Disclaimer: I own nothing; everything belongs to their rightful owners.
AN: Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read and/or review my stories, that really means the world to me! And a special thank you goes to my beta reader, the wonderful greeneyedconstellations!
Warning: dark&twisty, deals with DARK themes, might be trigger-ish
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All You Never Say
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"The most successful marriages are based on lies." - House M.D.
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Just breathe.
With closed eyes Emily reaches for the faucet, waits for the cold water to hit her skin and wash away the evidence from her trembling fingers.
When she opens her eyes, she meets her own gaze in the mirror above the sink. Dark eyes staring back at her. Empty. Just how she feels.
Her throat hurts and she wishes she had her toothbrush. But it's in her bag, back at the motel, not here at the police station in this god forsaken town at the end of the world.
She shakes her head, angry at herself for giving in, but the truth is she feels better. She knows it won't last, knows it will only make her feel worse later, but for now she's back in control and that's all that really matters.
A knock on the door makes her jump.
"Emily?" It's Aaron. "Are you in there?"
"I'll be out in a second," she calls back, hates how hoarse her voice sounds. She reaches for her ponytail, loosens the tie to allow her dark hair to fall back into her face. Smoothing down her bangs with her hands.
Picture-perfect Emily.
Pristine as ever. Ready to go back to work.
If only they knew.
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I
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The first time Emily Prentiss shoves a finger down her throat she's twelve. She's overheard two girls talking about it at school and she just wants to know what the fuss is about.
One time can't hurt, right? (God is she wrong).
It's disgusting and it bloody hurts and Emily promises herself to never do it again.
But then, she does.
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She tells her best friend Eliana about it, because that's what best friends do.
And it's no big deal, right? (But it is; it is.)
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She's eighteen and just enrolled in Yale when her mother calls one morning.
"Do you remember Eliana?" she asks, her voice strained. "Her father was working for me when I was posted in Israel."
"Of course," Emily says, the blonde, blue-eyed girl was the only real friend Emily ever had. "Why? Did you see her?"
"No," her mother says. "I'm sorry, Emily, but-"
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Heart failure, that's what people say when Emily arrives for the funeral. Everyone shakes their head in disbelief. Not Emily.
She listens to the wails of Eliana's mother, meets the broken expression on her father's face and the tears on her brothers chubby cheeks, and when she finds herself in front of Eliana's grave, Emily can't stop thinking…
"It should have been me. It should have been me."
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II
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The weather is killing her.
It's too hot and humid and to make things worse, the air conditioning stopped working hours ago.
With trembling fingers she fumbles at the collar of her blouse, bites her lip and tells herself to breathe. But it's getting harder and the small office the local police had to offer makes her feel claustrophobic.
Everyone is just too damn close.
"Prentiss?"
Out of the corner of her eye she finds Aaron studying her from his seat across the table. She wants to tell him that she's fine, but the words get stuck in her throat and suddenly there's just no air. She sees his eyes go wide in surprise while Emily tries to take another breath.
He keeps talking, his lips moving, but Emily can't concentrate on what he's saying, and for no reason at all she stumbles to her feet. She needs to leave, now. She takes a few unsteady steps before everything turns dark.
When she becomes aware of her surroundings again, the first thing she realizes is that she's propped up against someone else's chest. There's a hand holding hers, fingers around her wrist to feel her pulse. A familiar scent making the moment oddly comforting.
"I think she's coming back, Hotch."
"Emily? Can you hear me?"
Despite the fact that the world is spinning, Emily opens her eyes and finds JJ crouched down next to her, a worried look on her face and a glass of water in her hands.
"Emily, can you hear me?" Aaron asks her again, and it takes her a moment to figure out that she's resting against his chest and that he's also the one holding her hand.
"Emily?" This time it's JJ. "You want some water?"
For a moment Emily considers it, but then she spots Morgan and Reid and Rossi and that annoying police chief watching her, and her cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger. She shakes her head.
"I'm fine," she says, ignoring the dizziness and trying to stand up.
"You shouldn't-" Aaron starts, but helps her into a standing position anyway.
"I'm fine," Emily murmurs again, her eyes closed and her hand reaching for the wall to steady herself. "I'm fine, Hotch," she adds, more determined this time, and takes a step back, putting up her hand defensively, trying to get some distance between them.
She can't think when he's standing so close.
"It's just the damn heat."
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I
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She's thirteen when she goes to a party she's not supposed to.
She sneaks out of her bedroom in the middle of the night, meets up with her friends down on the beach. She has a cup of something that tastes too sweet for her liking, but they all drink it and so she can't say no. (She can't, right?)
She's dancing and laughing and drinking, and then she's feeling dizzy and tired and she wanders off into the night by herself, even though she's not sure why.
The boy shows up out of nowhere. (What was his name again?)
(Daniel. His name's Daniel.)
He tells her that she's beautiful, that she's funny and cute and that he likes her. He kisses her, shyly at first. Then more forceful. And Emily doesn't understand because he's someone else's boyfriend.
Her knees buckle and she stumbles. The boy catches her with ease. Smiles. It looks all wrong.
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When she wakes up the next morning, only half dressed, feeling sick and hurt, his smile is all she remembers.
It doesn't stop her friends from turning their backs on her though, doesn't stop the rumors from spreading at school.
They all know more than she does.
(It has nothing to do with the truth.)
When they leave the country six weeks later, due to her mothers posting, Emily's thankful for her mother's job for the first time in her life.
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She's sixteen, playing Never Have I Ever at some party.
"I don't remember my first time," she admits, already wasted. "I got drugged."
She's not sure what makes her say it, but once she has, she realizes what it means.
There's an eerie silence, people staring at her. Unsure, nervous, worried. Pity clearly visible in all their eyes.
She takes another gulp from the bottle, even though it's against the rules. (Who cares anymore?)
"I'm joking," she slurs, rolls her eyes. "You should see your faces."
Later that night, when she finds herself throwing up into her neighbor's rose bushes, Emily makes herself promise to never talk about it ever again.
There isn't much too say if you don't remember anything anyway. (Is there?)
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II
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It's late, their case a mess, and they're back at the motel to get some sleep.
But instead of sleeping, Emily's sitting in front of her motel room, staring into the dark.
"You know, it's kind of reckless to sit out here with a serial killer on the loose."
"He'd be in for a surprise," Emily murmurs, not looking up.
"What are you doing out here?" Aaron asks. His voice filled with worry. "I told you to get some rest."
"And I'm supposed to do whatever you tell me?"
"Sweetheart-"
"Stop calling me that, I have a name."
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asks, and bends down beside her, a bottle of ice-cold water in his outstretched hand.
"I'm not thirsty," she mumbles, but takes the water anyway. Enjoys the cold against her heated skin.
"You're not pregnant, are you?"
At first she says nothing, only stares back at him and tries to fight the urge to slap him.
"What if I was?" she taunts. "You'd just run the other way?"
"No," he answers calmly. "I would take you out of the field. Do you need me to go and get you a test?" he asks without as much as a blink, and Emily can't help but laugh. The mental image of Aaron in some small town pharmacy, looking all serious and business-like in his black suit and his red tie, asking for a bloody pregnancy test. That'll be the day.
"What's so funny?" he asks her softly, and reaches forward to push a strand of her long hair behind her ear. She lets him. Leans into his touch.
"I'm not pregnant."
"Alright." He nods, his face unreadable once again, and Emily isn't sure if she likes it or not.
"Then what is it?" he asks, his dark eyes searching hers.
"Just the weather," Emily answers.
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I
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She's fifteen when she finds out she's pregnant. (It just had to happen).
It's her own fault. How could she have been so damn stupid?
It doesn't take long for the rumors to start, doesn't take long for people to start whispering behind her back all over again.
(It's a different country, a different language, but teenagers are teenagers.)
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"Who knows if it's even mine?" John tells her, and Emily can't blame him. "It's not my problem, it's yours."
And he's right, of course he is. No matter if it's his baby or not, it's growing inside of her- not him. She has to take care of it.
But she's too young, too broken, too scared. She can't have a baby, can't be a mother. Doesn't want to.
The world is too horrible.
(She learned it the hard way, didn't she?)
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She asks Matthew because she doesn't know what else to do. And he loves her enough to help with whatever she needs.
She's too lost herself to see that he's just as lost as she is.
(She doesn't belong to anyone.)
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II
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Emily's supposed to wait for backup, but she's always been keen on breaking the rules and so she walks into the building all by herself, hoping against her better judgment that their victim is still alive.
The man comes out of nowhere and she's on the ground before she really knows what's happening. Her own gun suddenly pointed at her forehead.
"Look what we've got here," he drawls. A twisted smile on his scarred face. "You came here to play?"
"Let her go," she croaks. "Take me instead."
The man laughs. "Oh dear, you're far too late, but…" He bends forward and Emily has to fight the urge to turn her face away. He sniffs. "I think I'll take you anyway."
He grabs her by her jacket, pulls her up to her feet and pushes her back against the wall so hard she sees stars.
"This is going to be so much fun," he sneers into her ear, and Emily closes her eyes to stop the world from spinning.
She should do something, anything, but-
"FBI! Put down your weapon and raise your hands!"
The man is gone a second later and Emily's stumbling, falling. Blood trickling down her pale skin.
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I
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She's nineteen when she attempts suicide.
It's not a cry for help, not some teenage crap to get more attention. No. She knows what she's doing, plans it for weeks. (Dying is all she wants.)
She takes enough pills to die three times over, but she wakes up in a hospital bed anyway.
"You got lucky," is what the doctor tells her, and if Emily hadn't been strapped down to the bed, she would have broken his jaw.
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She's released twenty-four hours later; her mother's doing, no doubt.
It was an accident.
My daughter would never-
(No, of course not).
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Emily died years ago.
(Or was it Eliana?)
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II
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"It's just a cut," Emily says for the umpteenth time. "Stop looking at me like that."
"You could have a concussion or worse, I want you to get checked out at the hospital."
"I'm fine, Hotch," she presses between clenched teeth. "It's just a damn cut!"
She pushes past him, away from the ambulance and towards one of their SUVs.
"Emily!"
People are turning their heads, staring. Morgan and JJ, Reid and Rossi among them. Emily closes her eyes in defeat.
"It's just a cut, Hotch, please stop making such a fuss." She hates this kind of attention and even more, admitting she's not as unbreakable as she loves to pretend.
"You need stiches."
"I don't."
"Yes, Emily, you-"
"I don't care!" she yells, and whirls around. "That woman is dead, Aaron!" She glares, using his forename deliberately. "And I just got a stupid cut!"
He looks startled and angry and worried and Emily hates it. She ignores the questioning stares from the people around her before she slips onto the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind her.
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I
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She's twenty when she goes to see a therapist.
A guy with grey hair and green eyes and a kind smile. She pays him in cash, tells him her name is Eliana.
"What brings you here, Eliana?" he asks, watching her carefully from his chair.
"When I was younger," she starts. "I had a friend. Her name was Emily."
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"I want you to imagine something you can lock, a safe maybe. Imagine its shape, its color. You decide how big or small it has to be."
He pauses, waits, and Emily feels like a child. (This sounds stupid). But she thinks about that safe in her bedroom anyway.
"And now I want you to put everything you think you can't take anymore, everything you're not ready to talk about inside this safe."
He pauses again and Emily bites her lip.
"If everything's inside this safe, I want you to lock it."
Emily shakes her head.
"That's stupid," she says, opens her eyes and glares back at her therapist. "How is this supposed to help?"
"Just do it, Eliana," he soothes her.
Emily shakes her head once more, but shuts her eyes and does as she's told.
They stay silent for a long time and when her therapist finally asks how she's feeling, she's surprised when she feels-
nothing.
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"I didn't mean for you to lock it all away, Eliana. Especially not forever. This isn't how it's supposed to work."
"But it works for me."
Her therapist shakes his head. "It's supposed to help you to deal with the moment, to get stable and strong until you're ready to work through it."
"Well then I'm just not ready." Emily shrugs and her therapist frowns.
"I don't think you-"
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She stops seeing him after that. There's no need to listen to him anymore.
(She already knows everything she needs to.)
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II
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She's standing in the shower, ice-cold water all around her.
Her eyes are closed, her teeth shattering. Her clothes, soaking wet, clinging to her body like a second skin. She has no idea what time it is, no idea how long she's been standing there. No idea how she got home in the first place.
It doesn't matter. Nothing does.
She counts to ten, twenty, thirty. She takes a breath. And then she's on her knees, with her fingers pushed down her throat and the world finally stops spinning.
When she finds her way back into her living room, dressed in a sleeping shirt and shorts, her hair still wet from the shower, Aaron is waiting for her.
"Are you sick?" he asks from his place on the couch. He looks tired and worried, his face worn, and Emily thinks that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to give him her spare key after all.
She shrugs. "Must have been something I ate."
"We had the same thing. I feel just fine."
"I do, too."
She meets his eyes. He meets hers. And in an instant they're in the middle of a battlefield, fighting a silent war.
He knows, and she knows that he knows, that he has known for a while, but as long as he doesn't dare to say it out loud she can still pretend that he doesn't know anything at all. They both can.
She won't admit it, the truth, the lie, the things she doesn't say. Not now, not ever. She can't, because if she does, if she lets him have this, it'll be over. And he'll be just another memory she has to lock away in the back of her mind to keep living.
"Maybe it's the heat," he says, his gaze never breaking away.
Slowly Emily settles down on the couch, nods. "It is," she lies easily.
And with her head on his chest and their fingers tangled, they listen to the roll of the thunder in the distance.
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Disclaimer: I own nothing; everything belongs to their rightful owners.