TITLE: Snuff: Into My Fate (PART 01/03)
RATING: FRM
CHARACTER: E. Prentiss / J. Jareau / A. Hotchner
SUMMARY: What are you running from?
WARNINGS: SPOILERS for 4. 15 - Demonology and 5.13 - Risky Business. Femslash, sexual content, mentions of self-harm.
NOTES: Honestly, I just needed an excuse to write something really dark for Prentiss, just because she's really awesome angst fodder - tell me I'm wrong. Next two chapters will have more Hotch and Em. This one is for the girls. The title is taken from a song by Slipknot.

Her eyes are even darker than mine when she faces me in bed. I see the truth written there like blood on the wall and it's all I can do to keep my hands to myself; keep myself from slapping that look of contempt right off her pristine face.

"What are you running from, Em?"

She grasps my arm with lifeless fingers and begs for an answer. We act in this play, the same stage but a different character every night, talking like we're strangers; only affectionate when we're in bed together; going to work and playing the juxtaposition of darkness and light, all business, and not even a hint in either of our voices when I enter her office to bring her coffee to her - but I always hear the sharp intake of her breath when I turn to leave. And I never look back, I simply smile to myself as I walk out and quietly close her office door behind me. She's getting too close now, that's what I'm trying to escape from.

"Maybe I'm running out of things to say," I whisper and then I retrieve my arm from her grip and leave her shapeless form. I go to my bathroom, close the door, and turn on the sink faucet full-blast so she won't have to hear the dry sob creeping out of my throat.

"New case in Toledo, sixteen girls reported missing..."

I hear the normal routine in the briefing room, admiring the way her voice flutters slightly as she speaks and her bony knuckles quake against the file she holds in her hands. It isn't nerves, I know. She's done this too many times to be anxious about the nightmare she literally clutches within her grasp. Now is when she's her most alert, now is when I remember her as a sincere martyr and not a woman who just last night let me draw lazy shapes across her naked back with my tongue.

Tinker Bell. If she were a Disney character, she'd be Tinker Bell with her glacial eyes and the delicate curve of her jaw; it's the same spot I've pressed my lips against numerous times in the past. I smile briefly in spite of myself and shift in my seat as she looks around the table at the team. Her gaze lingers on me just one moment longer than the others.

This time it's my turn to try to mask the sharp intake of breath inside my lungs.

She enters my front door and I instantly pin her to the wall so I can inhale her breath, warm and demanding in my mouth, and her hair falls like silk between my fingers. She pushes me away, only slightly, so I can be evaporated in her stare.

"I missed you today," I whisper fervently as I help her begin to remove her clothing, grazing my teeth along the curve of her neck.

"Wait," she sighs, softly gripping my wrists, "shouldn't we go to the bedroom?"

I shake my head, allowing my hair to loosely fall over my shoulders like wet mud. I hear her breathe me in and I already know that waiting for the bedroom will take too long.

"No, I need you now."

We have sex on the floor and when she comes, she tells me that she loves me. I kiss her cheekbone, but I don't respond. My words get lost somewhere in her hairline.

I close my eyes, steeple my fingers with hers, and I grin into her chest when I think, Second to the right, straight on till morning.

We're in a hotel room somewhere in Ohio, and even when I'm in her arms, she's honest and fearless when she speaks.

"What's this?" she asks one night as she discovers the thin white scar on my wrist and traces it like an artist.

I sit up and pull myself to the edge of the mattress, creating distance between us as I push her away. I glance over my shoulder and see her bright eyes digging a hole into my heart, trying to bury themselves in my past, pleading for an explanation. I keep telling her she should take the classes to become a profiler, she's so damn good at it. I stand up, silent like an old hollowed-out tree, and begin to put my boots back on.

"Em?" she asks mournfully, curiously, so fucking concerned. I can't take it. The last time someone told me that they loved me, I got knocked up. How was I supposed to know that I deserved any better? How was I supposed to know that one failed suicide attempt would find me in some blonde savior's bed twenty-five years later, and that she would be feathering my scar with kisses and questions, lightly sketching it and wondering what it all meant?

"Stop it, Jennifer."

She balks at my tone and the abrupt use of her first name. I watch her sit up but ignore the look she's giving me as I put my foot on the edge of the bed for leverage so I can zip up my boot.

"I don't..." I begin, but even I start to wonder exactly where I'm going, "it's not worth it. I'm not worth it, actually. It's okay."

I manage a small smile without really looking at her, and then I leave her once again in the wake of my bleak shadow.

I know she's getting tired of this; I am, too.

TO BE CONTINUED...