Spoilers through 5x10, Slave of Duty
Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds, I am making no profit from the writing of this fic.
WARNING: This fic contains themes some might find triggering or disturbing.
A/N: smacky30 betaed but I messed with it afterwards so, all mistakes are mine and she is always awesome. I am very blessed to know her.
Scars remind us where we've been, they don't have to dictate where we're going.
---David Rossi
He comes to consciousness slowly, aware that something isn't right. When he's awake, he takes stock. It feels like the middle of the night and there's no noise that would have wakened him. Then he gets it. No noise. No regular breathing or delicate snoring coming from beside him.
The bedroom is dark; the only light the green glow from the digital clock that reads 2:14. Rossi doesn't need any light to know he's alone in his bed, but he reaches across the sheets anyway. The space beside him is empty and cold.
"Fuck." He'd pushed her too hard; he'd tried to be gentle, but he'd scared her away.
Flinging back the covers, he turns the light on and grabs for a pair of jeans and the first shirt he can find. He pulls on some socks and, because it's cold out, takes the few extra seconds to put on boots instead of slipping on loafers. His coat and keys are downstairs, so he shoves his wallet in his back pocket and heads down the stairs, the smooth wood of the banister gliding under his hand.
Dave's always known there are things she hasn't told him, things she hasn't shared. He's seen the scar, felt her tense the first time he touched it, felt the sudden guarded energy in her attitude until he'd moved on to other, smoother, patches of skin. Now, after almost a year, she barely stiffens when his hands run over it, hardly flinches when his lips come to rest there.
Patience is not his strong suit, never has been, but there's something about the emotional freeze he feels from her that has kept him from asking, though he's not above using his status as a senior agent to access her file. He's never believed in fighting fair. Or rather, he's always believed all was fair in love and war.
It's not that he's profiling Prentiss, he just needs to know if there are any landmines, so he can avoid fucking this up. But her file gives up nothing. She's had her share of bumps and bruises over twelve years with the Bureau. The worst she's had was at the hands of Benjamin Cyrus, and he still carries that around with him. But there's nothing, nothing even close, to something that would cause that type of scar.
But hearing the anguish in Emily's voice when she said Erika Silverman went along with the UnSub's fantasy just to stay alive had him paying attention on more than a professional level. And then, after he'd put Ann Herron into the hands of the paramedics, to walk back in and see Emily menacing Joe Belser with her gun and a fury the likes of which he's never seen from her. While he's never pressed her to tell him, but he wonders if this case will be the breaking point, the thing that will get her to open up to him.
When they'd gotten home, he'd tried to talk to her, but she'd shut down; when he pressed she'd offered that maybe she should spend the night at her place. He'd held up his hands, surrendering. They haven't spent a non-case working night apart in six months. By bedtime, she appeared to have thawed out completely, but waking up alone lets him know the thaw had been an illusion
He hits the bottom of the stairs, not quite at a run, but moving quickly and, on automatic pilot, flips the Great Room light on as he heads toward the key hook and coat rack at the back door. Processing several things at once, he sees Emily's keys are still on the hook beside his and there is movement in the corner just before he hears her yelp, "Jesus, Rossi." He whirls to see her curled in the big chair in the corner, still dressed in the oversized FBI t-shirt and moon and stars patterned sleep pants she went to bed in, her arm thrown protectively up to block the light. One eye is slammed shut and the other is squinting at him painfully. "What the hell are you doing?"
Blinking at her, his mouth drops open. "Looking for you." He assumed she'd fled, he hadn't even thought she'd still be in the house.
Dropping her arm, she continues to squint at him, looking a little like a tousled brunette Popeye. "Good job," her tone is equal parts dry and tart as she lifts a half empty highball glass, salutes him and drinks. He notes the sweating vodka bottle on the table beside her and attempts to calculate how long she's been sitting in the dark drinking if the chill from the freezer has begun beading into condensation and rolling down the frosted glass. If he remembers correctly the bottle had been around two thirds full and was still well over half. Contemplative drinking, then; not mindless consumption just for the sake of mindlessness.
"Hey, Dave?" She tilts her head toward her shoulder and, despite the underlying tension, he can't help but think how very cute she looks. "Think you could decide if I'm developing a drinking problem in softer light?"
Thoroughly caught out, he starts to defend himself, but stops before a sound escapes. Wife number two had turned to alcohol when the fertility treatments hadn't worked and Dave had proved more absent than present. Emily knows the story; she's also met Eva, sixteen years sober and the mother of two gorgeous adopted girls, Dave's goddaughters.
He turns on the lamp on the opposite side of the room before flipping off the overhead. Now, he's stuck; he doesn't want to push her so hard she does run but he's also not going to leave her here drinking alone. Slowly, he becomes aware he is clenching and unclenching his hands at his side as he struggles for the right thing to say and he makes himself stop. Deciding the best thing to do is let it go for the night and just see if he can get her to come back to bed. "Emily," he begins, but she starts talking before he gets past her name.
"The reasons I've never told you aren't the reasons you might think."
Despite the fact that he should be walking on eggshells, that pisses him off a little. "What do I think, Emily?"
Her expression is a little mutinous and a little weary. "All right, let me rephrase. The only reasons I haven't talked to you about it are pretty simple. First, I don't think of myself as a victim and I don't want to be treated like one."
His heart contracts at that."Fair enough," he manages to keep his voice steady. "What other reasons?"
Her gaze is on him, measuring his expression, his body language, so he makes an effort to consciously relax his expression and his shoulders. His hands, fisted at his side, relax and unfold.
He feels something inside his gut relax when she starts talking. "There's no way to tell the story without it sounding melodramatic."
Her voice is sour and he huffs out a laugh."What?"
"I don't want it to sound like some overly dramatic...it isn't as bad as it sounds, okay?"
He thinks about the scar and he thinks about her holding her gun in Joe Belser's face and he wonders just what she would consider bad. Still, he goes along, "Okay."
"So now, no matter how much the whole thing tells like a bad Lifetime movie, if I don't tell you, whatever you'll think is worse." More than anything Emily sounds ticked off, like she does when she's been cornered and he realizes he doesn't need to know anything she's not willing to share.
"Tell me or don't tell me, nothing's going to change the way I feel about you." It's a fact and is stated as such; simple, unvarnished truth.
There's quiet for a moment, the quiet of the middle of the night, of darkness, of secrets and pain. Then, she speaks.
"It was in Bogota." Her voice is flat and she's staring into her glass. "My mother was posted to Colombia after Italy, the summer after I had the abortion. I was sixteen and things…well, it wasn't volatile but it wasn't exactly safe either. I went to school with a bodyguard in tow." She takes another sip. "Paolo. He made me speak to him in Spanish even though he could speak English beautifully. He didn't have a lot of patience for pretension." Something in the memory makes her smile for a few seconds, then the smiles fades. "It was a Wednesday morning. They made it look like an official road block, then cars pulled up and blocked us in. Paolo tried to drive through the roadblock but they shot out the tires and then into the engine." She pauses, looking unseeing into her glass before putting it down on the table. She's speaking to him, here in this room but he has the idea that she is far, far away.
"He climbed into the backseat; he was using his body to protect me. They got into the car...I guess they were afraid to shoot." She gives a wide and bitter smile. "Didn't want to damage the merchandise, I suppose." Shaking herself a little, she goes on. "They slit his throat, there was blood…everywhere."
He winces as she unconsciously touches her cheek. Being a seasoned FBI agent and having to witness arterial spray is one thing; being a sixteen year old Catholic school girl and watching it from someone you know, someone you're fond of, is an entirely different matter.
The rest comes out, not rushed, but matter of factly, as if she's reporting the weather. "He was still alive, dying, but still alive, when they pulled me from the car. He watched them take me out. I could see him thinking, trying to figure out a way..." Pausing, she inhales deeply through her nose. "They put a sack over my head, tied me up, but he was the last thing I saw."
Carefully, Dave moves, sitting on the ottoman in front of her, waiting for her to continue. The silence stretches on but he waits until she nods and continues. "They threw me in the trunk of a car; it felt like I was in there for days and all I could think about Paolo bleeding to death and staring at me." She lets out a shuddering breath and her next words remind him of the way Reid delivers facts, though without the exuberance the young man can sometimes display. "Americans and Europeans were being kidnapped for ransom on a fairly regular basis. I knew the US's position on negotiating with kidnappers and terrorists; I knew my mother would do her patriotic duty. And I knew I was going to die."
Rossi desperately wants to touch her but he's afraid, though he's not exactly sure of what. Minutes stretch between them with only the little noises breaking in, the tick of the second hand on the mantle clock, the heat kicking on, the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and he almost wants to tell her to stop, he doesn't want to know any more. Instead he clenches his teeth and threads his fingers together to keep from reaching out.
Her eyes meet his for the first time since she began her story and there's something so raw, so naked there, he nearly chokes. "Emily..."
Shaking her head, she looks away again. "They didn't hurt me at first. It took a while for them to figure out the ambassador wasn't going to pay the ransom."
He's aware his hands are so tightly locked together he's in danger of fracturing something.
Emily is far away again. "I don't know why they didn't cut off a finger or an ear, and have it delivered to her since that was the pattern then" She shrugs. "We were in a camp, in the jungle. I can still remember the way it smelled; the soil was so rich, the aroma of it just hung in the air. I…sometimes I can't remember what it looked like but I've never forgotten the way it smelled."
"They went back and forth for supplies and news. None of them spoke English and I pretended my Spanish was minimal. I thought I'd have a better chance of learning more, maybe stand a better chance of..." she shrugs again, "I don't know; I was sure I was going to die but I couldn't just give up."
Her voice is quiet. "It was the leader," shifting, she tucks her feet under herself and hunches her shoulders as if she's suddenly cold. "I heard him laugh; he said they just had to return me, not return me in the original condition. He took me into his tent and I went along. I did everything he wanted." Looking away from him, she rolls her head against the back of the chair. "He beat me after. For not being a virgin."
It takes everything he has to stay seated; he wants to hold her, he wants to cry, he wants to punch a wall. But he just waits.
"He kept me anyway. Which probably turned out to be a good thing, at least it was just him. It could have been so much worse. As long as I played along, as long as I kept him happy then he kept me alive, even after they figured out the ambassador was not going to pay the ransom."
Bile is rising in his throat, pain washing over him in ways he can't think about and he can't stop himself this time from reaching out to touch her; gently, he lays his hand against her leg. Her lip lifts in a small smile, but she doesn't touch him in return.
"I found out later my grandmother and my father tried to go around the ambassador and pay the ransom without her knowledge. But she found out and stopped them." Her gaze touches on him briefly, then skitters off. Reaching for her glass, she pauses, then relaxes her arm back against her side without the vodka. "They're still officially together, but that, I think, was really the end of their marriage."
"Emily," his voice is shaking but she smiles at him.
"It's okay." Her voice is soft, sincere as she finally touches him, placing her hand atop his. "My father is every bit as stubborn and driven as my mother. He had resources and people who would help. He hired a team of mercenaries and a couple of other people that specialized in that sort of thing. With enough bribes they were able to locate the camp and came in, guns blazing."
His heart jumps, even though he's looking at her here, almost twenty-five years later and he knows she's all right. He turns his hand and threads their fingers together, squeezing slightly, more grateful than he could imagine when she squeezes back.
"I woke up in a hospital in Miami with my mother on one side of the bed and my father on the other. Evidently, I'd gotten caught in the crossfire." Shaking her head, she looks down into her lap. "I can't even remember being shot." She makes a face. "Being shot is a pretty big deal; you'd think I'd remember."
"Emily," he starts, tugging on her hand, but she gives him her best pissed off look and starts lecturing him at a pretty healthy pace.
"David Rossi, if you think, for one minute I am going to let you get all pitying and protective, then you don't know me at all." She spears him with a look. "Shame isn't the reason I've never told you about it. I am not ashamed; I've worked through all of it. But I will not be treated with pity, nor will I be treated like a victim. I am not a victim. This is something that happened to me, but it's not who I am."
Rossi simply stands and scoops her out of the chair, then drops back down into it with her in his lap. "Prentiss," he says, "I don't need the speech."
He's not all that surprised when she swats his shoulder fairly forcefully. "Ow." He meets her gaze with a wounded look. "It's hard to feel like somebody I'm terrified of as a victim."
She snorts inelegantly at that but doesn't resist when he tucks her head against his shoulder and kisses her hair. "Emily, I need for you to listen to me for a minute. Can you do that?" He feels her tense briefly, but then nod against him. He kisses the top of her head again and speaks quietly, but with his whole heart. "You are a strong, amazing woman. An incredible woman." He feels her relax a little against him. "I would say what happened to you in the past doesn't matter, but that's not true. Every single thing that's happened to you in the past has made you this woman. This strong, beautiful woman." He runs his hand up her back feeling the warmth of her skin through her shirt. "Am I glad this happened to you? No." He can't help the ripple of emotion that goes through his voice when he continues. "I hate the thought of you in pain, in danger, frightened. And I am hoping the mercenaries your father hired blew the head off the son of a bitch that did it to you." Emily moves her head and he feels the soft, moist press of her lips against the skin of his neck.
"It did happen, but you're alive and you're here in my life. I can't be anything but grateful for that, because you, Emily Prentiss, are one hell of a woman and the love of my life." He squeezes her a little as he says it.
Pulling back to look at him, her eyes are wide and her face a little flushed, but he can tell she's trying for a light tone. "I bet you say that to all the girls." She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Including the three ex-wives."
"Nah," he says, rubbing his cheek against hers. "They were all just practice for you. I just didn't know it."
Both eyebrows climb in a deliberately dubious look, but he can tell she's not unmoved by what he's said. "I see."
"Good," he answers, pressing a kiss to her lips.
"Dave," she holds a hand against his shoulder, "I need to know this isn't going to change..."
He doesn't let her finish. "You are really determined to piss me off tonight, aren't you, Prentiss?" His words are irritated, but his hands are gentle as he cups her face, looking into her eyes. "You think I didn't know? I know how you are, matter of fact professionally about sex crimes but passionate about the victims. And I know what that kind of scar looks like. I wasn't sure the two went together until I saw you scaring the fuck out of Joe Belser yesterday, but I knew."
Her eyes search his face and he leaves his expression open, completely without deception or guile. For once, he's not hiding anything. He watches as she takes it all in and her eyes brighten then drop briefly before rising again to meet his gaze with her own unreserved emotions.
The feeling inside his chest has no name; it's like his heart and his stomach are trying to change places, like he's a mixture of longing and perfect contentment all at once.
There's a soft, sweet smile on Emily's face as she lays her hand against his face, then runs her thumb across his lower lip. "I think," she scoots a little closer to him and he closes his eyes at the weight of her body against him. "I'd like for you to show me."
When he opens his eyes, Dave leans his forehead against hers. "That's what I intend to do. For the rest of my life."
This time it's Emily that closes her eyes, as if the last hour has been too much to absorb. Gently, he presses a kiss to each of her eyelids and her breath comes out on a sigh. She wriggles closer to him, pressing in exactly the right ways and the right places to get her point across. "Take me upstairs right now and show me, Dave."
While sometimes things are so hot between them he wonders how they've managed not to burn each other to cinders, it's never been just about the sex for them. There's always been some deeper connection, even from the very beginning. But they're both so emotionally guarded he knows they've expressed their feelings while making love in the past. And if Emily needs this reassurance right now, he's more than happy to give it to her.
He stands them both up, turns off the lamp and weaves their fingers together. They hold hands as they climb the stairs in the dark and several times Rossi lifts her hand to kiss the back, grateful she's alive, grateful she's here with him.
When they're standing by the bed, she begins unbuttoning his shirt and he lets her; he surrenders to her fingers, to her hands. When the shirt drops to the floor he doesn't protest. He just closes his eyes at the warmth of her hands as they stroke his stomach and up his pecs, across his shoulders, down his arms. Her fingers, her palm, the skin, the heat, he absorbs all of it before capturing one of her hands in both of his. He kisses the palm, then presses it against his chest, over his beating heart, covering it with his own hand.
The only sound in the dark is their mingling breath and Dave can hear his own heartbeat resting in his ears. Emily lets out a trembling sigh as her hand rests over his heart and this moment feels different than any other. The weight and the meaning of it mixed somewhere in the night, gliding along between the sounds of their jagged breaths. Then she leans forward a presses her lips to his and his free arm wraps around her back and he pulls her in close, trapping their hands between their bodies, his heart beating into her hand.
His mouth moves over hers tenderly. There is a part of him that is pressing him to take, to devour, to show her the same passion they've shown each other hundreds of times. But it's more than just passion here and he makes himself go slow, makes himself sink into the moment, treasure every touch of her lips against his and when her mouth opens under his, he opens to her as well, tongue sliding against tongue, fingers sliding through hair, gliding against skin.
Kiss after kiss it's as if time has stood still and there's nothing left in the world but the two of them here in this room, in each others arms. There's desire, winding tighter and tighter, but there's no rush, there's only mouths and hands and skin.
All of these places he's touched before, all of these places he's kissed before, they all seem new again. His heart feels too full and he's almost afraid of something this perfect, something so beautiful.
Dave's not sure how long they stand by the bed, exchanging tender kisses and gentle touches, it could have been hours and yet, it doesn't feel like nearly enough. Emily draws away from him then, her smile tremulous, a tear on her cheek. As he thumbs the drop of moisture away he knows she must be feeling something close to what he is. Neither of them speak, there just aren't words for this and trying seems almost sacrilegious.
Sliding his hands under the hem of her t-shirt he lets the material pool at his wrists as he glides his hands up her stomach and over her breasts. His palms brush her nipples as he cups her in his hands. Her eyes drift closed as he massages her breasts and he hears her breath hitch. He doesn't want to let go of her, but he needs to get her clothes off so he can lay her down and worship her body with his own, so he pushes the t-shirt up and pulls it over her head. Emily shimmies out of her pajama bottoms and panties and as much as he wants her in bed he can't stop himself from pulling her close again, sighing as skin meets skin. belly to belly, chest to breast. His arms twine around her, hands running over all of her. It's like an addiction, her skin, it feels so damn good but it's never enough, he always wants more, more.
His fingers trail over her back, tracing lightly over her lower back in just the way that makes her gasp and wriggle. He grasps her hips to keep her still and he brushes against the scar on her side. The air in the room goes still as he drops to his knees. Running his thumb over it, he studies it as best he can in the faint light bleeding in from the outside and the glow of the night light in the hall. It's lighter than her already pale skin and it's not pretty but it's not as ugly as she seems to think either.
"Dave," her voice is trembling.
"Shhh," he says, pressing his lips against it. "It's part of you, so I love it." He looks up at her and her eyes are shining and he swallows. "Em, I can't be anything but grateful."
"Dave," she repeats, her voice full of hopeless affection and she ruffles the hair at the nape of his neck.
Bending his head back to the scar, he kisses it again; in gratitude to her father, to nameless mercenaries, to a surgeon, to everyone who saved her from bleeding to death long before he knew she was in the world. He feels like he's been given an amazing gift.
Standing, he backs her up and lays her down and she watches him with hungry eyes as he sheds his boots and the rest of his clothes. Then he's kneeling on the bed in front of her and he feels like penitent asking for grace, unworthy as he is.
Something in his face must show his thoughts, because her voice washes over him. "Dave," she says his name with such gentleness. She sits up and cups his face in her hands, kissing him with a tender fierceness. And he's lost in her and found at the same time.
He shifts a little and she's in his lap, one of his arms wrapped around her back, the other hand sliding between them to touch her, his fingers sliding against her slick heat, his thumb against her clit. When she gasps and throws her head back, he takes the offering, his lips pressing reverently against the column of her throat over and over again.
Then she's shifting again, her hand closing over him and she rises up and brings him into her body, then sinks back down onto his lap.
This, he thinks, this is everything. Then she's kissing him again and there is no thinking, there is only the overwhelming feeling of being a part of Emily, of being whole in this moment. The sensations are indescribable, raining over him like a summer storm and he's not sure whether it's the physical or the emotional that have him trembling and yearning.
He only knows one thing. "Emily." His voice is a rasping prayer as she begins to rock against him.
Emily, his heart echoes, Emily.
Her hands are on his face, in his hair, on his shoulders, on his back, but she never stops kissing him as she moves. They're sharing air and a rhythm as he rocks with her. It's languid and lush as they move together. It's slow and hot and there's no hurry, they'll get there, they always do. But even if they didn't, he'd be okay with that. Tonight isn't about the goal; it's about being together, heart and soul, mind and body.
Eventually, her mouth breaks from his and she kisses across his face until her words are warm breaths in his ear as he moves his mouth across her collarbone. "Dave," she's panting as they move, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. "Dave, I want you to come. Come with me."
And suddenly, what had seemed languorous only moments before becomes threaded through with urgency. Her body is shifting against his with imperative movements and he struggles to keep up, he struggles to breathe. He buries his head against her neck, inhaling the smell of sex and sweat as he grasps her hips, moving up into her, following her insistent momentum. She's whimpering and she's wet and she's warm and she's alive.
All of it is singing in his veins, setting his nerve endings alight, coiling low and tight in his gut. "Dave, yes" she cries, as her body begins to shake, "yes, now." Her voice breaks. "Please."
Apparently, that's all it takes, her broken voice, the ripple of her muscles as she begins to come, her frantic, frenetic movements. He hears a sound that takes him a minute to recognize as his own voice, groaning as he arches up into her, as she clenches around him. Everything is gray around the edges, and there's nothing but her on him, him in her, the sound of her cries, the feel of her skin, the clench of her muscles around him. And he's falling and falling and falling, but he knows it's all right, because he's falling into her.
He's pretty sure every muscle in his body seizes up, but he just holds on to her, until he realizes vertical, even partially so, is highly overrated. Tightening his arms around an already limp Emily, he half lies down and half collapses onto the mattress. They're both breathing pretty hard and her hair is tumbled across his face. He grins a little as he reaches up to push it away, and while he's at it, he reaches for the comforter, pulling it over them. They're the wrong way round in the bed, heads at the foot and Emily is sprawled over him as if he is her personal mattress and that's just fine with him.
Her breathing has evened out and he's fairly certain she's already asleep. Dave closes his eyes, pulls her a little closer and counts her breaths in the dark.
Fin.