A/N: I needed something quick and fluffy to balance out the fact that everything else I've written is on the heavy side, so here we are! Full inspiration credit goes to JJ's face in 10x17 when showing Rossi where his vaguely familiar passage had come from. I feel like this story was more or less inevitable after that.

Hope you enjoy!

It started with a text that woke up Emily's phone, rousing it to life from its spot at the corner of her desk.

She glanced up to confirm that her work phone was dormant; it was her personal one pulling attention away from the case reports she'd been buried under all afternoon. Emily grabbed the device with eager fingers—this job was perfect for her in a lot of ways, but even its many perks hadn't endeared her toward all the paperwork that came with being the boss. It was way past time for a break.

Seeing JJ's name on the screen brought a smile to Emily's face and wiped every bit of the day's paperwork tedium from her mind. She called that the BAU effect, where she'd hear from her old team and it managed to buoy even her worst moods, and it was still just as strong now as the day she left. Unexpected texts like this were especially nice; she didn't have to worry that she was about to get bad news like she might with a surprise call.

JJ's message was in blaring all-caps—not her usual style. ROSSI HAS READ THIS was all it said, but that was plenty to pique Emily's curiosity with. She tapped the notification to see the rest.

There were no more words as context; JJ had attached a picture instead. Emily's mouth dropped, partly in bewilderment, but mostly in delight—the book was unmistakable. Its dramatic water droplet for a cover was trying to be subtle, but there was no hiding from how ubiquitous it had become. The 'Bare Reflections' readership: Rossi and every mild-mannered soccer mom on the planet, apparently.

Beg your pardon? was what Emily's reply said. Tell me everything was what it meant.

JJ's lightning-fast response confirmed that Emily wasn't the only one currently bored out of her mind and/or eager for some friendly gossip—good news for both of them. Don't listen when he tries to deny it, she insisted. As if Emily ever would.

Under different circumstances, Emily would have felt mean-spirited for how quickly her mind started whirling with gleeful plans to badger a friend with an embarrassing tidbit. But this was Dave Rossi, the sass master himself; snark was practically his main form of affection. Admit it or not, he had just as much fun receiving it as he did doling it out.

Plus, Rossi didn't really do embarrassment.

What's your source? Emily asked. If he was going to play the denial game, she'd want to have her facts straight.

Reliable! i.e. He accidentally told me himself. Emily grinned; that made it even better somehow. And her smile widened even further at JJ's followup message: Also, he called it a "romance novel."

"Yeah, that tracks," Emily snickered. Rossi had a giant (begrudging) soft side, and she knew that his many ex-partners weren't exes for lack of trying on his part. But the man had cultivated quite a reputation over the years, and it wasn't exactly for most people's idea of romance. Are we really that surprised? she wondered.

Don't know about you, but I sure am, JJ replied. Honestly this book seems a bit tame for his tastes.

Emily's burst of laughter earned a few curious looks from the agents working outside her door, so she hid her grin behind her hand and hoped that no one asked questions. This really wasn't a conversation she wanted to explain to her team. Maybe pulling rank would get her out of an awkward discussion on the matter.

Either way, Emily finally had some fun at the end of her paperwork tunnel. You are so my favourite person, Jennifer Jareau.

—

For Rossi it began much the same way: with an unexpected text message cutting into his work day.

[10:21am] So, are you one with your inner tigress?

The message baffled him for half a second, but it didn't take long before the pieces clicked into place and he found himself fighting off a reluctant smirk. At least they'd waited for the case in Madison to end before gnawing on this bone. Rossi wondered if it was JJ's restraint or Emily's that had granted him the delay.

Back to work, Chief Prentiss, he replied. He tried to take his own advice, but it was half-hearted. It was a good thing Emily couldn't see how eagerly he was awaiting her response; that would only encourage her.

For a few minutes Rossi thought he might have gotten off easy, until two more buzzing notifications arrived in quick succession to dissuade him of that dream. He should have figured that Emily's troublemaking instincts wouldn't let her drop it without having any fun. After all, that was one of his favourite things about her.

[10:28am] I don't think my essence has ever fled my body for the carnal plane. Maybe I'm doing something wrong.

[10:29am] How do you bite someone's soul, anyway?

Damn. He'd been hoping for something that gave him ammunition to return fire, but no—she'd stuck to lines that had made their way into the cultural consciousness via cheesy talk show jokes and late-night sketch comedy. He'd need another tactic.

Nice to hear that the world's terrorists and traffickers are so dormant today. I feel safer already. Maybe he'd be able to save a bit of face if he stuck to his patented smug smart-assery.

Except, of course, for the fact that Emily had infringed upon that patent years ago. I'm a very good multitasker, Dave.

It was his own fault, really. He should know better than to admit vague familiarity with any passage containing the word 'tigress'—in general, but perhaps especially in front of a certain mischief-making blonde who had a direct line of gossip with Emily Prentiss. You know, I liked JJ better when she respected and idolized me. Sure at the time she'd been an awe-struck undergrad who'd never properly met him, but he'd take what he could get.

That's funny, Emily countered. 'Cause I like current JJ best.

"Surprise, surprise," Rossi groused. The two of them colluding were a force to be reckoned with. Then be a good friend and warn JJ that she and I are about to have a little chat.

His only reply was a winking face blowing a kiss—atypical but effective punctuation to their conversation. Rossi wouldn't presume to guess what most people used that smiley to convey, but he was pretty sure that this one said 'More to come…'

—

It was strange to realize that you'd been outright ignoring parts of the world around you for weeks and months at a time. Emily hadn't realized how fully she was surrounded by Bare Reflections—she'd hardly noticed it at all beyond spotting copy after copy being read on the Tube—but now that she had a reason to pay attention, she'd started to see the book and its offshoots everywhere.

Right now, it was the prominent erotica display at her local Waterstones; an 'If you liked this, you'll love these'-style strategy to draw in eager readers. The Bare Reflections saga took up prime real estate, of course, but it was flanked by a bevy of other, similar reads. Mostly bodice-rippers, from the looks of it—there were a lot of covers showcasing abs that would make Morgan proud. That being said, Morgan wasn't the target Emily had in mind as she contemplated sharing the display.

Moments like this made Emily extra grateful for her professional skill set—stealth photography was a piece of cake once you'd learned how to be inconspicuous under deep cover. It was even easier these days; she could just pretend to busy herself with the very phone that was taking the shot, effectively blending into the smartphone-saturated crowd. And okay, maybe this particular scenario wasn't what the CIA had in mind when they trained her, but some covert tricks work just as well for ridiculous objectives as they do for high-stakes ones. Frankly, avoiding awkward attention while she took pictures of erotic novels struck Emily as a perfectly worthwhile goal.

I need something new to read. Any suggestions? A tap of her thumb sent both the message and the photo off to their transatlantic destination.

Emily had browsed her way around to the Staff Picks table by the time she got a response.

Can't help you there, I'm afraid, Rossi lamented. But I do know just the person to recommend reading material.

Nothing else followed, so Emily shrugged off the reply until later that night when she got a call from a confused but enthusiastic Spencer Reid. "Emily, hey! Rossi said you were curious about the manuscript I've been reading on subjective and objective indices of time perception in adults with depression. I didn't think of that as something you'd be interested in."

Emily rolled her eyes at Rossi's retaliatory efforts. "I've gotta keep my mind sharp somehow, right handsome?"

"Good thinking; the evidence that cognitive reserve protects against the early presentation of clinical deficits caused by Alzheimer's neuropathology has been building for years."

An affectionate laugh bubbled in Emily's throat. "God, I've missed you." There was nothing quite like being privy to all the rapid-fire bits of knowledge that spilled from Reid's mouth over the course of a day, and Emily had always loved the way his delivery sometimes blurred the line between hard fact and friendly concern.

"Yeah, I miss you too," Reid replied, seeming unfazed by the interruption. "Anyway, the paper's fascinating. It's the first meta-analytic review that I've seen on the subject. Did you know…"

Emily settled back in her chair, a smile twitching at her lips as she took in Reid's rambling spiel. She would happily listen to an impenetrable lecture-for-one if it meant she got a chance to catch up with her favourite genius.

—

It wasn't over. Reid had unwittingly made that clear when he strolled into the roundtable room with a casual "Emily says hi" for Rossi and nothing but a shrug for Morgan in answer to his joking complaint that Prentiss was playing favourites with her greetings. It was an innocuous enough message, but impossible to misinterpret. Emily was enjoying herself entirely too much here.

And okay, if he were really pressed into it, maybe Rossi would concede that that enjoyment was rubbing off on him, too.

So when evening rolled around and an email popped up in his inbox, Rossi knew roughly what he was in for, though he was still far enough in the dark about its contents to be wary. Whatever it was, at least she'd sent it to his personal account.

Dave,

Why wait for the pros to write you a sequel? The internet's got you covered. Happy reading!

-E

Below that was a series of links, each with a helpfully-pasted summary detailing the plot, or lack thereof, of the story in question. That extra step had to be Emily's attempt at making sure he was able to fully appreciate her offering in the eminently probable event that he didn't take the bait by clicking through. The titles alone wouldn't have done nearly as well at conveying the enthusiasm, to put it kindly, with which each story went about building on the original's premise.

Rossi had been an aspiring writer himself once upon a time. He could appreciate that it took practice to develop one's craft, and he was sure that Emily's curation decisions here were more about entertainment (her own, natch) than they were about literary excellence per se. But still. Each new summary made his cringe intensify. One had him kind of worried that somebody out there was stocking Bare Reflections in elementary school libraries.

Although… the last one didn't sound half bad, if he was being perfectly honest. After a moment's deliberation, Rossi opened that link in a what-the-hell; maybe-read-later tab—if anyone asked, he could say he clicked the link by accident.

In the meantime, he had better things to do, like brainstorm credible reasons to explain why Garcia might need to explore Emily's recent browser history.

—

A nagging part of Emily's mind warned her that she was finally taking it too far. Not being a pain in Rossi's ass; that still had mileage as far as she was concerned. It was mainly a postage issue at this point. She had just genuinely considered parting with her hard-earned cash, purely in the hopes of soliciting a reaction that she wouldn't even be there to see. There was no way to spin that as anything but questionable.

Speaking of questionable decisions, Emily felt like she was looking at several at once. She could forgive the marketing teams that had shuffled mountains of cheesy BDSM-lite Bare Reflections merch up the corporate ladder and out into the world—they were just cashing in on a craze. Though really, the coyly named, silicone-based "Massage" Oil couldn't possibly be fooling anyone.

She was less convinced by the decision-making skills of the pharmacy manager who'd set it all up in a truly ridiculous display, conveniently nestled between bandages on the left and dental care products on the right. One-stop shopping for those days when you need a Spiderman toothbrush and some light bondage gear. At least they'd mostly stuck with red silk scarves, lacy blindfolds, and flimsy handcuffs in their little inventory—any curious shoppers would have to go elsewhere for the more adventurous tie-in fare that almost certainly had to exist.

Emily knew that her buying something wouldn't get any of the above players to reconsider their choices, though it would probably make her rethink her own. But then again, what the hell was the 'Discretionary' cell in her monthly budget there for if not situations like this? If she was lucky, Rossi might get annoyed enough to search out the grumpy emojis.

—

In a way, Rossi was proud. This was serious commitment to a bit on Emily's part. He could admire that, even if he was her target.

The box he'd just opened was full to the brim with tame, branded products, all perfectly geared toward the newfound crowd of mildly-adventurous consumers. He had to give props to the design team who'd made the packaging—it couldn't have been easy to create a tigress with a come-hither stare, but somehow they'd pulled it off.

There was nothing too scandalous in the mix, even with his dabbling days behind him (good thing, too; the "gifts" had come from a woman who was practically family). But even if it was a bit vanilla, none of it was terribly professional, and right now it was strewn all over his desk.

That became a problem when Morgan announced himself with a knock and widened Rossi's ajar office door. He really should have closed that thing.

"Hey, do you have the file for that Iowa consult?" Morgan trailed off and his eyebrows shot up as he caught sight of the scene in front of him.

"Nope." Morgan's new question was pretty clear, but Rossi decided he'd rather answer the first one. Aiming for casual, he tossed a stack of paper over the FedEx box that had gotten him into this mess. It said something that his first instinct was to hide the source of his haul while leaving its contents on display.

His nonchalant stare didn't do its job. Morgan's eyes lit on the hastily covered box, then met Rossi's in bemusement. Rossi threw up his hands in defeat—no use fighting the inevitable.

Morgan latched on to the tacit permission, shifting the papers aside and studying what lay beneath. A cheek-splitting grin crossed his face as he registered the shipping label's familiar scrawl and return address (an oddly diligent step to take, considering the cargo). Morgan shook his head in amusement and turned to make a brisk exit.

"You know what man, I don't even want to know."

Though the way his laughter echoed down the hall said that maybe he had a guess or two.

—

By the time Emily's phone chirped with a message from Rossi, she'd been waiting patiently for quite a while. Well, she'd mostly been patient—the lazy evening and generous glass of Merlot had helped with that—but she wasn't eager to waste any more time. She quickly traded the book in her hand for her phone.

He'd sent her a picture of his new silk scarf. It was dangled artfully in front of a large mahogany chest, and Emily had to wonder how long he'd spent on photo composition. Thanks for the gifts, he said. I'll add them to the rest of my collection. The lid was cracked open just a smidge—not enough to show what was inside, but enough to hint at what was purportedly there.

Emily groaned, trying to decide if she was more grossed out or amused. She knew that chest—it was one of the characteristically tasteful and quietly expensive pieces of furniture in his den, and she was pretty sure Rossi kept his table linens in there. She really didn't want to call his bluff on that, though. The Risk/Reward ratio just didn't work out in her favour no matter how she sliced it.

The worst part was that he knew it, the smug bastard. Emily could practically feel his smirk radiating from the other side of the camera lens, and it made a grin bloom on her own face.

You ruin all my fun, Rossi, she pouted. To be fair, he caused a lot of it too.

And hey—it was good fun while it lasted.

A/N: Writing this story felt a bit outside my wheelhouse in a lot of ways, so I'd love to know what you think. Thanks so much for reading!