Author's Note: This is written from Emily's POV, and is set well before the Doyle/Pentagon storylines. I think that's all you need to know.

I've heard it's bad luck to listen to Christmas songs when it isn't Christmas – hopefully the same doesn't apply to writing Christmas stories when it isn't Christmas otherwise I'm screwed on both accounts. ;) enjoy.

Chapter One

Three days before Christmas:

I try, every year. Believe me, I try.

I buy a tree; I decorate it with gusto. I even extend my efforts to foreign traditions and purchase Christmas Crackers. The snap makes me jump, and the prize inside is never worth the frayed nerves caused by such an, albeit expected, shock, but I buy them nonetheless. I act enthusiastic about Garcia's annual 'Seasonal Movie Night', and I hang stockings for every member of the team on December 1st, and spend the next month filling them with treats and goodies in anticipation of the big day.

I try.

And yet the universe is still mocking me.

She's been following me around for twelve minutes now, jumping from reason to reason as to why it is that I just have to say yes. The best was that I have a closet full of incredible outfits that the job never allows me the opportunity to wear - I have to hand it to the girl: she's persistent.

Despite how much it feels like it, I know she isn't simply on a mission to drive me crazy. I know she has trust issues, stemmed very justifiably from what it is that we do and see every day. But a double date? On Christmas Eve, no less. I can't think of anything worse I'd like to be doing on Christmas Eve.

Not that she knows that. It's not exactly common knowledge that beneath all of that tinsel and festivity and immaculately wrapped gifts, I despise Christmas. And the only thing I despise more than Christmas, is dating around Christmas. Matter of fact, my life would be perfect if I could get away with only doing relationships and/or affection on a season by season basis – like theme parks. Very few theme parks are open during the winter, and why is that? Because winter is merciless, and cruel, and conniving. Theme parks know this, they're not dumb. Why can't my heart know this?

I wasn't born feeling this way, of course, and, surprisingly, it has nothing at all to do with my mother's incessant absence growing up. I think, once upon a time, I even enjoyed the holidays and freely drank up all of that Christmas Spirit – whatever that is. But the third time truly is the charm. There's only so many times that you can have your heart ripped out and handed back to you with a pretty little bow on Christmas Day before you begin associating tragedy with joy; and somewhere between the elf ears on the nightstand, the skimpy Santa outfit at the foot of the bed, and the Christmas Spirit that my girlfriend was getting into without me, I found my hatred.

Naturally, that hatred manifested into an over-exaggerated effort to seem like I'm feeling jolly. I pull it off, and I pull it off well. Which probably partially justifies her request, but I don't think she truly realizes just what it is that she's asking of me – mostly because it's off-season, and that theme park is closed until Spring. Perhaps, never to be opened.

"No." I'm already walking away but I know she's following me. She's not saying anything, and she doesn't exactly have cinderblocks for feet, but I can feel her enthusiasm boring into my back. And as I stop, turn slowly to find her grinning at me, I jump to what should have been my first question. "What about Morgan and Garcia? They're a couple." I place extra emphasis on that word and I know she gets the hidden question: why weren't they your first choice?

"Oh come on, Em." She pouts. "You know they'd just tease me about it for months."

My sharply raised eyebrow questions the validity of that statement. What she really meant to say was, "You need to get out more. I never see you with anyone. It's the holidays, what a perfect time!" What is her obsession with everyone pairing off and living happily ever after?

"Pleaaase." She whines, standing on her tiptoes and moving her head in time with the gaze that I'm purposely shifting. No one would ever believe she's a thirty-four year old, level-headed, driven, professional. No one. "Please."

God, she's adorable. I take the weakness I have for her out on the soft flesh on the inside of my lip and remind myself: the park is closed!

Apparently realizing she's getting nowhere, she falls back on her heels and frowns. "Where's your Christmas Spirit, Em? I know it's in there somewhere."

Oh, did I forget to mention… In a stark contrast to me, she's obsessed with Christmas. It surprised me at first, my natural assumption that Garcia would be the one to avoid on this not-so joyous holiday. But nope. That ultimate fangirl award goes to the tiny blonde in front of me, the one now offering me her best bright and cheerful, puppy dog eyes. Damn those eyes.

"Okay." I only know I've agreed when she flings her arms around my neck, before bouncing away with a satisfied smirk on her face – one that tells me she knew all along that she was going to win. One that tells me she's heading out to utilize her lunch break for more festive and likely date-related means.

How can she love this holiday so damn much? No, scratch that. How can she love mixing this holiday and love so damn much? That's a recipe for disaster if ever I knew one, and I can't help but call her back.

"Yep?" She turns sharply, her fingers tapping against the glass door that she grabbed to stunt her pace.

"What's the deal with you and Christmas?" I purposely leave out the latter part of my query – I don't think she needs more reason to find interest in my romantic life, or lack thereof.

She shrugs like it's obvious. "It's the only time of year that everyone stops and reflects and I guess it changes even the most stubborn of people. It makes them softer, more open." A smile makes its presence known only in her eyes and when she speaks again, it's more smoothly. "It's nice to see the more open, softer side of people."

She winks at me before she turns away and disappears down the corridor, and I can't work out if she's trying to reduce the weight of her statement, or being purposely implicative towards me. Probably both - she certainly got what she wanted, after all.

I guess I need to find a date outfit. What screams: I'm totally present and willing to play along, but I don't want to be here at all?

CM-CM-CM

Christmas Eve:

In years past, I've found myself willing the month of December to storm by. Somewhat of a perhaps-I-can-blink-and-miss-it type mentality. It never has, of course – until this year. The past three days skipped by in a heartbeat. Consequently – along with placing far too much effort into my attire for a date that I don't even want to attend - I've spent every minute of the past sixty willing my mother to coerce me into some pretentious, impromptu gala, just so I can justifiably let JJ down. That's pretty much the only way I see myself getting out of this – I don't know of anyone on the planet brave enough to say no to the Ambassador.

It's funny how my supposed owning of many incredible outfits was one of JJ's preliminary arguments in her attempts to get me to acquiesce, because the growing pile of shirts and dresses and jeans and jackets and camisoles strewn across my bed certainly doesn't share that rationale. I have though – in my apparent quest to look just incredible – learnt that I own more pantsuits than a lawyer, and that I need to get better at parting with quarter-century old t-shirts.

The arguably unnecessary attention I'm paying to my appearance is the reason I'm not at all focused when I answer the phone vibrating beside me; and Morgan's words barely register in between berating myself for the carbs I consumed for lunch that have left my stomach with a little more curve than usual, and simultaneously shaking my head at myself for the fact that I'm even concerned about that. I've never cared so much about my appearance in my life, and my whole narrative thus far has been about appearances. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what is different about this, but I banish that explanation as soon as it emerges and perch myself on the end of my indecision-laden bed with a frustrated bounce. "What's up, Morgan?"

"…Are you home?"

There are blatant nerves in his voice that naturally rub off on me. "Uh… yes?"

"Which means you're about twenty minutes from Union Station?"

"Yes, Derek." I reply with a mildly condescending chuckle. "I'm also about eighteen minutes from the Capitol building and twelve from our President's humble abode. Is there a reason for your interest or are you just conducting a survey?" He doesn't seem to want to share in my satirical attempts at lightening the mood, which instantly removes my smile and causes me to physically lean forward, as though I'm reaching for him. "Morgan… What's wrong?"

"Nothing wrong…" He replies cryptically and quietly, and then sighs, seemingly in frustration at himself. "Will you meet me? At that little café across the street from Union Station?"

I check my watch – I'm supposed to be meeting JJ in two hours. With the day it is ensuring that downtown traffic is going to be more unbearable than usual, I come to the realization that what I'm wearing right now is what I'll be heading to my dreaded date in. Something that I'm mildly grateful for when I consider the alternative of spending the next ninety minutes in front of the mirror perfecting my best teenage-girl impression.

Besides that – and obviously more important - he sounds terrified. There's very little that shakes Derek Morgan, which makes my decision for me. Realizing it'll likely take less time to walk, I respond, "It'll probably take me more than twenty minutes but I'll be there."

He has his back to me when I arrive, and the silver, well-tailored suit he's donning leaves me questioning this spur-of-the-moment invite only slightly more than the way he's shifting uncomfortably in his seat and seemingly uttering silent words to himself. I'm certain he's repeating the same thing over and over again, and yet his face keeps changing. So far, in the thirty seconds I've been watching him, he's jumped from petrified, to regimentally serious, to creepily joyous. He looks as though he's practicing his speech for the 'Notable Psychopath Awards', but when he turns and notices me approaching, he stands to his feet and settles on one emotion: relief. Something tells me I'm either about to have to talk him down, or build him up – I'm just unsure which.

"Emily." His posture is solid and his voice breathy. "I ordered you a peppermint mocha. I think that's what you drink." He frowns and gestures towards the counter behind us. "I could be wrong, but if I am just tell me and I'll go grab something different."

I silently throw out my palms. Truthfully, no part of my mind is certain what to do with this sudden shift in his personality – I feel like he's about to ask me out on a date, and I think I have enough of those for one winter. "What's the deal? You look like you're about to have a panic attack."

"It's entirely possible." He sighs and returns to his seat as I pull up a chair opposite him. His palms rest flat against the table as he seemingly fumbles through his mind for the right words. "Well you see, I have a question…"

I raise my eyebrow. "Is this the part where you tell I'm irresistible and beg me to ride off into the sunset with you?" I lower my gaze and my voice playfully. "Cos I gotta tell you Morgan, I really, really like women. I think it might cause us a fair few issues later in our unlikely love story."

"I wish." He scoffs, clearly not taking the calm I'd intended from my banter. "Telling a lesbian I'm madly in love with her would probably be considerably easier than this."

He lifts his unreadable, dark eyes to mine and, after a moment, reaches into his pocket and produces a brown, leather box; opens it and slides it across the table. The diamond is large enough to be impressive, but small enough to remain modest, and is sat in a band of what I'm certain is platinum.

His nerves, of course, now make a whole world of sense, but when he speaks again, his voice seems unnaturally calm when I consider just how erratic it had been moments ago. "I need your opinion, Em… I'm going to ask Penelope to marry me."

It's funny, I'd been expecting this revelation for months – even have a few bets going with Rossi which now mean I'm the proud owner of a 25 year old bottle of Chivas - and yet the truly overjoyed smile that emerges on my face would say it came as a total shock. Truthfully, for me, it's one of those moments in which I get to live vicariously through another person – I'm never going to be in the nervous, jittery, joyous state that he's in, but I get to feel it and the love that he holds and openly exudes for Garcia as if it's me who's about to propose.

"Really, really?"

He grins, far more at ease now and actually mildly astonished – like he can finally see the good rather than the terrifying possibilities in this moment now that he's shared it with someone – and rubs his palm against the back of his neck. "Yeah." He nods. "Really, really."

"Oh my god, I'm so happy for you." I eagerly lean forward to study the ring, surprised by my own enthusiasm and investment in this fairytale. I didn't know I had it in me. "So what's the plan? How are you going to do it?"

"I'm taking her to the restaurant where we had our first date." He looks uncertain again, like he's questioning his creativity. "I spent months deliberating just how to do it, attempting to come up with something elaborate and original. But apparently I'm not an elaborate and original kinda guy."

"I've heard the way you two talk to each other…" I respond distractedly, my eyes still captivated by the ring. "You're the most original sweet-talker I know. Which leads me to my next question." I snap the leather box closed and look back to him. "The speech… What are you going to say?"

"Well I was thinking…" He straightens his shoulders and I can't help but smile. "Penelope, I love you. You've got a big heart, and a voluptuous booty, and I can't imagine anyone else on the planet that I'd like to make beautiful, mixed-race babies with. Will you marry me?"

I pause for a second, waiting for him to tell me he's joking or at the very least imply it, but all I find in his eyes is the return of his untypically anxious gaze and I have to stave off my chuckle. "I think I'd lay off on the reference to the racial divide between the two of you, and possibly also what I assume to be praise of her voluptuous booty. Maybe go for a little less sex too." I ponder my advice for a moment before I realize one glaring point: it is Garcia he's proposing to. "Actually-" I shake my head. "-scratch that. It's perfect. If anything, add more sex."

"Phew." He mock wipes sweat from his brow and relaxes his shoulders. "I thought I was going to have to go back to the drawing board, and it took me three weeks to come up with that."

I toss a fond smile his way. I'm not sure anyone realizes, in amongst the player reputation that he both earned and encouraged, just how beautifully sweet this guy is – aside from Garcia, of course. I watched him dance around her for two years before he finally admitted that those playful quips and more than mildly risqué pet names weren't just friendly banter, and since then the two of them have been sickeningly inseparable. I honestly never imagined that their flirtatious ways could get more colorful - I was wrong. So very wrong. I'm beginning to think the not-so heeded fraternization rules were created for them, not Rossi.

"What about you? You're not getting any younger, ya know." Her smirks and sips his drink, seemingly back to his old, chilled, smartass self, before dropping the bomb I'm not expecting. "When are you going to propose to JJ?"

I choke helplessly on my drink. "When am I- what?"

He shrugs. "I heard the two of you are going on a date tonight."

"We're not going on a date, Morgan." I sigh – I'd almost forgotten about that small detail. "I'm helping her out. She's into one of the detectives from our New Orleans case a few weeks ago, and this is the first time she would have seen him since then. I guess I'm going as a safety net of sorts."

"Yeah, that's the version I heard too." He watches me with a curious smile, like he's waiting for me to say something else, before he finally decides to have mercy. "I'm just teasing, Em. But as your best friend… I feel it's my duty to remind you of your SAD issues."

"My what?"

"SAD. Seasonal affection disorder." He grins, clearly proud of himself for that creative little title for my romantic defects. "Ya know, like seasonal affective disorder, but more catered to your complicated persona."

"That's cute." I joke without missing a beat, attempting to relieve how intensely exposed I feel. I'd praise him for his profiling skills if I wasn't so thoroughly engrossed in trying to figure out where I went wrong in my efforts to seem like I'm madly in love with Christmas. Did I honestly think no one saw through my façade?

"I'm serious, Em." He's frowning now, and I can tell he's conflicted. He's JJ's friend too, and I know it's difficult for him to be, in a roundabout way, warning me away from her. It's not like she's a manipulative siren who enjoys toying with people's hearts - far from it. We both know that. But we both, apparently, also know just how invested I already am in JJ, even if I'd never directly admit such a thing.

There are parts of my heart that no one will ever occupy in the way she does. I simultaneously panicked over and accepted that a long time ago. But I'm not a fool: I know placing stock into the affections of a straight girl is a very good way to get your heart broken. So I never have. JJ is my friend, a very important friend… a very important friend who I care deeply enough for to get passed my schoolgirl crush and be objective about her happiness. And if the anxious way in which she reminded me earlier as I left work- "Don't forget about tonight." –is anything to go by, this guy is perfect for her.

"Morgan." I take his hand and decide not to insult his intelligence with an array of contradictions. "I am entirely capable of being attracted to someone and leaving it at that. JJ is straight, and very much off limits – I know that." He looks at me like he's struggling, like there's something he's not saying, but the shrill ringing of his phone – and the consequent onslaught of anger that emanates from it when he answers the call – tells me our conversation is over. "She pissed?"

"I was supposed to pick her up thirty minutes ago." He grimaces, and slips his phone along with the ring back into his pocket.

"Well I'm sure the reasoning for your tardiness will ease her annoyance." I smile genuinely as he stands to his feet and straightens up his jacket. "Good luck, Derek. Your speech is beautiful, the ring is beautiful, and you are beautiful. She couldn't possibly turn you down."

"Thanks, princess." He smiles and then presses a lingering kiss to my head. "Good luck with your evening, and remember what I said."

I watch him leave before cradling my coffee between my palms and studying the swirls of creamer unstirred on top like I'm reading my tea leaves and searching for inspiration.

Truthfully, I'm stalling. What are the chances that I can hide out in this coffee shop for the next four hours and just claim amnesia? Parts of me feel like I'm ignoring instinct in chaperoning this date tonight. Parts of me are yelling that those good intentions I have towards JJ's happiness and the efforts I'm extending to guarantee that fairytale runs smoothly, are exactly what are going to ensure that every year from this point will see me more as the Grinch than a festive phony.

Here's the thing: similar to not placing much stock into the affections of a straight girl, I also no longer place much stock into love. Those emotions reside within an unpredictable and contradictory part of the mind that makes me long for the simplicity of the brain of a killer. Their motives – however often insane – are typically definitive and their methods tend to stay true. Love… Well, that's a whole other monster entirely. Its only predictable quality is that it's unpredictable. If physically represented as an UNSUB, the BAU would have absolutely no chance of tracking it down; no textbooks to guide them, and no past experience to indicate probable actions and/or outcomes. Its rules bend and meander through logic in a way that never ceases to perplex me, and its ability to turn someone so level-headed and composed into a mess of broken thoughts and abandoned convictions and damaged confidence is astounding.

No… give me serial killers over love any day.

But as the leaves start to fall, and the temperature drops, and the darkness begins to draw in earlier in the day, the mildly affectionate part of my persona slips into an intense state of sentimentality that I don't typically possess – and I can't deny that, in recent years, that unnatural affection has directed itself towards JJ. I find myself wanting to lace my fingers with hers as we stroll through a festively decorated DC, and slip my arms around her waist solely to shield her from the cold as we watch the fireworks from Rossi's lawn on New Year's Eve. It makes me want lazy Sundays making love beneath sheets, movie nights curled up on the couch playing idly with silken hair, and damn kisses beneath mistletoe. Most importantly – and more detrimentally – it makes me want to take my innate tendency to wear my heart as far from my sleeve as possible, and pour that heart into words and admissions that may – may – just win me the woman of my dreams. It makes me want to take a leap into the unknown. It makes me want to chase fairytales and ideals that just don't exist.

It makes me miss the incomparable warmth that comes with simple human affection and interaction. Not necessarily the sexual kind, but the blissfully intimate kind. It makes me miss being human. God, I miss being human.

The season to be jolly is a dangerous time of year…

I may have just made it deadly.