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She’d always hated the annual Quantico holiday party. It felt like forced fun, a little too similar to the parties she’d grown up going to that her mother would throw wherever they lived in the world.
The pattern was predictable.
Penelope would spike the punch with far too much tequila, at least one office-based gripe would escalate into something close to a fist fight before Derek broke it up, someone would throw up in the supply closet, and Emily would get hit on by colleagues she barely spoke to the rest of the year. It drove her crazy, and made her feel a pang of sympathy for the HR department, who would no doubt come in to a lot of work on Monday, but she went to the party anyway, like she always did, not wanting to be accused of being the Grinch if she didn’t show up
She grimaces as she takes a sip of the punch, coughing as the tequila hits the back of her throat, the tropical fruit flavour nowhere to be found. She feels the familiar warmth on her cheek, a sensation she’d long associated with being watched, something that, until very recently, used to spark fear in her gut, creating tension that would take hours to dissipate. It was different now, so many things were different now, and it was all thanks to the man who was pretending he wasn’t watching her from across the room.
She smiles to herself as she looks up, and her eyes meet Aaron’s, her smile only widening when he realises he’s been caught in the act, his attention immediately back on the paper cup that looks absurdly small in his hand.
Things were relatively new between them. It had been a few weeks since their first date, since their first kiss, their first night together, but she already knew that they were in it for the long haul. They understood each other in a way no one else seemed to, and, in the moments when she let herself get lost in the fairytale of it all, she could believe that everything they’d gone through had led them to this.
No one knew about them yet, except for Jack, and they’d agreed they’d try and keep it that way until the new year, determined to enjoy a few more weeks without any outside judgment or complications.
“Are you okay, peaches?” Penelope asks, appearing out of seemingly nowhere, her eyebrows furrowed, “You’re a little flushed.”
Emily chokes on a laugh and nods down towards the punch between them, “It might have something to do with the bottle of tequila you poured in there.”
“It wasn’t the whole bottle,” she says, and Emily raises her eyebrow, “It’s all part of the fun.”
Emily hums, “Fun is one word for it,” she groans when Penelope simply smiles at her, “Sorry, I’m being grumpy.”
“No need to apologise,” Penelope says, topping up her drink, “At least you look beautiful while you’re doing it,” she adds, “Besides, you might have some fun.”
Emily looks over at Aaron, watches carefully as he chats with Dave, and then she nods, an idea forming in her head as she looks back at her friend, “You know what, I just might.”
She knows she has to bide her time, that she can’t just disappear while everyone is still relatively sober, so she waits. She talks to JJ about her plans with Henry and Will for Christmas, then she gives Spencer advice on what to get his mother as a gift. She works her way around the room like she’d been trained to since she was young.
Small talk was, after all, the first language she ever learnt.
She manages to dodge the agents from counterterrorism who liked to flirt with her when they’d had a few drinks, her recent return from the dead, and everything that had led to it, apparently not a deterrent. She’s not sure if she’s grateful for that or not, if yet another piece of normality from before is a comfort, but she shakes it off, finally sneaking away the first real chance she gets. She goes down a floor, just for extra assurance that they wouldn’t be disturbed, and finds a supply closet that she knew would be safe from party goers who had enough to drink, they’d forget where the bathroom was.
She sends Aaron a text the moment she closes the door behind her, abandoning her half-drunk cup of punch on a shelf between staplers and notepads, and she waits.
She doesn’t have to wait long.
She thinks she would recognise his footsteps anywhere. She’d known them for a long time. At first, she’d used them as a sign to sit up straighter at her desk, back when she was worried he’d use anything - even slouching - as a reason not to trust her. Then it turned into something else, an oddly comforting thing that would signal he was entering a room, a voice of reason, and a force to be reckoned with whenever he walked into a room. She’d learnt new versions of his footsteps lately. The more muted ones as he walked in his socks in his apartment or hers, or the slower footsteps he’d take in an attempt not to wake her up if he got out of bed in the middle of the night, as if the sudden lack of warmth wrapped around her wouldn’t be enough to pull her from sleep.
It was something small, silly really, but it made her giddy. The thought of a lifetime of getting to know everything about him was something that didn’t scare her, but brought her joy. The promise of a future something she wanted to run towards for once, instead of away from.
He knocks on the door, and she rolls her eyes lovingly before she pushes it open, pulling him into the closet by his loosened tie and letting the door close behind him.
“That was fast,” she says, smiling as he watches her lick her lips. She leans around him and locks the door, “I thought it might take you a while to get away.”
He shrugs and wraps his arms around her, his palms wide and warm against her back, making her shiver. “It was good timing,” he says, leaning down to stamp his lips against hers. “Dave went to get some scotch from his office, and I used that opportunity to slip away.”
She hums and steps backwards, pulling him with her to trap herself between him and the shelves, “And here I was thinking it was because you just can’t stay away.”
He beams at her, and she cups his cheek, her thumb drawn to his dimple as if magnetised, “Well,” he says, kissing her again, “That too.”
She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, sighing contentedly as she presses her lips against his.
“This is very cliche,” she says in between kisses, “Making out in a closet at the holiday party. The only thing we’re missing is mistletoe,” she says, and he pulls back from her, a sparkle in his eyes that she thinks she’d set the world on fire to see every day, and he steps back just enough to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a sprig of mistletoe. It draws a delighted laugh from her, and a smile that makes her cheeks ache so much she thinks they might split open. “Where did you get that?”
“I picked it up this morning,” he says, hooking it above them, the stalk trapped between two shelves, before he wraps his arms around her again, “Just in case.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, “You’d hoped you’d make out with someone in the closet?”
He shrugs, “Someone? No,” he says, kissing the tip of her nose, smiling when she scrunches it up, “You? Always.”
He kisses her again, and she loses track of time. She gets lost in him, the press of him against her, the way he skims his fingers down her sides, through her hair, across the small patch of skin exposed low on her belly when she curls her arms around his neck.
Eventually, she pulls back, rests her forehead against his, and sighs, “Someone will come looking for us soon,” she says, rubbing her thumb over his kiss-swollen lips, trying to wipe away the remnants of her lipstick, “Maybe we should just go back to yours.”
He nods, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, “You don’t want to stay?”
She shakes her head, “I just want to be with you.”
There’s a second where it feels just a little too honest, but he simply smiles at her, “I just want to be with you too.”
She kisses his cheek, “I’ll go out first, give it a couple of minutes before you come out.”
He nods and kisses her temple, “In the new year, we’ll tell everyone. No more making out in closets.”
“I hope it’s not entirely off the table,” she says, winking, “I’ve got to have something to look forward to at next year's party.”
She makes it to the stairwell without bumping into anyone, but walks straight into Penelope the moment she gets back onto the BAU’s floor.
“Pen,” she says, clearing her throat, wishing she’d had a moment to pop into the bathroom first to make sure her lipstick wasn’t too much of a mess, “Are you okay?”
Penelope narrows her eyes at her, “I’m fine, I was looking for you, you’ve been gone a while.”
“Have I?” She asks, internally berating herself for not being able to keep her cool, “I went for a cigarette.”
“Oh,” Penelope replies, “Alone?”
Emily nods, “Yeah, all by myself,” she clears her throat again, “I’m going to go to the bathroom, I’ll meet you back out there?” She says, and Penelope nods, still looking at her suspiciously, and Emily turns away, grumbling to herself under her breath as she goes, “Get it together, Emily, you used to be a damn spy.”
Penelope watches her go, still confused about her friend’s strange behaviour, and she’s about to let the door to the stairwell close behind her, when Aaron catches it before it closes, just as surprised to see her as Emily had been.
“Garcia!”
“Sir,” she says, eyeing him curiously, trying to remember if his hair was as mussed up when she last saw him, “You were gone a while.”
“I just needed some fresh air,” he says, stepping past her, “Excuse me.”
“Fresh air?” Penelope mumbles to herself, watching him as he goes, and she gasps as the pieces fall into place, “Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, her smile wide as she walks back towards the bullpen, observing as Emily and Aaron clearly try and pretend they aren’t aware of each other’s presence, “She did have some fun.”