messy," she repeats softly, the word feeling heavy on her tongue. "Messy like me arguing with that rent-a-cop, huh?" She closes her eyes, her hand moving to pinch the bridge of her nose. Classic Emily—already spiraling into self-recrimination. The guilt, the need to control everything—it's all there, gnawing at her from the inside out.

"No," Penelope says gently, but firmly. "Messy like starting a job where everyone knows your sexual history because your top gets a little too chatty when whiskey is involved, and now you're pretty sure the only way to fix it is to cut that mess out of the situation entirely."

Emily's eyes snap open at that, the implication of those words sinking in. She feels her throat tighten, her voice hoarse when she finally speaks. "You mean, breaking up?"

Penelope sighs, her face softening with empathy. "You can't break up what isn't together, Emily."

The silence that follows is deafening. Emily's jaw clenches, her chest tightening as she struggles to find the right words. There's a sinking feeling in her gut now—a fear that maybe they've pushed too far, too fast. That maybe they've already lost something they didn't even realize they had.

"Fuck," JJ mutters, running her fingers through her hair. Her usually calm exterior is cracking. She chews on her lip, her eyes distant, replaying the moments leading up to this. "She wanted to transfer, and I said she was running. I just pushed her from one bad decision to another. I didn't even listen."

Emily glances at JJ, the guilt mirrored in her eyes. They've been so focused on their own needs, on keeping Doc close, that they missed the cracks forming beneath the surface.

"Maybe go back to basics?" Penelope suggests, her voice gentle but practical. "Or let her define whatever boundaries she wants. She feels... as she keeps putting it, messy. And I get that. Sometimes the mess can feel too big to handle. Let her define the box she can put that mess in, and be happy with it—at least for now."

"And if that box is nothing?" Emily asks, her voice low, laced with the fear she's been holding back. The idea of stepping back, of letting Doc create distance between them, is almost unbearable. The thought twists in her chest like a knife, sharp and cold.

Penelope looks at her with a knowing smile, a spark of something softer in her gaze. "I saw the way she melted into JJ's arms tonight, Emily. I doubt Doc could go cold turkey for very long."

JJ lets out a shaky breath, and for the first time since their new coworker walked out the door with the Deputy, there's a flicker of hope in her eyes. Emily's chest loosens just slightly, though the weight of what they need to do still hangs heavily over them, but Garcia's words offer a glimmer of clarity—a path, however fragile, that they can take.

Emily finally nods, her voice softer now, more contemplative. "You're right. We need to let her lead."

JJ looks to Emily, her expression serious but tinged with that same tentative hope. "But we need to be ready for whatever she says. If she needs space... we have to give it to her."

Penelope gives them both a small, reassuring smile. "You're both good for her, you know that, right? Like, I am actively rooting for your little polyamorous fairytale?"

They all sit in silence for a moment. Emily's eyes flick toward the door, her thoughts already racing ahead to the hotel where Doc is probably curled up on one of the beds, maybe laughing at a stupid movie with Marlowe. Her hands tighten at her sides again, the jealousy gnawing at her, but this time, she forces herself to stay still.

It's time to think about what Doc needs, not what they want.

"We'll talk to her," Emily says finally, her voice steady but filled with resolve. She looks at JJ, meeting her eyes. "We'll listen."

JJ nods, the determination returning to her posture. "Yeah. We'll figure it out."

Penelope stands, clapping her hands together with a sense of finality. "Good. Now let's get back to the hotel and check on our girl."

Unfortunately, things at the hotel have taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Marlowe's legs are bracketing either side of you, but not in the way you might have expected. She's sitting behind you, holding you steady with one arm around your waist as the other pulls back your hair. Your head hovers over the toilet bowl, and all you can feel is a deep sense of humiliation as the alcohol finally wreaks havoc on your system.

"Just breathe," Marlowe's voice is calm, a low murmur as she tries to soothe you. The force of the heaving had brought on tears, but now they flow unchecked, turning into something else entirely. Maybe it's the alcohol making you emotional, or maybe it's the sheer embarrassment of the situation, but either way, you can't stop them.

"I... this is so embarrassing," you manage between shallow breaths, your voice shaking. The room still feels like it's spinning, and you can't quite pull yourself together.

"No," Marlowe chuckles softly behind you, clearly amused. "It would've been embarrassing if you'd done this in my truck."

Her attempt at humor is lost on you. You can't find anything funny about this. The cold sweat clinging to your skin and the acidic taste in your mouth is too overwhelming for amusement. Still, her hand stays steady on your back, giving you a gentle pat as she adds, "Look, kid, what else are friends for?"

You snort despite yourself, the absurdity of her words cutting through the nausea. "We're friends?"

Marlowe shifts slightly, her body moving just enough to give you more space, but she doesn't pull away. "You think I'm not your friend?" she asks, her tone light and teasing. "I mean, you're wearing my ex's clothes, and I'm holding your hair back while you puke in the toilet. Pretty sure that qualifies as friendship."

She points it out like that is all that is needed to become friends. You are sure if that were the case, lending clothes and holding someone's hair while they vomited, you'd have about a hundred or so people from university who owed you that title. The young, non-drinking genius was always relegated to 'hold my hair I am going to puke' person if she was given an invitation at all to the parties.

You roll your eyes, but there's no denying the slight smile pulling at your lips. You hadn't exactly imagined your first "friendship" moment like this. "Did you say your ex?"

Her laugh is soft, amused by your sudden clarity. "Not so tipsy anymore, are you, Doc?"

"Nope." You slowly push yourself upright, feeling Marlowe shift back to give you room. Your legs are wobbly, and your mouth feels like it's coated in grime. You stumble toward the sink, eager to rinse the taste of bile from your mouth. Grabbing your toothbrush, you scrub your teeth and gums with more dedication than you've ever done before.

Leaning back against the tub, Marlowe watches you with a bemused look. "Well, my ex used to work at the station," she says casually, as though she's discussing the weather. "Kept some of her 'we're just friends, meet-the-parents' clothes in my locker. Guess I never got around to tossing them."

You pause mid-brush, eyes narrowing at her reflection in the mirror. "You can have them back."

"Nah," she grins, "they look better on you."

That earns her another smile, despite the situation. You rinse out your mouth, feeling marginally better. The tears have stopped coming even though your face is still wet. "So what does it mean, being friends with you, I mean?"

Marlowe lets out a dramatic sigh, as if contemplating the weight of the question. "Well... it means that if I ever need to puke, you'll hold my hair. If I need to borrow clothes, like right now, 'cause I didn't tell you but some of that mess may have gotten on my pants…" She holds up a hand as you start to apologize. "And that when I come to stay in DC for police week, I get to crash on your couch. I think that makes us even."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Oh my god, live there the whole year. Hell, take the damn place—it wouldn't make up for this."

Marlowe's laughter fills the small bathroom, lightening the mood for a brief moment. "Tell you what, sweetheart," she says, her voice softening, "why don't you tell me about that blonde who had you wrapped up like a Christmas present and that brunette who was about to claw my eyes out if I even glanced your way again?"

You freeze, feeling a different kind of heat rise in your face. "There's not much to tell," you mutter, hoping to deflect.

Marlowe's snort of disbelief is immediate, cutting through your weak attempt to dodge the topic. "Oh, I'm sure that's not true. Come on, pumpkin. I got your vomit on my pants—you can give me more than that."

You breathe in deeply through your nose, feeling the lingering tipsiness churn in your stomach. Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself. A part of you wants to give her the short version, just enough to get her off your back. But then, suddenly, the idea of telling someone the truth—on your terms, before someone else tells it for you—sounds oddly appealing. Maybe you're still a little drunk? The room is still spinning just a bit as you pick out a pair of FBI sweats for her.

She frowns at them, moving around you to select a pair of your sleep shorts you hadn't had a chance to use yet and a tank top. As soon as she deems them good, she starts changing right in front of you without a second thought, her casual lack of modesty making you turn away, flustered. "So… we know each other through this club thing," you begin hesitantly, your voice quiet as you struggle to explain. "You know, one that caters to specific tastes, and—"

"Swingers?" Marlowe interrupts, her tone playfully curious.

You shake your head, exasperated. "No."

"Pet play?"

"No."

"Age play?"

"Definitely not."

"Hole in the wall style—"

"No!" you interrupt more forcefully this time, the heat of frustration rising in your chest. "BDSM, okay?"

You can hear the smug grin in Marlowe's voice. "I knew what it was, pumpkin. Just wanted to see if I could get you to say it. Please, continue."

You huff in annoyance, reminding yourself that five minutes ago, you were throwing up in front of this woman. You don't have the energy—nor the physical strength—to strangle her and deal with the aftermath. "Well, we regularly encounter each other at the club," you begin again, trying to regain some sense of control over the conversation.

"Have mind-blowing kinky sex, got it," she interrupts, and you whip around to glare at her. Marlowe, now sitting on your bed—your bed, not Garcia's—has ditched her bra at some point, her nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric of your top. Her shorts ride high on her hips, barely covering anything. She seems entirely at ease, like invading your personal space, both physically and emotionally, is the most natural thing in the world.

"Can you stop that?" You groan, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

"Can you stop narrating like a grandma?" she shoots back, her smirk widening as she flips through the channels, searching for the promised horror movie Garcia had mentioned earlier. She finds something but mutes it, obviously wanting to hear more of your story.

"Fine," you snap, the irritation bubbling up and making the words spill out before you can stop them. If you were sober, you'd see this for what it is—classic interrogation, slowly breaking down your defenses. But in your current state, still buzzed from the alcohol and the emotions it dredged up, the truth pours out unfiltered.

"They are probably the only tops I've ever known who can fuck me so thoroughly, in every hole, and still make me want to beg for more," you admit, your voice trembling, a mix of vulnerability and frustration. "No one has ever made me feel the way they do. It's… kismet with them."

Marlowe raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "And you don't want to be with them because…?"

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. Deep down, you know she's right. You like JJ and Emily more than you're willing to admit, but the truth goes beyond that. You don't want to be with them. It's not just because of the way your private life became a bit too public. That's part of it, sure, but the bigger truth is that you don't do relationships. They're dangerous territory—full of messes you've been avoiding your whole life.

"Bad things happen in relationships," you whisper, almost as if you're saying it to yourself. Your voice is barely audible, thick with a raw vulnerability you've spent years trying to suppress. "They're messy. They. Are. Messy."

The words echo in the quiet room, bouncing off the walls and sinking deep into the air between you. This mantra—it's been your shield, the thing you've clung to when everything else crumbled. You've repeated it enough times to almost believe it's the only truth that matters.

Marlowe's teasing disappears in an instant. Her playful smirk fades, replaced by something softer, more compassionate. She watches you closely now, like she's seeing beyond your walls, into the cracks you work so hard to keep hidden. "Messy like… bad, messy?" she asks gently, coaxing the truth from you, her voice devoid of the usual teasing.

You nod, feeling the tightness in your throat build, the pressure of unspoken emotions you've buried so deep for so long. A part of you knows you're walking through territory you rarely let yourself venture into. If this is the result of drinking, all this emotion, you swear you'll never touch the stuff again.

Marlowe's expression softens further, and you can tell she understands more than you expected. Her usual playfulness is completely gone now, and she looks at you with more than just sympathy. There is understanding in her eyes. "Bad like… I might've had to get involved, given my job, if I'd been your friend back then?"

Tears well up, stinging the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. You blink rapidly, trying to push them down. The weight of her question—the acknowledgment of your past, that some parts of your history, some parts of you , were far worse than just "messy"—it hits hard. You nod, your throat tight, managing to whisper, "Some of it. Not all messes were as messy."

Without hesitation, Marlowe gets up and pulls you into a hug. It's warm and solid, but you stiffen immediately, unused to this kind of comfort. Physical touch is foreign to you in moments like this—it feels overwhelming, too intimate. She seems to sense your discomfort and pulls back just enough, patting your shoulder lightly instead.

"Hey," she says softly, "it's alright. We don't have to get too heavy right now."

You nod, relief flooding through you as she steps back, giving you the space you didn't know you needed. She gestures toward the bed, her voice lightening as if to dispel the tension lingering in the air. "Come on," she says, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "Let's watch that horror movie. No more messy talk for tonight."

You let out a small, shaky laugh, the exhale feeling like a bit of the weight has lifted from your shoulders. Settling into the bed beside her, the flickering light of the TV offers a welcome distraction. For now, you're grateful for the silence—a reprieve that allows you to carefully package that heaviness back into the neat little boxes in your mind, the ones you never open.

You won't touch alcohol again.

Some boxes are better left unopened.