Work Text:
"Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, you'll never have me more than once…."
Burst Into Flames, Cavale, Season 1, Episode 10, Emily in Paris
As Emily steps away from her kitchen counter, she raises the glass of Pinot Noir to her lips. Jammy notes of raspberry hit her nose first and then, as she tips the glass back, cascade into her mouth. She closes her eyes and savors the acidity sitting bright and crisp behind her teeth. She and this drink of wine need a moment to commune. She will let the alcohol absorb into her bloodstream once she has had at least a second to absorb the day. Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes and finally swallows. Almost immediately, a subtle warmth spreads throughout her chest and coats the memory of the day in a way that ever so slightly softens its edges.
The last twenty-four hours have wrung her out in a way she didn't know was possible. From night to dawn to dusk and back again - she hasn't stopped. Hasn't stilled. When she went to bed well past midnight, and then when she woke up this morning long before the sun, her insides were twisting with anxiety over the professional stakes of today's fashion show. Now, with the day coming to an end and the work event safely behind her, she feels as if every ounce of energy, focus, and social grace has been drained from her. She had put on a good face in front of Sylvie and the others, maintaining the standard pep in her step. She was seemingly marching forward with her usual "can-do" attitude. Now, Emily rolls her eyes to herself. She is partially embarrassed, partially defensive. She is self-aware enough to know that her co-workers find her consistent show of positivity to be an exasperating "American" character trait.
What her colleagues don't know is that every step today felt heavy, gritty, and thick. Like trudging through something dense that both forestalled her forward movement and also had the power to pull her downward. A mere twelve hours ago, Emily hadn't known if the Pierre Cadeault fashion show would be a success. She also wasn't sure if the stunts Grey Space had pulled during fashion week had taken an irreversible toll on her client's artistic confidence. Emily's idea had been to fight fire with fire and show just how relevant Pierre still was, but it had been a huge risk. If her gamble had failed, she wasn't sure Sylvie would have forgiven her.
In the end, the display that Emily orchestrated proved to be the perfect antidote to Pierre's wavering self-esteem. Moreover, there was no doubt in the public's mind that the designer was as talented and vibrant as ever. The graffiti-covered couture that Pierre's models wore as they marched through the outdoor runway was, at first blush, completely out of his wheelhouse. Not to mention the seemingly self-effacing phrases on the frocks - among them, "Pierre Cadault is Over," and "Pierre Who?"
Stylistically, the collection appeared wildly bizarre if reviewed out of context. But, luckily (or initially, unluckily, as the case had been) all of Paris fashion week's attendants knew the context. The news and chatter all week about Grey Space's performance art had been relentless. When they splashed black paint all over Pierre's dress (and Emily in it) earlier this week, it had seemingly crushed Pierre's feelings of self-worth. Then, when he canceled the venue for his show, the papers wrote that he had been slowly fading into the background for years and was now ready to accept defeat. However, with Pierre's confident and cheeky strut at the end of today's show, he proclaimed that he most certainly wasn't leaving the world of high fashion behind. He had taken away the power of his naysayers' words by incorporating them into his own art. It had, in the end, been brilliant.
Even before the glowing reviews were in, the energy and applause in the crowd confirmed that the show was a success for its shock factor alone. Upon inspection, any trained eye could see that the silhouettes in their neon hues mimicked the glamorous and billowing dresses of Pierre's many seasons past, albeit in a reinvigorated and candy-coated color scheme. The juxtaposition of old and new had reasserted the fashion brand as being enduringly classic, yet confident enough in its core values to embrace a more modern aesthetic. Pierre was colorfully laughing in the face of his critics.
Emily felt pride when Pierre hugged her quickly after the show and said, "Now, Gossip Girl, we celebrate!" She had enjoyed the moment, certainly. She couldn't deny that. Finally, there had been something that felt like hard-earned camaraderie when Sylvie herself congratulated Emily and suggested that the group should have dinner together to commemorate the occasion.
She tried to enjoy dinner to the fullest, but even the relief she felt about her work couldn't detract from the more private turmoil layered beneath her surface. Emily couldn't free herself of the melancholy that had set in as soon as Gabriel announced his imminent move to Normandy. Work had forced Emily to compartmentalize and set aside the trials of her own heart for at least a day. Yes, she had experienced a soft landing for work, but with that victory came the removal of her professional crisis as a distraction. Without a marketing dilemma to focus on, she was immediately swept up in a tidal wave of deeply personal emotion about what tomorrow would bring - or more accurately, who it would take away.
Being at Les Deux Compères for Pierre's dinner had guaranteed that Emily would be in Gabriel's midst for his last night in Paris. She couldn't tell if having him so close for so long was making her feel better or worse. She pushed through the meal with a series of forced smiles. She enjoyed spending time with Pierre's nephew and business manager, Mathieu, outside of work. Emily wondered if the small flirtations with him could develop into something that would help her forget Gabriel. Every time Mathieu's hand would brush hers over the bread basket or beneath the table, she would try to feel something - try to convince herself that after Gabriel moved, life would go on. It wasn't working. Inside, she was coming undone little by little, course by course. Then, saying goodbye to Gabriel so hurriedly had been the final unraveling.
Now, she feels defeated, having been unable to say any of the things she would have said if Mathieu hadn't been over her shoulder. If she's being truthful with herself, though, would she have actually said anything different, anything more, if she had been alone with Gabriel? Or, in reality, would she have kept their farewell succinct and merely pleasant for fear that a cocktail of longing, lust, and sadness would combine in a way that pushed out words she could never take back? She isn't so sure of anything when it comes to Gabriel other than that she does not always have control over her thoughts and mouth when he is near.
At least Emily knew enough not to accept Mathieu's invitation to attend another party tonight. She didn't have it in her to keep up the buoyant facade much longer. She had needed this - the solace of a solitary nightcap. Mindy would be home eventually, and Emily is looking forward to recounting the day's events to her friend. For now, she is taking some peace in the quiet of her empty apartment. The space is silent save for her pounding heartbeat, which has not seemed to slow since she left the restaurant and brushed that seemingly chaste kiss onto Gabriel's cheek. Those reverberations over her left breast seem to be creating their own heat and, combined with the wine, have made her face and neck flush.
Emily walks out onto the balcony and savors the ripple of cold air that passes over her warm skin. She stares across and down the street at the entrance of Les Deux Compères. The sight of the place that now holds so many memories for her is doing nothing to slow her pulse. She takes another sip from her glass. This time as the wine flows over her tongue, she picks up on a transient and almost imperceptible suggestion of vanilla, soft and candied, if not maybe on the brink of being burnt. The crust of a crème brûlée in liquid form. She swallows, and the ghost of the flavor cradles her taste buds. If Gabriel has taught her anything about wine during their many hours and meals together, it is that there are subtleties to any good varietal. A subtext to every sip. An undercurrent to every flavor. Things are not always as they first appear. Sometimes to understand the whole flavor profile you have to wait. You have to hold out for the unexpected note that hits your palate at the last moment.
In that instant, with nothing but Gabriel on her mind, she realizes just how bittersweetly fitting it is that he has been the one to teach her these lessons. After all, hadn't it taken weeks for her to uncover the last and most unexpected element of his profile? Taken. Coupled. Unavailable. He was not the playful bachelor she thought he was that first time (yes, that second time, too) she accidentally showed up at his apartment door thinking it was her own. She had been blissfully unaware that he was someone else's better half when she was taking a shower in his apartment. The feel of the scalding hot water had been no match for the goosebumps covering her limbs, every inch of skin excited with the knowledge he was just outside the bathroom door. And what about the first time she and Gabriel shared breakfast? Emily had been sitting cross-legged and infatuated on his kitchen counter feeling the air between them sizzle like the butter in his omelet pan. There had been no hint that maybe as recently as the night before he had been making love to another woman. And then, when Emily had the foolish courage to kiss him so fiercely at the restaurant, she still hadn't known the whole story. She had thought he was gorgeous, talented, and, most importantly, unattached.
Yes, with wine and with Gabriel, nothing was as it first seemed. Emily can recall the categorically crestfallen feeling that came over her the moment she heard Camille utter the word "boyfriend." So casual, so matter of fact - because it was. "Boyfriend." In a moment, in a word, Emily's dashed hopes were lying at the feet of a truth she hadn’t seen coming. Emily had been sure at the time that disappointment flooded her face. However, she must have been adept at hiding her reaction to Camille’s inadvertent bombshell. She never seemed to pick up on any tension, sexual or otherwise, between Emily and Gabriel. As for the second time Emily had kissed Gabriel after too many shots of tequila and too many weeks of wistful glances… well, Emily hoped Camille had never picked up on the guilt that followed.
Emily blinks herself out of that memory and, more importantly, the feeling of shame tied to it. Not because she isn't repentant about that second kiss, but because there's decidedly no utility in torturing herself any further. In the end, Gabriel is moving to Normandy to run his own restaurant. He and Camille have parted ways, and the demise of their relationship has nothing to do with Emily. It seems to have everything to do with Gabriel's decision to leave Paris and, likely, some deeper, more complicated issues that predate Emily's arrival in the city of lights.
As if she conjured him with her thoughts, Emily can suddenly see Gabriel outside of the restaurant stacking chairs. She watches the way his arms move, lift and carry. There is a gracefulness to him, but also a physical strength that she knows would serve him well in bed. She almost blushes at her private thought but also doesn't actively push it aside. She can't help it, but at that moment (and all moments since she has met him) she wants those arms to move, lift, and carry her. Put her down onto his mattress for a goodbye that won't haunt her as half-hearted, obstructed, and lukewarm. If he leaves for Normandy in the morning and the tepid kiss on the cheek she just gave him is their parting moment, Emily won't be able to forgive herself.
When she sees him closing the front door of the restaurant behind him, it is as if she is taken over by an instinct and compulsion she can't control. She needs to get to him. Seemingly before her mind can catch up with her body, she has run back into her apartment and put the wine back on the counter. Her purse is in her hands. On second thought, she grabs the wine, taking a long and thirsty gulp. She knows that something strong and powerful is moving through her - moving her to Gabriel - but she has the foresight to know that a little extra alcoholic fortitude cannot hurt.
Emily makes her way down the stairs, through the front door, and back out into the night. It's late, and the streets are empty, save for a pair of lovers who stroll unhurriedly by her building as she departs. The two are so engrossed in one another, their fingers and gazes intertwined, that they are entirely oblivious to Emily's quickening steps. As she breathlessly makes her way to the restaurant, she has the image of that man and woman walking hand in hand fixed in her mind. She wonders what it must be like to have that lazy ease about your own love. To securely and slowly meander without destination or deadline. She imagines it must feel good and safe and languorous. Couples like that have a different pace about them. Nightcaps are savored slowly in between lingering kisses. Lattes sipped over the Sunday paper cool before they are even finished, as there is nowhere to be and no one to interrupt such a perfectly intimate breakfast. Those evenings and mornings must bleed into one another creating a seemingly endless supply of time and space to move tenderness from one partner to the other and back again.
In stark contrast, Emily is nearly frantic with the need to fix this last night with Gabriel, to amend her goodbye, before the chance has irrevocably passed. She is not a party to a couple with endless opportunities for their affections. She is a party to…nothing, really, except her own longing. For at least tonight, she needs to put that longing into action. She finally arrives at the restaurant. Her momentum is so built up that she nearly crashes into the front door. She knocks urgently at the glass.
"Gabriel!" she practically yells as she raps against the pane. "Gabriel! Open up!"
When he doesn't initially appear she feels panic and starts to imagine that he has left and gone somewhere else for a bon voyage party. Her panic turns to self-pity as she asks herself how she could have been so foolish as to think he would just be here conveniently waiting for her. She considers waiting outside the restaurant for a few minutes in case he is inside and just didn’t hear her knocking. She immediately recognizes this would be pathetic. Just as self-respect urges her to turn around and head back home, she senses motion and a figure from the side of the building. She looks up, and Gabriel's face is looking back at her like a dream she knows will soon end, but from which she doesn't want to wake up.
"Emily?" he says, looking confused, but not unhappy to see her. "What are you doing here?"
She is breathless and nearly panting, but she manages to get it out. "I didn't want that to be how we said goodbye," she says, referencing that brief kiss on the cheek earlier in the evening. Then it tumbles from her. "I'm going to miss you so much."
There. She has said it. The words have been on the tip of her tongue for days. She is going to miss him. She will miss his friendship. Somehow though, she knows that he understands that she will also miss what they could have been. Is it possible to miss what has never happened? He looks into her eyes and she knows it is possible. There is a flicker around his pupils, and before she can even register the way that smoldering look has set her on fire, his mouth is on hers. It's urgent, quick, and there is not much time for more than a press of lips and a brush of his tongue across her cupid's bow. It is enough for her to know that this moment isn't over.
She isn't even sure how it happens, but before she knows it, he has locked the front door of the restaurant and grabbed her hand. They are hurriedly making their way to their apartment building. She is laughing with relief, with anticipation. He looks back at her and smiles, stopping at one moment on the sidewalk just outside the apartment building to kiss her neck and then cup his hand over her left breast. He can surely feel the pounding of her heart, the very physicality of her excitement. A few more hurried steps later, he is letting them into the building. In a tangle they make their way up the stairs. Despite the way their limbs must move separately to get them up each flight, she feels like they each have a magnet in their bellies that is pulling, reaching, and trying to decrease the space separating them to something nominal. This is the heady stuff of novels, of films, of secret thoughts alone in the dark. When they reach his landing on the fourth floor, he moves his hips forward to playfully pin her back to his door.
"In France, this is the fourth floor,” he says though a smile. “This is my apartment, not yours." He then reaches out to move a piece of hair from her forehead. He seems to steady himself with his other hand by her head on the door. His breathing is labored as if it's a physical effort to halt the process of their bodies crashing into one another and then into a hundred beautiful positions. She understands this effort because, in just this small pause, she feels the exquisite torture of interrupting the trajectory of where they had been destined to go just a second ago.
Then the teasing is gone from his eyes, and he asks her, "Are you sure you want to be here - in my apartment?" The question is part continuation of their inside joke, part concern.
She is touched by his tenderness and his offering of a moment of reflection. With his lower body flush against hers, she can tell and feel that he has no hesitation about what will happen next if they cross this literal and figurative threshold. Despite the pure, raw want she can feel emanating from him, he is still giving her a chance to back out if she is second-guessing herself. What he doesn't know is that she has never wanted anything more.
"I want this," she gently moves her hips toward him. He lowers his hands to her waist. The pads of his thumbs seem to sink into the flesh just above her delicate bones, coveting her lower body now that she has made her desire clear. Feeling his fingers melt into her, it's as if her body wants to devour him starting with his hands. It's an animal instinct that she can't recall ever feeling so strongly before.
"I want to connect with you this way. I've wanted it for a long time and wasn't sure it would ever be possible," she says as she gingerly reaches up and runs her thumb along his lower lip.
He looks down to where their bodies are pressed against one another. He takes the smallest and gentlest bite at the pad of her finger. Then, he looks up, an eyebrow raised. She feels a small ring of heat forming slowly in her.
"I don't think we will have any trouble connecting," Gabriel says huskily, as he ever so slightly moves his lower body towards her even further.
She looks down now, murmurs a low, "I know that…" Then, looking up and feeling the pink glow work its way to the surface of her cheeks, she says, "Believe me, I want that so much…"
She tries to recenter herself. She wants him to know that there is true emotion calling her to his apartment, his bed - it isn't solely a physical need. "I want us," she puts a hand over his jacket on his heart, "to connect." She leaves her hand there for a moment and looks down again, still acutely aware of where their bodies are meeting.
She feels almost sheepish like she has said too much. Maybe the intensity of what she is feeling will scare him. She's still looking down, scared to meet his gaze. When she does look up after a moment, all she sees is that the glint of desire that was in Gabriel's eyes earlier has now exploded into something large and all-consuming and rich with fire.
And just like that, he unlocks the door, and they are inside his apartment. Her eyes are closed at first as they kiss, hungrily now. At one point Gabriel moves from her lips to the space behind her earlobe. The heat of his breath and the feeling of his tongue, which he then runs down the side of her jawline, has Emily burning.
Her lids are still heavy over her eyes as if closing off sight will allow her to even better focus on this delicious sensation.
"You're making me so hot," she says, and it feels invigorating to say exactly what she is feeling.
"Perhaps later I'll need to run some ice cubes along the seams of your body to cool you down," says Gabriel. "I could whip up a sorbet maybe? Eat it off of your stomach?" She sees a smile at the corner of his lips. She knows that the second part is in jest, but still, the idea of Gabriel licking a dessert off of her body is almost enough to make her reach her edge, and she is still fully clothed.
They kiss with a vigor that betrays their weeks of pent-up desire. They nibble, lick, and press their mouths together until she is so turned on she can't bear the warmth permeating every inch of her. Emily pulls her jacket off and tosses it, thinking it will land on the floor. She hears it land on top of something closer. Other than a quick peek at his face after the sorbet comment, Emily's eyes have been closed since they stumbled into the entryway. When she opens them now, she sees there is a collection of boxes in the front hall of the apartment. The very sight of them stings. They're a harbinger of what's to happen in a few hours when the dawn comes and Gabriel goes. She doesn't want to dwell on this, and she doesn't have much time to, because when Gabriel sees the first hint of a downcast expression on her face, he puts his finger to her chin.
"Don't think about tomorrow." He follows her gaze to the boxes and then points her face up to his. "Be with me here now."
"That's exactly what I want," she states with assurance, "but I'm already dreading the morning."
"Then let me make you so overcome with pleasure that you can think only of this moment." She almost giggles, because it is so sexy but also so exactly the kind of thing you’d fantasize a French lover would say. And then, like an artist set to work, he reaches his mouth down and paints her collarbone with kisses that feel like brush strokes. His mouth begins to travel lower and lower along her décolletage, while his hands roam upward from the opposite direction where they had been holding steady to her waist. His mouth and his fingers meet at the lacy scalloped edge of her bodice.
"This is all I have thought about," he murmurs into the valley between her breasts, "since I saw you in that doorway in your white, wet t-shirt." He's referencing that second time that Emily - soaked from a six-mile run - accidentally tried to get into Gabriel's apartment instead of her own.
"You seem to have a very clear recollection…," she was going to continue with "of that day" but those words are lost to a small moan as she feels Gabriel's thumb scooping beneath the edge of the neckline and coming into contact with her nipple. The noise that escapes her is pure contentedness, and it fills the void where her words went astray.
"Am I leaving you speechless, Emily Cooper?" he says as he circles her gently. "Some would argue that wasn't possible since you always seem to have an observation or idea that you want to share." He laughs into her skin, and Emily can feel the vibration of that sound gravitate towards the center of her breast. Her delicate skin comes to attention under his touch, and his voice turns to a low and guttural growl. As if he has no choice, he moves his mouth over the taut flesh, releasing his thumb so that it can hold down the edge of the fabric and expose her.
Next, he flicks his tongue again and again, and Emily seems to feel the sensation all the way down in the place where her legs meet. Is it possible to orgasm before he has even touched below her waist? She doesn't want to come yet. She wants to keep building this sensation and chasing after it. She needs to give her nerve endings a moment to rest before they are overwhelmed.
She moves her hands down to the belt buckle at Gabriel's waist, expertly and quickly loosening and unbuttoning him. This gets his attention, and he moves his mouth away. She reaches below to touch him. Whatever she expected, dreamed about, or envisioned is nothing compared to the sensation of his tremendous hardness in her hand. She runs her enclosed palm along his shaft once, twice, three times, looking him straight in the eyes as she does it. By the third stroke, he has closed his eyes and releases what can only be described as the sexiest sigh she has ever heard escape someone's lips. She wants nothing more than to keep eliciting that kind of reaction from him.
"Looks like you're the one who is speechless now," she says, as she starts to gently massage the very tip of him, which is slick now. His lips part, but he says nothing except, "Emily."
Without hesitation, she pushes him against the only wall that hasn't been made inaccessible by a barrier of cardboard boxes. She drops to her knees, her breasts still exposed, and takes him into her mouth. As he plunges in, she can hear him take in a large inhale. She tastes the subtle salt of him, and she is more ravenous for him, for this part of his body, than any dish he has ever cooked for her.
She only runs her lips up and down the length of him a few times before he moans in a way that lets her know he is in ecstasy. "How are you doing this to me?" he says, as a hand runs its way through her hair.
She releases him from the soft warmth of her circled lips, but only to run her tongue along him in a way that seems to somehow bring him to even further attention. She doesn't want to go too far with this, because she wants to feel his solidness inside of her. She can't wait.
She stands up, and he immediately kisses her, almost as if he is thanking her. He spins her around and begins to walk towards the bed, guiding her backward while simultaneously reaching for the back of her dress to loosen it. When she feels her thighs touch the bed, she lowers herself down.
"As much as I would love to keep these - and only these - on you," Gabriel eyes her boots with four-inch spiked heels, "I would fear for my life or my eyesight as I plan to have these legs around my neck in a matter of moments."
He lifts one of her legs, and when she feels Gabriel's hand reach for the zipper on her boots and tug down, she feels like something deep within her is freed. It's as if her insides, from her mouth down to the place where heat has been forming, have been confined for weeks. Now, all that beautiful tension and desire is unfurling and tumbling out of her. She wraps her bare leg around his waist to bring him into this torrent of sensation. He finishes tugging at her other boot and then, throwing it onto the ground, he is on top of her in the same motion.
There is a mad fumble of clothing, lips, teeth, and skin. Emily can feel the chill of the apartment air on her body. The coolness and her desire cause her to shiver.
"You said you were hot," he says as he runs a hand up and down the length of her limb, "but it seems you need me to do something to warm you now, instead." She is laying sideways on the bed, and he is kneeling above her. Slowly, his hand makes its way into the gathering between her legs. As soon as he parts her, she knows he can feel the flood of longing that has made its way there.
"Oh, Emily," he moans as if the very touching of her is doing something to him. She feels somehow both vulnerable and powerful at the same time. His finger slowly begins to circle the most sensitive peak of her. The feeling is pure electricity, and it expands from the nerve endings he is caressing to somewhere else deep inside of her. She arches her back with the desire to be closer to him, to meet him in some way. Her hand is behind her now, propping her up slightly. As he traces his index finger along the edges of her, she gasps. Then, when she cannot take the waiting any longer, she looks him in the eye and, without a word, he knows she is ready for him.
He slides into place, the lean lines of his biceps in perfect view while he planks above her. He lowers slowly, and she adjusts her legs to accommodate him. She can feel him, hesitant at first, entering her. It's almost too much, too all-encompassing of a feeling. She can't quite assess and categorize all the sensations, but maybe that is the point. For once, for just tonight, she isn't meant to analyze or make sense of everything. Maybe, for now, she can just…be.
Their bodies speak to each other with familiarity. In a matter of moments, he is fully inside of her, and they both pause, as if they can't believe that they've denied themselves for so long. The pause does not last for long, and it's Emily who bucks her hips upwards first with Gabriel immediately following suit with a retreat and thrust. Their rhythm picks up simultaneously, seamlessly, as if they've done this a hundred times and not just thought about it a collective thousand times. There are exhales escaping from them every other moment, but no words and not even names. There is, perhaps, not enough energy to form language. All their vitality has been delegated to this gorgeous series of movements.
Emily isn't sure how long they are in the throes of this passion. She doesn't want it to end, because she knows that this needs to be the last time this ever happens. At the same time, however, she can't keep her climax at bay any longer. Gabriel's eyes focus half on her face, half on catching glimpses of the visual poetry as their lower bodies move together. She throws a hand above her, grabbing for the headboard when she knows she is on the brink. She can see in his eyes that he is too. Then, with a single request from Emily - "come with me" - they explode together in a way that feels otherworldly, magical, and - yes - final.
THE END