Disclaimer: Not Mine.
A/N: Many, many thanks to mingsmommy and losingntrnslatn for all their help and patience. I've really needed both this week.
Her eyes in the steamy mirror are huge, disbelief written so clearly on her face even a blind man could see it. Her hand is shaking so hard that the stupid plastic stick clatters into the sink. Slowly, her muscles barely responding to her brain's instructions, she sits on the edge of the tub.
How the hell did this happen? Barking out a laugh, she shakes her head. She knows how it happened. She's not stupid…far from it actually. Which makes it even harder to believe.
"Emily?" The knock on the door startles her and she has to grip the edge of the tub to keep from falling.
Scrambling to her feet, she pushes her hair off her face and calls out, "Just a minute." Even to her own ears the words sound strained, tinny.
He pauses. Through the door, she can almost feel his eyes on her. She can see the questioning tilt to his head and the furrows in his brow that say he's sure something isn't right. "All right. I'll go start the coffee."
She hears him pad away. There is an ache in her chest and a roiling nausea in her gut. She chokes back a sob, fighting furiously against the tears swimming in her eyes. Glancing in the mirror again, she sees that the end of her nose is red and curses her fair skin.
Shit, shit, shit, shit. He'll think you've been crying if he sees you like this, Prentiss, so suck it up. Suck. It. Up.
With a shuddering breath, she clenches her eyes shut and counts to ten, then to twenty. When she opens them, the face staring back at her is pale and panicked. And she's not sure that's any better. But if she stays in the bathroom any longer, he's going to come back. Reluctantly, she slips into the sweats and t-shirt she brought in with her. Pulling her wet hair up into a clip, she opens the door.
Her bedroom smells like Dave, something earthy and rich underscored by the clean scent of his cologne. She fights back another sob as she pictures him there asleep, sheets bunched around his narrow hips, his hair sticking up in a bad imitation of a Mohawk. Right then and there she realizes how accustomed she is to sharing her bed with him. Not just having sex with him, but waking up with the heat and scent of his body surrounding her. And now, unless that fucking pink plus sign was wrong, everything could be on the line.
Methodically, she begins to make the bed, straightening the sheets and fluffing the pillows until all evidence of the two of them has been eradicated. With a last lingering look, she goes down stairs to find Rossi.
The smell of coffee and bacon mingles on the air and Emily feels her stomach do a slow flip. She pauses and takes a deep breath, forcing the nausea down, wondering fleetingly if it's morning sickness or nerves. Considering they've never talked about children, theirs or anyone else's, she's pretty sure the sick feeling is coming from her uncertainty over his reaction. Smoothing her damp palms over her legs, she plasters a smile on her face and heads for the kitchen.
Rossi, wearing a t-shirt and those adorable blue and white striped boxers she loves, is standing over the stove turning bacon in a frying pan. He is barefoot and tousled with a cup of coffee in one hand and a fork in the other. In her eyes, he's never looked better. Or more frightening.
"Morning." Emily moves to the coffee pot, a thought niggles at her mind about caffeine and fetuses, but she figures she can start worrying about that tomorrow. Right now she has bigger fish to fry.
Throwing her a look over his shoulder, Dave gives her a quick smile. "Hey."
Her hands tremble as she pours coffee into the cup he set out for her. Adding sweetener, she takes her time stirring, watching as the spoon creates a vortex in the steaming liquid. Her mind is racing, thoughts careening through her cerebrum at an alarming rate. First and foremost, though, is how to break the news.
Mmmmmmm. Bacon smells good. Junior's starving.
Love the way those boxers make your ass look. Wonder if that has anything to do with me being pregnant?
Can we have eggs too? Pregnant women need a lot of protein.
As usual, her first response to the stress is sarcasm. But she knows that she can't break the news like that. This is too important.
"Emily?" His voice, loud and a little impatient, breaks through the fog, startling her.
Turning, she sees him watching her, his eyes narrowed in that way he has when he's puzzling something out.
"What's going on?" It's a question that borders on something harsher.
She can feel a blush heating her cheeks. "Nothing," she lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip.
He turns back to the stove, but not before she sees his eyebrow shoot toward his hairline. "I was going to ask if you'd take care of the toast."
"Sure." Setting her cup to the side, she moves around the kitchen, pulling out the bread and popping it in the toaster. While she's waiting on that to finish, she takes out plates and silverware and lays them out on the breakfast bar. Then goes to the fridge and grabs a container of fruit and the blackberry jam she knows Dave likes. When the toast pops up, she stacks it neatly and cuts it in half on the diagonal because that's how she's always liked it and right now she needs something good, something safe.
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"You're not eating." he points out, with a wave of his fork. He's watched her push food around her plate and nibble on a slice of toast for the past fifteen minutes.
With a guilty glance in his direction, she pops a grape in her mouth and chews very deliberately.
Quietly, calmly, he lays his fork down. "Okay. Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"
This time it's a bite of bacon, her teeth snapping it off so sharply he hears it crunch. She pushes her bangs off her forehead. Now a chunk of pineapple makes her cheek bulge out a little. Still, she doesn't speak.
"Emily," he reaches out and stops her hand halfway to her mouth, "I thought we were past this." He chuckles as the nerves begin to flutter in his stomach. "Actually, I don't remember it ever being like this."
She's trembling. Underneath his hand, her arm is shaking. Looking at her, really looking, he sees how pale she is, the smattering of freckles across her nose standing out in stark relief, her eyes huge and stormy. And he begins to wonder if he can take back his questions and pretend nothing is wrong.
"Like what?"
She tries for nonchalance. If he were anyone else, she might even pull it off. But he's been reading people for far too long to ever fall for it, especially from her. "Just tell me what's going on."
She drops her head, chin against her chest, eyes closed. "I'm pregnant." It's a whisper, a sigh, a trembling of her vocal chords.
And he can't breathe. There isn't enough air in the room. He can't breathe or think or feel. He is numb. Shocked. He knows he should say something, but he can't even begin to think of what that should be. He just sits there, staring at her profile, with his mind blank. Hundreds of thousands of words written down and sold to anybody interested in reading them and he can't even string together a sentence.
Then his brain kicks in. Fuck, echoes loudly through the otherwise empty space. If he could remember how, he might even laugh at his own creativity.
"Say something." Emily turns to look at him. "Anything."
I'm too old to be a father.
With a quick shake of his head, he stands and carries his plate to the sink. Automatically, he scrapes away his uneaten breakfast and turns on the disposal to get rid of the evidence. "How long have you known?"
I'm not ready for this. I've never been ready for this.
She glances up at the clock on the wall. "Twenty-six minutes."
"Emily, I don't know what to say. I wish I did." He hears the words come out, calm and detached. Nothing like what's going on inside him where everything is jumbled together in a boiling miasma.
A baby? His baby?
Now she looks at him, her eyes glassy with tears. And he wonders if she can see the fear and anger swirling through his mind.
"How did this happen?" He spits the words out, each one bitter in his mouth.
With a sad smile, she shrugs. "The usual way."
"I know how it happened." His head is beginning to pound in time with his heart. "There are reasons I don't have children."
Anger turns her cheeks red and sparks from her eyes. But she's also curious; he can see it in the tilt of her head, the way she leans forward. "Talk to me."
He's shaking his head before she even finishes the sentence. "Let's just say they are valid reasons, and leave it at that."
She stares at him, this woman who has shared his bed, his life, for over a year now. "Are you saying you don't want this baby?"
His hands are gripping the edge of the sink, the knuckles white with strain. "I don't know what I'm saying right now."
"You know, I've been here before." He can see the remembered pain swimming in her eyes. "But I'm old enough now to know what I want."
Shame floods through him. For all his talk since her confession, he's no better than John. And he's not fifteen. He can't even use that as an excuse.
"I think you should go." There is sadness and resignation and a quiet dignity in her tone. Never has she said so much by saying so little.
"Wait…" His words stumble to a halt. He's still unsure of what she wants to hear, what she needs to hear. "I…"
Standing, straightening to her full height, she appears almost regal. "I'm going for a walk. Lock the door when you go, please."
Hearing the door close quietly behind her, the ache in his chest is only overshadowed by the pounding in his head. He clears away her plate and heads upstairs to dress.