AN: Remily! I can't get over the beautiful relationship that those two have-slash-should-have. I know this is completely out of character for both of them unless you realize that it has to be the culmination of months, years, even of their relationship growing and changing. I just haven't got time to write out months and years of interactions, so I just grabbed this moment and wrote it. Also, I originally wrote this back before season 7 actually came out, so there are probably a few minor inconsistencies, and I'm sorry about those, but they're there. If you point them out and I can change them, I probably will x3
She refused to look at the one-way mirror; her eyes remained steadily on her hands. She was calm, no sign of agitation in her young face, no sign of tension in her shoulders. The only indication of nerves or perturbation was the thumb that ceaselessly rubbed at the gold band on her left ring finger. Watching, Emily's hand slid absently along the neckline of her sweater. It paused for a moment over the scars, long since healed. Sometimes she still felt phantom pains, woke in the night clutching at her chest, sobbing, pleading... She forced her mind away from the haunting memories and turned her focus back toward the young woman in the interrogation room. Only twenty-six, and she had seven murders to her name. Seven innocent men – and somewhere out there she still had one victim. One man who would die of hunger and thirst and untreated wounds if they didn't find him soon.
"Morgan." Hotch's voice interrupted her reflections and she glanced around at the others. They all looked grim. They'd worked too hard to let this woman claim another life – but didn't they always? They always worked their butts off, and some days... Some days they just lost. That is not happening today, she promised herself. "You're her type. See how far you can get her." Of course. She'd known it would come to this, hadn't she? This was part of the job – once you had the profile, you had to use it. This woman has tortured and murdered seven men, she reminded herself. This woman – this woman who had so much pain inside that she felt the need to kill to relieve it. Combination of revenge and hyper-vigilance, the profiler inside whispered. Hyper-vigilance indeed – taking the law into one's own hands to punish legitimate crimes was bad enough. Those men had died for crimes they never even committed. But he's going to say the same things to her, whether she's a sociopath or just a hurting woman. Why did this bother her? It shouldn't. She compartmentalized well – too well, the team said sometimes. She'd seen their glances at times, caught half-whispers. She could shelve all emotion when she needed to, pick the facts apart as coolly as anyone. There was no reason that this should feel so personal.
Hotch flipped on the speaker as Morgan settled into the chair across from the woman, draping one arm nonchalantly across the table.
"So – Allison –" His voice came through the speaker, grainy, but full of that charm that was inherently his and almost always irresistible. She knew what was coming next. She'd never seen this particular scene before, but she knew the profile and she knew Morgan. I'm gonna regret this, she thought, wheeling abruptly on one heel. She could feel the team's stares at her back as she walked down the hall, the click of her boot heels sounding strangely forlorn in this big place.
It was cool outside. Not cold – she didn't think it ever got really cold in this part of Nevada – but cool enough to make her welcome the extra warmth from her sweater. The cars flying past didn't bother her. They were full of people with their own lives, eyes straight ahead, off into the night. She doubted any of them even noticed the slim woman standing, arms crossed, on the pavement outside the police headquarters. Most people didn't notice even the obvious things in front of them; everyone was too wrapped up in their own worlds. Their own pains.
"Maybe you should take a break from this one." She stared at Hotch.
"Take a break?" He wasn't serious.
"You've had a rough year – a rough two years. You're one of the most capable agents I've ever met, but you're also one of the most stubborn. Are you sure you're ready to come back full force?" As usual, there was nothing to read in Hotch's expression. She had a lot of respect for the man, but she was sick of being told that she should take it easy. She wasn't injured – that had been months ago. She was as ready to take on this job now as she had been the day she'd walked in with the mixed-up paperwork six years before.
"I can do this job."
"I never said you couldn't. I just think it might do you good to have some rest before you hit it hard. I know you, Prentiss – you don't slow down. Once you're back in the swing of things, you won't back off." No, she wouldn't. This job was her life. She hadn't come back just to sit at home on sick leave and read Kurt Vonnegut novels. She was back to work.
"Is that an order, sir?" He sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"You know it's not." She nodded slowly, rising. She paused in the doorway.
"I'll let you know if I need a break. Thanks, Hotch." And that was that. She was back to work.
"The hell you will," she heard him mutter as she headed back down the stairs. She couldn't help smiling at that.
...Now she wasn't so sure. Maybe Hotch had been right – maybe she needed a little time before she dove into this nightmare job again. She had all her faculties, but she certainly wasn't as distant as she should be anymore. She kept … caring too much.
The sound of a throat clearing behind her drew her from the memories. She didn't have to turn; she'd recognize that awkward sound anywhere. Reid... She could feel him behind her, perhaps two feet away. She could even picture how he'd be standing, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little tense, weight on one leg – probably his left. He was probably looking either down or away into the distance, just to one side of her, instead of looking directly at her, and his eyebrows were probably pulled into a thoughtful frown. Emily decided to save him the trouble of coming up with a good opening line.
"They send you out here to make sure I'm sane?" Her voice sounded jaded to her own ears. She was glad she couldn't see him – usually when she said cynical things he didn't respond, but once in a while she hit him with something that cut through and he would flinch. Just … flinch. Without retaliating. For some reason that always hurt in a way she couldn't understand.
"Are you alright?" There wasn't a note of concern in his voice – there seldom was. He felt as deeply as any of them, but couldn't express it the way they all did.
"I don't need to see the interrogation. If there's anything important you can all fill me in later." She heard his sneaker scrape the pavement as he took a step toward her.
"Actually, since we all perceive things differently even though we've had a lot of the same training, it's entirely possible that you do need to see the interrogation, since your perception of the unsub's reactions might open up ideas that none of the rest of us see." That was Reid, alright. Facts, statistics, logical scientific explanations. She turned toward him, just far enough to see his face. As she'd expected, he wore a look of intense concentration. Conversations like this always brought that look around; she'd come to expect it. It was just Reid, and that slight autism that he would never confirm or deny; he could profile well enough, read people well enough, but he had to exert an extraordinary amount of effort to relate in normal conversation. There was something almost endearing about it.
"Morgan's in there bringing up that woman's past - intentionally dragging her through more pain." She met Reid's eyes for a bare moment, a part of her surprised that he held eye contact at all. "I know it's necessary, but I sure as hell don't have to watch it." The surge of emotions that hit her as she spoke caught her off guard. She felt her throat closing over the last word and she had to close her eyes for a moment to hold back the sudden turmoil inside her. "Nobody," she whispered, "should have their failures thrown in their face." I know how it feels. There were too many memories, too many dark corners, too many ghosts waiting to show their leering faces. Don't go there, Emily. You know what's around that corner. Don't look – Too late. She swore as the first tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. "I don't cry," she muttered, making an irritated swipe at it with the back of one hand. The other hovered at her neckline, force of habit keeping it there.
"We're trying to save a life," Reid reminded her.
"What about her life?" Her life is already gone. She heard the pathetic note of pleading in her own voice and cringed inside. Another tear followed the first. I don't cry. This isn't happening. Do not have a meltdown in the middle of a case, in front of Reid... Again, too late.
She felt her shoulders begin to tremble. Dammit, Reid, can't you walk away?
"You know, human emotion is something that science still doesn't actually understand. While some people are easily influenced by it, others don't feel anything, and different situations call up a myriad of different emotions in each person." And that, she supposed, was Spencer Reid trying to be comforting. An unbidden sob escaped her throat and she tensed, trying to stop the sudden shivers that shook her whole body. This is ridiculous. I am not having a breakdown. Not here, not now. Not ever. Her arms were crossed, subconsciously putting up physical barriers.
"My mother used to do that," she whispered. "Anything I did – didn't matter how small – it was always just ammo for the next shot. Politicians are brutal, you know that?" Trying to stop the tears, she took a deep breath. She wasn't sure why she was saying this, except that she needed to say something, and for some reason Reid hearing it didn't bother her.
"Politicians, by the very nature of their job, tend to be skilled at manipulating the people around them. Usually they hide their own emotions very successfully, which allows them to feel in control. They also tend to focus on end goals and see people as means to those goals, so they typically find it easy to ignore the feelings of those around them, or ignore the fact that those around them have feelings." A grim chuckle broke out of her at that.
"Got that right. You've met my mother; she's a consummate politician." Her voice broke again on the last word and she swore under her breath. The crying wouldn't stop. Shoulda listened to Hotch. But no – she was too stubborn; she was strong; she could handle it – and here she was, turning into a mess on the street corner because they needed to manipulate the killer.
"Yes, your mother is – ah – a very formidable woman." An understatement. Her mother was a terror. A terror who didn't know how to relate to people if she wasn't freezing them, manipulating them, or spearing them with some bit of self-promoting verbiage.
"You've always excelled, Reid," she whispered. "Have you ever felt what it's like to be … not enough? To try every day to measure up to a standard and always fall short? You have no idea what it's like to not be good enough." Through the unwelcome wet haze over her vision she saw him tense.
"As a matter of fact, I do know the feeling. It – it's something I actually – um – deal with on a daily basis." He didn't have to elaborate. Reid, always a little on the outside edge, always a little out of place – of course he knew the feeling of not being enough.
"I'm sorry, Ried – I –" He shook his head.
"No, it's okay." No, it's not okay. Nothing was okay when Reid sounded so sad and resigned. "Was there a necklace you used to wear?" Abrupt subject change - perhaps he needed it. She met his eyes, uncertain.
"Necklace?" He shrugged one shoulder, typical frown in place.
"The way you keep rubbing your collar – it's like the way JJ plays with her necklace," he explained. Yeah. There used to be a necklace. But the motion wasn't from having a necklace there; she'd gotten rid of that habit years ago.
"Just an old scar." She tried to make it sound casual, careless. The quiet sob in her voice threw that plan off. Reid's frown deepened.
"A scar?" See, there was this guy. He liked me, I liked him. I sent him to prison, he came back and gave me something to remember him by. But that wasn't the kind of answer you could throw at Reid. It wasn't the kind of answer she intended to give anybody. If things would go right, she wouldn't be giving an answer at all – but it looked like things tonight were going in all sorts of directions she hadn't intended. She let out a shuddering sigh.
"Doyle thought I needed a keepsake." Even as she tugged the sweater down she wondered what she was doing. It wasn't something she shared around. She wore higher collars these days; she'd rather not display her torture trophy for everyone to see. It wasn't that she was afraid the team would view her differently – they'd had their chance for that. Reid had been the one to hold the longest grudge, and even he had let go and moved on. It was just... They didn't need the reminder. She didn't need the reminder. And if nobody else knew she had his emblem burnt into her skin, she could pretend that she'd forgotten about it.
Reid stiffened again. The ever-observant profiler in her could see the lines in his slacks changing and guessed his hands had clenched into fists in his pockets.
"Burns? ...That must have been incredibly painful. Anything hot enough to leave such deep scaring had to cause serious burns deep into the tissue, and that work looks hand-done. Painstaking work like that would take time – it wouldn't have been a quick job." No revulsion in his eyes. No horror. Just … pain. That was something she hadn't expected. He looked pained as if he could feel the searing heat himself. She felt the tears coming again and reached one hand up to wipe ineffectively at them, letting her sweater resume its place, shielding the scars on her chest. She probably had mascara running everywhere. She looked away, arms tightening in their protective hold around her ribcage.
His hand on her cheek surprised her. Reid wasn't a touch person. Didn't like shaking hands, didn't like hugs – again, the autism; the same reason he seldom made eye contact or held it for long if he did. She hadn't even noticed him stepping toward her. His fingers were cold. Long and cold and surprisingly gentle, stroking at the tears as they came faster and thicker.
"I'm stopping crying," she muttered.
"Actually crying is scientifically thought to be beneficial. While reflex tears are ninety-eight percent water, emotional tears have a high concentration of hormones and proteins." Leave it to Reid to know what chemicals were in tears. Through the unwelcome emotions, some distant part of her brain tried to focus on his words. They were her lifeline to something more solid than the pain inside. "Scientists and psychologists believe that in addition to releasing endorphins into the body, tears release hormonal toxins from the body - most notably the adrenocorticotropic hormone." For some reason that made her cry all the harder. Just call it PMS. The bubble of laughter that tried to escape at that thought turned into a choke that turned into another sob. Reid's hand slid away from her cheek, to her shoulder, and he took another step forward, holding her awkwardly against his side with that one arm. His side felt slight, but muscular, warmer than the November wind around them, and surprisingly solid.
"We're supposed to be in there," she managed, everything in her rebelling against the idea. Since when do you care about the serial killer's feelings, Agent Prentiss? It wasn't her job to care about their feelings - she choked on another hard sob.
"Yes." As usual, he sounded entirely blasé about it. "But they'll be ok." His other hand slid around her and she felt his thumbs rubbing her back, uncertainly at first and then settling into a sort of comfortable rhythm. She could feel herself trembling in his arms, her breath catching in her throat as the tears poured out. Reid smelled of soap, coffee, and something else that she couldn't quite catch hold of, and she absently wondered whether he would mind the wet spots she was making on his purple sweater. She tried to say something - anything coherent. Coherency was usually one of her better qualities; tonight the ability to form any kind of lucid sentence seemed to have left her entirely. She let herself lean hard against him, shaking uncontrollably. It was too much. Too much pain at once; too much confusion. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Why did he have to be so sweet about it? Anything else she could have taken – if he'd been annoyed, or if he'd looked disappointed in her, if he'd expressed disgust with her inability to focus on the case and hold herself together – but this tender acceptance… His thumbs continued their motion, so comforting and at the same time so foreign coming from Reid. She drew another deep breath. She kept it steady that time. She wiped at her damp cheeks with one hand, ignoring the fact that tears were still falling and it was useless to try mopping them up until they stopped. There were a few substantial wet splotches on Reid's front and side. The smile she attempted was little more than a grimacing twitch of her mouth as she looked up at him.
"You're something else entirely, Dr. Reid." She didn't bother to examine whether the quiver in her voice came from the tears or from the unexpected chuckle she felt lodged in her throat along with the pain. His smile, for some reason she couldn't understand, drew another little flood of tears. He had a beautiful smile; it reached all the way to his brown eyes and put an extra sparkle in them, even if it was a sort of sad smile.
"You've said something along those lines before." She felt her own smile spreading for just a moment before his lips touched hers. This is a bad idea. She shoved the logical, rational part of her mind away. Bad idea or not, it was right. He drew back, uncertainty and confusion vying for prominence in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Emily; I don't – "
"Don't be." Kissing Reid could be a very bad idea. But at the moment it was much easier to focus on how good it felt to let him hold her. It was a safe feeling, a feeling she hadn't felt since... Since before. She pulled her thoughts back before they could follow that idea any further. Her arm had somehow found its way around his neck. She pulled his head back down, her fingers working their way into his hair as she kissed him again. For a socially maladroit, nerdy genius, he was an incredible kisser. Suddenly nothing else mattered. The case, her mother, her scars, the tear stains she'd left all over his sweater...
"There are rules about this, Reid." It was difficult to speak with his mouth against hers. He only pulled her closer. "The rules are there for some very good reasons," she reminded. He hesitated a moment before pulling back far enough to meet her eyes.
"I've followed the rules as long as I can remember, Emily. Sometimes it's actually healthy to break the rules." She was laughing when he kissed her again. In just a few minutes they'd have to go back in. There was still a woman in the interrogation room, still a man somewhere who would die if they didn't find him. And, of course, they would have to talk to Hotch before they both got in trouble for breaking the rules... But right now she couldn't persuade herself that any of that mattered. Right now all that mattered was this – Reid – his arms around her – his mouth over hers...
"Did you know you have a beautiful smile, Dr. Reid?"