"A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love" Stendhal
Fragile
You are entombed in a labyrinth of books, they rise up into the clouds. You are the damsel in distress in this piece and he is the man in shining armour. In reality you are the Bride of Frankenstein and he is a man in a flimsy suit.
"I don't see why this is necessary?" you complain, although the thought of a personal body guard amuses you, especially when he fit's the category of 'tall, dark and handsome'. The man looks up, he's as bored as you are, you are sure of it, you just need to get him to show it.
"We've been through this, your mother and her colleagues' safety is at risk, we also have to watch out for immediate family members," he puts the book down and glances at her appearance. "You could at least try to dress inconspicuously," he sighs, you just smirk.
"I like you make you work, and you'd make a pretty good goth too," the look of horror on his face is worth it. He stands up from the table.
"Over my dead body," he hisses, remembering it's a library. You throw your own book down and walk with him through the maze of books. You catch his arm and drag him back.
"I don't see why you have to be so uptight about this," you say just as playfully, you honestly don't know how you survived the summer without his constant frustration as entertainment.
"It's work," he splutters, and you smile at how cute he looks in his shirt and tie, like a mini secret agent. You push him back, surprisingly easily, into one of the labyrinth's walls, you're too far away from any horned rimmed dragons to fear being caught. You move closer to him, like he is your prey.
"Work can sometimes be fun," you say huskily. In all the time you've known him, you've never seen him blink, now his eyelids could get jobs as fans. You waste no time in pressing your lips to his, this is the Twentieth Century, screw damsel in distress, feminists are fighting back. He returns the action hesitantly, then more forcefully.
After that the summer becomes a lot more fun. You passion grows stronger and stronger. You become little children hiding in linen closets, and under beds to avoid the monsters in suits with 'adults', 'responsibility' and 'mommy' and 'daddy' written on their faces.
Still, you lose touch when he's assigned back to the US, and you are overseas. Love, it turns out (if it was ever that) can't conquer five thousand, five hundred miles.
The water droplets run down the window like tears, they form separate paths, but for a minute, you want them to come together as one. Pretty. A few minutes later as you turn back to your coffee and sandwich this doesn't matter anymore, you look around the BAU, your new job, and your disturbed by the thought that not a lot does matter anymore. You've done things your aren't proud of, everyone has, but it still doesn't stop you feeling angry, upset, ashamed. You glance at his office, the android man that wasn't always an android, and wonder if he has any regrets, you know you'd like to hear them. Sometimes you just want to-
Go back to the way you were. To bookshelves and linen closets.
Talk to him, as friends, rather than co-workers, at the same time you know this is a chance you'll be lucky to ever get. He has changed, and you sigh, so have you.
Your eyes glance back to the crying sky, the heavy feeling still lying unmoving in your chest. Sometimes you just want the world to swallow you up, it's big monster teeth to tear you into little bite sized pieces and let all the heaviness just flood out. Then, maybe, you can move on. But it doesn't really matter now, the past is the past, and you know anyway that all roads lead to hurt.
You are two different people, and you'd be silly to think that such a romance could continue. It doesn't stop you yearning for it, with every fibre of your being, but it isn't appropriate. You wonder for a minute if your meant to be star crossed lovers. Then shadows of doubt creep up on you, little goblins with hammers and hags with crystal balls, it was never love, and it was never fate, and sometimes you're foolish and forget this.
He is married you know, and this hurts more than you through possible. It's as though the little water droplets have turned into tiny daggers, he unconsciously stabs each little one into your heart. However the news of a Jack Hotchner hits you like an ice berg. You wonder if you can be saved from the depths of the ocean. Or maybe, you'll just drown.
Sometimes you like to think you'll find someone else like him. But you've spent decades trying, and no one quite matches up. The sky's tears won't let up and your faced, once again, with the thought that at some point you'll have to stop trying.
He arrives at your door, its twelve at night, his face isn't stoic, his posture not ridged. He's the same as he was all those years ago and yet so, so different. The android man has been given emotions, and you can tell that he doesn't like them. You let him in and he looks around without really seeing, the water droplets on the window whisper tiny secrets, chants and deepest desires. Lightening and thunder threatens to destroy the world in light and sound, crack the ground until the people just fall through, and keep falling.
But as your pressed against a wall, doing things that even your most lascivious dreams do not stray to, you forget the threat of falling. You learnt that his marriage was long destroyed before the divorce papers, and you keep telling yourself this as you're fucked senseless. You ignore that voice reminding you it's only been a month.
Lightening flashes brighter than before, like the headlights on a lorry, and you gasp for air. He moves away from you. Thunder crashes louder than the most reckless waves. You are moved to the shore of consciousness, alone, on your bed. You stare at the ceiling, you're falling through the cracks in the Earth's crust, the insides of it look like your apartment.
You wonder when you'll crash.
You don't think you've ever felt this helpless. Red stains the carpet, and with his phone and briefcase still on the table you've long dismissed the thought of red wine. You make frantic calls that you won't remember making later, and comb the scene fruitlessly until Garcia calls.
The Reaper.
A shiver of fear spreads through you, ice panic trickles through your chest. You get someone to drive you over to the hospital, you don't trust yourself driving. You want to clutch you head and dash your brains out on the dashboard, all the information that no one can ever know, the security protocols, the classified government intelligence will leak out and leave your mind blank. Or perhaps you'll just scare the shit out of Agent Anderson.
He looks frail, are your first thoughts, then you wonder if you've ever seen him so peaceful in recent years. Your aware that he'll be in pain, that through the thick, opiate fog he'll feel imaginary knives repeatedly stab his wounds. But for the time being you're eased slightly at seeing him so relaxed, so peaceful. You sit and wait and want to run your hands through his hair, you can still remember how soft it was, how his arms felt around you. As you glance at the thick bandages cocooning them you shudder again. You wonder how much more he'll have to suffer due to Foyet, and you wonder if he's noticed that you want to be his Princess in shining armour.
When he wakes up you want to comfort him, although you know that he'd reprimand you, and with Rossi and Morgan watching it isn't the wisest idea. When someone mentions Hailey your dreams of romance shatter before your eyes as the hag, no Hailey who is most likely a lovely, lovely person, has to be informed. She's not as pretty as you feare- thought, but you'd wouldn't be a member of the BAU if you didn't notice that Aaron loves her.
You stand alone in an empty corridor, the team are visiting Reid or Hotch, a light constantly flickers on/off on/off on/off off/off on/on. You wonder how much longer you can hold on to him. You're the hero of the story but you still don't have the man.
If anyone went up to the fourth floor, third corridor to the left, they would just see a dejected woman.
You've never seen someone more driven in their life. Aaron, no, Hotch's determination to catch Foyet almost unnerves you, although these days not a lot can. You panic for Jack and Hailey when you find their guardian half dead. Your brain is screaming, this shouldn't happen, this shouldn't happen. You feel like pulling your hair out when the team, some of the best profilers in the world (and you know, you've worked with the best) are coming up empty. It's no surprise that Hotch pieces it together.
It's no surprise either than Time doesn't feel like giving you a helping hand.
You've never seen him lose control like that either. You've seen a lot of horror in your life, however nothing quite matches the sheer shock that greets you at Aaron's old house. Foyet's face isn't recognisable, the room smells of blood and death hovers in the air, Foyet can't even feel the pain anymore but Aaron just keeps punching him. Over and over and over. You feel as though you're underwater, Morgan's voice, his restraining arms, are so far away. Your falling through the cracks again, into shock, the world you don't like and your relying on your best compartmentalisation skills to pull you out. You're supposedly the hero of this piece, and you've found your person in distress, in need, but all you can do is stand there and watch him cry, watch him out of the room away from you. Because you feel that if you move at all, the white blanket of compartmentalising will fray and the stitches will come loose. You will unravel completely and breakdown at the sight of the android man in so much pain. That would be entirely unprofessional.
With a few quick stitches you fix yourself up, well enough to explore the rest of this haunted house, where the walls tell stories of absent fathers and frustrated wives. You see Aaron crying over Hailey's dead body, you wonder if it's already too late to stitch him up.
The first time you think it's an accident. The second time you know it isn't but your willing to push it out of your mind for as long as you can. When Sean tells you that Doyle's escaped all hell breaks loose. You don't crumble like you imagine you would, instead you 'keep calm and carry on' as they say, your CIA training and vigilance goes into hyper-mode. When the team start noticing you brush it off, some tales are better left unsaid. When the flower arrives you know that, by now, you've probably left it too late.
Sometimes you wish you'd told Hotch everything.
But you didn't want to put him or the team in danger, besides you can look after yourself.
You can look after yourself.
He looks at you in the hospital bed, you can't meet his eyes, you'd rather fight Doyle again than be here. "I don't see why this is necessary," you lie, Aaron sighs.
"It's for your own safety and that of everyone around you Emily, you know that," you look at his face, he doesn't look mad, or stoic, just tired. For a second you're just the two bored teenagers in the library, looking for something fun to do. With his next words, reality comes back into focus. "For years I've been trying to work out how you managed to handle this job after working at a desk…" he trails off, the knowing isn't worth the price.
"I will kill him," you say steadily.
"I have no doubt about that," Hotch says but it's almost a whisper. His hand is on the side of the hospital bed, you grab it, this conversation is years too late. He looks at you in surprise.
"I will get home," and to your surprise he clasps your hand back and smiles.
"You're still just as determined," he says fondly. You smirk, and under different circumstances this would be fun for you.
"You're still as uptight," you've wanted this moment for so long, so, so long, and it's all wrong! You shouldn't be in a hospital, you shouldn't have your livelihood snatched from you in such a way. He knows what you're feeling.
"Do you ever wonder, what would have happened if we'd stayed in touch?" you ask, and you're trying to calm your heart rate so not to alarm the nurses. He takes a long time to answer, to you, ten years is crammed into the space of two minutes.
"Yes." The anticlimax kills you.
"What do you think?" you prompt again. He holds your hand tighter and for a second you think he will kiss you. Kiss you and carry you away from hurt and pain, Doyle will be caught and killed, and you will be happy in a fairytale ending.
But you're not in a labyrinth of books. You're surrounded by demons in the shadows. You're not a kid anymore.
"We would have stayed friends and possibly, probably gotten together," and despite all this you are still filled with childish glee, happiness and smiles. You can forget about impending threats on your life, or that you have to lie to everyone you love.
You lean forward, he does too, and you lips meet. In this moment is it just you and him and the path that could have been. Possible lives swirl round your head, paths that you can never have, but it doesn't matter. Right now you are content, overwhelmed with happiness, the hero of the story.
And then it is gone. When you're still locked in your embrace, you realise that this isn't an admission of love, or a show of affection. This is a desperate goodbye. You might never see him again. You remember the passion of your youth, the strength of your love and with despair you feel like screaming,
When did it get so fragile?
With a few more words, another kiss, a hug farewell and a good luck, professionalism is back. You sit alone in the hospital ward, no visitors for obvious reasons. It's no fun being a dead girl.
Alone in your hotel room in Paris you think of him briefly, whenever your heart lets it. Questions run through your mind as you lie on the bed. Has he moved on? With someone else? Someone who can be a proper mother for Jack? These questions make you cry silently, but they never leave you alone. Your heart cries for that tomorrow where you can return, and perhaps be held in his arms where you belong. When you can both get that happy ending you feel is overdue. You live for those tomorrows, and ignore that they might never come.
But all this doesn't matter right now though. You are a woman with a mission. You fly out tomorrow as Charlotte Davies, an average name for an unremarkable woman. You will live in a non-descript town with an unimportant job, you will be ever vigilant and have one of the highest security code clearances. You will be a killer with just as little to lose as the scum you're hunting.
You glance in the mirror, at the jeans, top, and red hair that belongs to Charlotte Davies. Emily Prentiss is dead. And the only reminders that the girl in a library was ever there are the tears on your face, and the ache in your chest.
This is my first attempt at a Hotch/Emily story (and most likely my last) I apologise for the lack of happy ending, but I cannot wait to see how they bring Prentiss back into the show :D. I hope my beta Please Insert Name enjoys this as when she isn't reading crime novels she's reading Hotch/Prentiss :P. I apologise if characterisation is off a little, I don't usually write these characters (I 3 Reid) but I hope you just enjoy it for what it is.
As for Hotch and Emily being together with him as a body guard, I'm going on info from my beta that one of his first FBI posts was to look after Ambassador Prentiss, so the rest is just creative license (I read somewhere that Emily lived in Ukraine for awhile - Criminal Minds wiki's opinion :P - so that's where that particular part is based). Anyhoo I apologise for grammar and spelling mistakes and if Please Insert Name actually likes this then consider it an early birthday present (who am I kidding she never likes my writing style) as I think her one won't arrive in time :S.
Beta Note (Please Insert Name): I'm actually incredibly shocked that the fervent Reid fan has written this. That said, thank you sister, I do like it, and if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes it is my fault for being too damn caught up in it!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Criminal Minds, however Reid is mine, not CM's, but mine (gives evil glares to scare away lawyers.)