Subtextual

JJ already knew this was a terrible idea.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Garcia. Or that she didn’t want to unwind. It was just... Emily.

She was barely keeping it together at work. What made her think she’d survive an entire night of off-duty charm and sidelong glances with absolutely no HR oversight?

Still, she knocked on Garcia’s door at 7:02 PM, wine bottle in hand, pretending her pulse wasn’t twice the legal limit.

Garcia opened the door in a flurry of fuzzy socks and glittery eyeshadow. “Finally! My favorite agent with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. And you brought wine! You *do* love me.”

JJ stepped inside with a laugh. “It’s just Pinot. Don’t make it weird.”

Garcia was already pulling her in for a hug. “Everything I do is weird. You’re lucky I use my powers for good.”

Inside, the apartment smelled like popcorn and citrus candles. The living room was a collage of mismatched throw pillows and warm lighting. Emily was already there, sitting on the floor with a drink in hand, one leg stretched out and the other folded underneath her, effortless in jeans and a black tank top that did nothing to help JJ’s current self-control crisis.

“Agent Jareau,” Emily said, lifting her glass. “You’re late.”

JJ arched a brow. “You’re early.”

Emily’s smile was lazy. “Garcia bribed me with tequila.”

“I didn’t even have to try that hard,” Garcia said, plopping down on the couch. “Now, sit, drink, and share things. We’re celebrating our first official girls' night with all three of us and no cases on the board.”

JJ sat across from Emily on the floor, the couch behind her. Garcia passed out drinks like an overly enthusiastic bartender with a glitter addiction.

“Okay,” Garcia announced, “since Emily’s the new addition to this very exclusive estrogen-fueled society, she has to answer five personal questions.”

JJ laughed. “What happened to relaxing?”

“This *is* relaxing. This is my version of trust-building.”

Emily smirked, swirling her drink. “Alright. Hit me.”

Garcia leaned in like a cat about to pounce. “First question: have you ever used your accent to get out of a speeding ticket?”

Emily didn’t even blink. “More times than I can count.”

JJ shook her head, smiling. “That’s not even fair.”

“Second,” Garcia said, “what’s the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?”

Emily’s eyes flicked toward JJ for a second too long before she answered. “Moved countries for a job.”

Garcia caught the look. JJ felt it like a dart to the chest.

“Third,” Garcia said, narrowing her eyes like she was warming up to the real question, “do you like girls?”

JJ nearly dropped her glass.

Emily didn’t flinch. She just sipped her drink and said, “Yes.”

Garcia grinned. “Knew it.”

JJ looked anywhere but at Emily.

Emily glanced at JJ, unreadable.

There was a pause—just long enough for JJ to feel the blood rush to her cheeks, but not long enough to call attention to it.

“Fourth,” Garcia continued, pretending not to notice the rising tension (but definitely noticing), “what’s your biggest red flag?”

“I flirt when I’m nervous.” Emily gave a lopsided shrug. "And sometimes when I shouldn’t."

JJ made a small choking sound and coughed it off.

Garcia giggled. “Fifth: What’s your type?”

Emily tilted her head. Her gaze dropped to JJ’s legs, casually curled beneath her.

JJ held her breath.

Emily looked back up. "Confident. Sharp. Knows how to hold her ground."

JJ nearly choked again.

Garcia sat back, beaming. “I *live* for this.”

JJ downed the rest of her drink in one go.

Emily poured her another. “You okay?” she asked, voice just low enough that Garcia couldn’t hear.

JJ took the glass. “Absolutely not.”

Emily's smile was subtle this time. "Glad we're being honest tonight."

Garcia threw on music, something upbeat and retro, and the conversation drifted to less incendiary things—embarrassing case stories, Penelope’s deep and undying love for her neon keyboard, Emily’s worst date in Paris.

But the current between JJ and Emily never dipped. Every brush of fingers, every glance over the rim of a glass—it was there.

And Garcia noticed.

She didn’t say a word.

But her smirk grew wider by the hour.

And JJ was *screwed*.

---

An hour later, the apartment was quiet. The music had faded to a low hum behind Garcia’s bedroom door, and the guest room—small, warm, and dimly lit by the streetlight outside—felt like it belonged in a dream JJ wasn’t sure she should be having.

She stood in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, staring at herself in the mirror.

*Get it together, Jareau.*

She was wearing a soft cotton tank and shorts—nothing scandalous. But the idea of walking into that room, sharing a bed with Emily Prentiss, felt like walking into the middle of a storm she’d only just admitted was there.

She rinsed, breathed deep, and opened the door.

Her bare feet met the carpet with a soundless step, but inside, her body was anything but quiet. Her nerves crackled under her skin, a constant static. She tried to remind herself she’d done this a hundred times—shared a hotel room, bunked on the jet, passed each other in the locker room. But none of those moments felt like *this*.

The air in the guest room was warmer than the rest of the apartment. Heavy with something unsaid.

And then she saw Emily.

Her breath caught instantly.

Emily was already in bed.

Sort of.

She was sprawled across the center of the bed, sheets untouched, half-lit by the warm orange spill of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The t-shirt clung like a second skin, worn and soft, and rode up just high enough to be dangerous. JJ’s breath caught in her throat.

Emily’s legs were long, bare, one bent at the knee in an easy, unbothered sprawl. She wasn’t scrolling so much as posing with intent dressed as indifference. If she noticed the effect it was having, she didn’t show it—not right away.

JJ stood there a beat too long, frozen somewhere between awe and panic.

She couldn’t help but stare.

Emily's posture was languid, confident—the kind that didn’t try to seduce but still did, with devastating ease. Her t-shirt had ridden up just slightly, revealing a line of skin that JJ’s eyes kept dragging back to. It was nothing overt. Nothing intentional, maybe. But it was working.

Emily looked up. Their eyes met, and JJ felt like she’d been caught red-handed.

Emily’s brow quirked, that familiar glint in her eye. "Comfortable, Agent Jareau?"

JJ tried to muster something resembling nonchalance. "Just wondering which part of that outfit qualifies as sleepwear."

Emily’s lips twitched. “The shirt has sleeves. That makes it modest."

JJ snorted softly, walking over with exaggerated calm to sit at the edge of the bed. "Barely."

“Would you prefer I take it off?” Emily teased, voice low.

JJ’s breath stuttered.

Emily caught it, her grin widening just enough to twist the knife. "Kidding," she said—but her tone made it clear she wasn’t.

JJ turned her face away for a second, biting her lip, trying to center herself. "You’re impossible."

“And you’re adorable when you’re pretending not to look.”

JJ glanced back at her, wide-eyed. "Emily—"

But Emily leaned forward, her voice softer now. "Relax. I’m not going to pounce on you. Unless, of course, you ask nicely."

JJ groaned. "You’re killing me."

Emily shifted closer. "How can I help?"

JJ looked at her, at those eyes, that mouth, the way her bare skin glowed gold in the streetlight.

And surrendered.

“Kiss me already,” JJ whispered. “Put me out of my misery.”

Emily didn’t hesitate.

She leaned in and kissed her—slow at first, warm and certain. JJ melted into it with a low breath, hand finding Emily’s hip beneath the edge of her shirt.

The kiss deepened. JJ shifted, pulling Emily closer, her fingers sliding up her spine. Emily’s hands were everywhere—JJ’s jaw, her waist, her thigh.

JJ gasped against her mouth. “Are we really doing this?”

Emily smiled into the kiss. “You asked me to.”

JJ laughed, breathless. “I didn’t think you’d listen.”

“I always listen.”

The sheets rustled as Emily pulled JJ beneath her. Mouths met again, harder now. JJ’s fingers tangled in Emily’s shirt, sliding underneath, finding the heat of her skin.

Emily kissed down her neck, soft and hungry.

“Still want me to stop?” she whispered.

JJ shook her head. “Don’t you dare.”

Emily smiled against her skin. “Good.”

And the night unfolded around them—breathless and electric.

Emily's hands skimmed under JJ’s shirt, tracing the curve of her waist like she already knew the path by heart. JJ arched into the touch, her fingers sliding down Emily’s back, nails dragging lightly across skin. The low sound Emily made in response sent heat spiraling low in JJ’s stomach.

Clothes slipped away between kisses—slow, teasing, inevitable. Emily’s mouth never left JJ’s for long, murmuring her name like a secret, like something precious.

JJ pulled her down again, mouths crashing together, need pouring out in every movement. When Emily's hand slipped lower, JJ let out a gasp that was part shock, part surrender. Emily paused, eyes searching hers.

“Yes?” she asked, voice rough.

JJ nodded, breath catching. “God, yes.”

Fingers. Pressure. JJ's back arched. Her grip on Emily tightened as sensation swept through her, head thrown back, breath stuttering.

Emily kissed her throat, her shoulder, her cheek—anchoring her through every wave. Whispering her name. Whispering more.

JJ didn’t know when she started shaking—just that she never wanted it to stop. Never wanted *her* to stop.

She tugged Emily up, flipping them with a sudden, laughing breathless energy, and returned every touch with her own. Their limbs tangled. Their rhythm syncopated and slow.

No hesitation.

Just need.

And when they collapsed, tangled in sweat and sheets, JJ pressed her forehead to Emily’s and let out a shaky laugh.

JJ let out a shaky laugh, still trying to catch her breath. “That was... not what I expected.”

Emily grinned, voice husky. “Disappointed?”

JJ shook her head, smiling into the kiss she pressed to Emily’s jaw. “Completely wrecked.”

Emily’s hand trailed gently down JJ’s back. “Good.”

JJ kissed her again—soft, reverent.

And thought, not for the first time that night, *I am so incredibly screwed.*