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She’s late. But then, there ought to be some leniency in that, despite the evening being in her honour, or maybe because of that.
Touching the barely-healed cut on her forehead, self-conscious about whether its hidden by her hair or not, Emily nods once, just to herself, then raises her knuckles to knock. (Don’t think about the fact the last time you were here, the last time you sat in Penelope’s living room—) she shakes her head, as if physically shedding the thought before it has a chance to settle, tongue darting out to whet her bottom lip right as the door swings open.
It’s become a subconscious habit for Emily to quickly take a count of the room before entering it, to check everybody is accounted for, though it makes her cringe. She has no idea how long she’s been doing that for. Her eyes dart from one face to the next, taking quiet inventory. She’s the last to arrive, but then she’d already known that.
Letting Penelope take the bottle of wine she’d grabbed as a last-minute peace offering, Emily allows the energy of the room to envelope her, sinking into it like a warm bath. It’s a relief after so long to be able to feel like she can breathe again. To have Penelope running around fixing people drinks and fussing over decorations, Luke and Tyler bickering on one side of the table, and Tara and Rebecca snuggled up on the other. Even Rossi, for the first time in months—if she’s honest, years—looking fairly jovial.
And then there’s JJ.
Something about the way she looks in that exact moment threatens to sucker punch the breath out of Emily - not that that’s anything new. It’s a feeling Emily has danced with for the best part of two decades. Still, seeing her looking so at ease, so comfortable in her own skin again, at last—and in this space, this apartment—has Emily almost at a loss of words. At the very least, she’d definitely tuned out whatever it was their host had said as she handed her a glass, trance-like in the way she lifts it to her lips. Emily realises too late that it had been intended for a toast.
At least she has her injuries as a convenient excuse. The ringing in her ears after the explosion, the sharp pain in her ribs from the cattle prod. It has been a couple of days, but when she closes her eyes, she still sees the trail of blood from Frank Church’s head wound swimming behind her eyes, the crippling fear that she would be next creeping up her throat. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth, and it hurts to eat, but all things considered…
Her hand moves to clink glasses a second after everyone else’s, and the others are moving towards cutting the cake before Emily has even figured out what it says.
Well… everyone but…
“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” JJ says, tucking her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans. The gesture only serves to make the slither of skin at the top of her waistband more prominent.
She looks… well, way too good, actually. It’s the most skin she’s shown in weeks, the blue of her sweater making her eyes pop, the cut of it showing off her toned, muscular arms.
Not that Emily’s looking.
She notices too late that her mouth is open but no sound is coming, sees it eventually in the bemused squint JJ sends her way. It’s not dissimilar to how she’d stared at Emily that afternoon when she’d all but confessed—
Emily stops herself.
The problem with the gold star case being closed is her mind now has too many chances to wander.
“You know how it goes,” Emily says, trying to appear more casual than she feels, “all the bureau’s red tape bullshit you have to cut through just to leave the building.”
Cocking her head to one side, JJ nods, seemingly mostly unfazed by the hesitation. Maybe she—correctly—assumes that that red tape was accompanied by several glasses of red wine. It’s as good a painkiller as anything Emily’s been prescribed.
Still, the silence hangs between them for just a beat too long, before JJ gets that glint in her eye, and Emily knows she’s in trouble.
“Come on then… let’s see the war wounds. They got you pretty good in the face.”
Okay. Not the trouble she expected.
Emily groans.
JJ doesn’t back down though.
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
It’s the same gentle teasing she gives to the guys, but it has an edge to it. It’s close enough to flirting that it’s dangerous, memories from a lifetime ago bobbing up to the surface where Emily’s spent so long ensuring they stay down. Then again, JJ had already done that herself, speed-running through their history as though cutting the weights away was as easy as slicing through butter. As though each of those moments weren’t sharp enough to kill.
Emily feels it, a flutter in her lower abdomen, the squeeze of it in her chest. For years, she’s been able to ignore it, but not when JJ is looking at her like that. Not after it gives me you.
It makes her mouth dry.
“That’s hardly fair, everybody’s seen yours,” she says, around the taste of sawdust on her already fragile tongue.
It hits her about a second after it does JJ. The wince, the cloud that momentarily darkens JJ’s eyes, knocks her easy swagger off-kilter.
Emily’s so good at putting her foot in her mouth, she’s practically an Olympian at it.
“Shit,” she says, immediately, “I didn’t mean it like—”
But JJ is already in the midst of shrugging it off, packing the thought away wherever she’s shoved the long sleeved, high necked sweaters she’s been wearing since Luke told her about BAUGate.
“I know. It’s okay,” she smiles, lightly touching Emily’s wrist, moving her hand up to cup her elbow. Like it’s the most casual movement in the world. Like it isn’t setting Emily’s skin alight.
“I just meant, you wear—”
“Emily,” JJ interrupts, drawing the syllables of her name out in that way that always coils itself into the pit of Emily’s belly. “I got what you meant.”
She draws her arm back, showing Emily the barely-there, puckered scar from the bullet that had snuck through the armhole of her vest four years ago. The bullet that had almost killed her.
Lowering her voice means stepping closer, close enough that Emily can see the hint of blonde in her eyelashes where JJ had quickly topped up her mascara, missing some.
“You know there was something weirdly cathartic about seeing that body, without its scars and the evidence of my boys, and knowing it wasn’t mine - that’s weird, right?”
JJ gives a self-deprecating laugh, touching Emily’s arm again, that same casual fondness in it that has Emily itching to take her hand, to lean into it.
Looking up, she catches Tara standing somewhere to their left, watching with raised eyebrows. Emily takes half a step back, self-conscious, despite her friend already having returned to whatever story Luke is animatedly telling.
She had practically forgotten everyone else was there.
“Anyway, you think you might actually get that tattoo this time?”
I did, Emily thinks, and she can practically feel the movement of it against her ribs, the bird in flight, now struck through with electrical burns. Burns that match JJ’s.
But she can never tell JJ that.
“I will if you will,” she says, instead, grinning.
When JJ grins back, it’s hard to look away.