Fire and Smoke
David Rossi did not consider himself a particularly sentimental man. His many years in law enforcement, coupled with his vast experience finding, and losing, love meant that he'd had plenty of opportunities to fall into the trap of sentimentality, and he'd always found it to be much more trouble than it was worth.
Now, though, as he sat alone in his overstuffed leather armchair, in the half-light provided by the lone lamp in his study, nursing a scotch and a Cuban stogie, he found himself in an unfamiliarly contemplative mood. Taking a long puff from the cigar held in his hand, he watched transfixed as a large grey cloud accumulated in the air surrounding him before being caught in the updraft of the vent and dissipating. Suddenly, he was transported through time and space until before him he saw her.
She was sitting at her desk, her dark curls billowing around her like the remnants of his Cuban, her laughter floating up and swirling around in the air before softly fading away. He took another sip of his drink and allowed a gentle smile to cross his face as the memories washed over him. And he didn't know if it was the late hour, the stress of the past few days, the alcohol, the stogie, or some combination thereof, but all at once it made perfect sense to him.
Emily Prentiss was smoke.
She was larger than life, dark and beautiful. Her grace distracted from her danger, hypnotizing you with her practiced dance until she struck, leaving you collapsed on the floor, gasping for air as she floated away with the wind.
She was a looming presence, bold and unapologetic, silent but impossible to miss, a signal for help and a warning of peril, a welcome sight and one you hoped never to see.
And, as the saying goes, where there's smoke, there's fire, so too where ever Emily was, Aaron was sure to be found as well.
Snorting to himself, Dave supposed that a trued analogy had never been made than that which compared Aaron Hotchner to a burning flame.
He was a campfire, a light in the darkness, a symbol of safety. He commanded respect, giving warmth to those close to him and burning those who dared cross him. His anger could turn on a dime and burned red hot, tearing through anything in his way and leaving the earth scorched in his wake.
Dave was startled out of his musings by the incessant ringing of his bedside alarm, singing out from its position on the mahogany nightstand in the bedroom upstairs, alerting him that the time had come, and he needed to start getting ready for what may well be the hardest day of his life. He stood from the plush leather seat which had served as his sentry position through the long night, stretching his stiff muscles as his body creaked in protest, before reaching and turning the lone lamp off and making his way out of the room. The first rays of the sun were held hostage by the large grey clouds that blanketed the sky, and as he made his way to his bedroom to prepare himself for the joint funeral of Emily and Aaron Hotchner, all thoughts of fire and smoke vanished from his mind, leaving only a phantom warmth on his skin and the memory that, once, his eyes had watered.