Title: Empty Spaces
Fandom: CSI:NY/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Don Flack/Emily Prentiss
Summary: There's a serial killer in the suburbs of New York and the BAU has been requested to provide a profile. The NYPD and the BAU decide to collaborate, sending an FBI agent and a senior detective undercover, posing as a married couple, fitting the same criteria of the pervious victims. Don Flack and Emily Prentiss haven't seen each other in years, but now, seeing as they have to pretend to be married, they'll be seeing a lot of each other.
Authors Note: This was written for the au_bigbang at livejournal. It'a a thousdand words shy of 15k, but hell, it's close enough.
There was so much blood.
Covering the mantel, there was arterial spray from where one of them had been hit in the head; there was sweat smeared across the television screen from where someone had tried to catch their fall, the force having knocked the television off the wall, now lying face down on the hardwood floor with the cords ripped out of the back. The lights were out, except for one, just one, in the kitchen, spotlighted in the center. There are shadows cast across the floor, bleeding into the tiles; the light catching against smears of blood, drops of sweat, spit, tears.
The chair in the middle of the kitchen, in the center of the spotlight, was occupied: a long, pale body clad only in black underwear and bra strapped to it. Her head hung forward, dark hair falling into her lap, hands tied behind her back with a purple striped tie and her legs tied together with one of a similar pattern, colored something that looked an awful lot like peach.
With a sharp intake of breath, her body jerks, painfully pulling against the binds cutting into her. With a sniff and a deep, controlling inhale, she slowly lifts her head, blinking half-eyed against the light. Swallowing thickly and hooding her eyes against the spotlight, she assesses the situation. She assesses and concludes within seconds that her companion (her boyfriend maybe, maybe her lover, she doesn't know what he is to her, they're still trying to figure out how to be around each other) was not in the same room. But there was blood on the floor, and on the kitchen table, and she knows it's not hers.
Breathing deeply and closing her eyes (pushing down the panic, because panicking wouldn't help either of them now) she leans back in her chair and concentrates on her wrists, on how they're tied together, and with what. The fabric twists against her skin and stresses against the knot, loosening bit by bit until she manages to pull her hand free. Her shoulders ache from the pressure and the awkward position, and she takes her time sitting up straight to lessen some of the pain and get the blood flowing into her fingers. But there was no time to just sit there, not when somewhere in her house there was a monster.
Her fingers are numb, almost useless as they work to untie the knot binding her ankles together, all the while looking around her, at the kitchen, trying to see past the spotlight for anything that could help her. The clock in the oven told her it was almost four in the morning, and she'd been unconscious for almost an hour.
She nearly slips when she stands up and closes her eyes, breathing deeply, trying not to think about the blood on the bottom of her feet soaking between her toes. Instead she concentrates on one foot in front of the other, moving closer to the wall so she can catch herself against it, catch her balance. With a shaky breath and a sharp shake of her head she remembers the gun they keep in the kitchen, in the drawer so conveniently within arms reach of her, and it gives her a perverse comfort: the lead weight in her hands, smooth and cold and real. It give her confidence to walk in the dark, and she found it was easier to breathe and listen, listen for the sound of screaming or moaning. She follows the wall, taking one step at a time until the sound of movement reaches her ears, the sound of humming.
Pulling away from the wall, she moves slowly, one careful step at a time, her heart rate speeding up. There's a light on underneath the closed door of their bedroom and the humming only grows louder the closer she gets. She cocks the gun in her hand as slowly, as softly as she can, but even then the humming stops for a second. She holds her breath, aiming her weapon at the door just…just in case, but the humming starts once more.
She swallows the lump and fear in her throat and manages the final steps to the door. The handle has blood on it and she tries not to imagine if it's hers or his when she grasps it firmly and flings open the door.
There's a man squatting, hovering over the body (she tried not to think he's dead, but she can already taste the bile in her throat at the thought) of a man; deep abrasions along his arms and chest, wearing nothing but bruises and black briefs. The gun in her hands is surprisingly steady for someone with a head wound, but the man is more so, and he rises to his feet before she can fire a shot and winks at her over his shoulder.
"There's fight in you both. I'll see you soon." She can't help the scream that's ripped from her throat as she fires her gun, hitting the headboard of their bed and the wall, shattering a mirror, but he's gone.
All that's left is them. The gun slips from her fingers as her eyes slide back onto the man lying on the ground. She can't run fast enough to his side, overshooting how close he is when she drops to her knees, managing to straddle his waist. Her fingers curl into a fist on his chest and she's shaking when she screams his name.
"Don!"
Three Days Earlier.
Quantico, Virginia. 0617
Office of Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau.
JJ was more than a little busy; in fact, if she wanted to or had the time, she could make a fort with all stacks of files in her office. So far she had read files on a rapist in Arizona, a string of disappearances in Kentucky and what could possibly be a Satanic Colt in Iowa. And it was only 6 in the morning. JJ sighed, running her hand through her hair distractedly, staring at a file of something that sounded like a scene from Buffy the Vampire Slayer when her phone rang. Loudly. Slamming her hand on the receiver, JJ took a moment to slow down her heart rate, taking a deep breath and answering as calmly as possible.
"SSA Jareau."
"JJ, this is Detective Mac Taylor with the NYPD. We've talked for consults before."
"Detective Taylor, of course," JJ relaxed into her chair, propping her elbow up on the arm of her chair. "What can I do for you?"
"I sent a file to your office. New York needs your team."
"I actually have that file," murmured JJ, sitting up to leaf through the manila folders before sliding one out. "You were going to fill me in on the details?"
"Five couples that we know of. All different ages, no fingerprints, no DNA, no evidence."
"Right. Papers are calling him the Two-By-Four Killer."
"Two victims every four weeks."
"Classy. Have you found any connections with the victims?"
"The victims rang in age, but we believe we have a victim type. The men are all over 6 feet tall, dark hair, athletic, and the women are brunettes and athletic. So far that's all the connection we've come up with, and I have half my lab working on this. I was hoping you could give us a profile, point us in any direction."
"I'll run it by the team, we can be there in two hours-"
"Hold on, JJ," JJ heard the detective pull away from the phone and listened to a muted, angry conversation. Mac swore as he returned to the call and JJ felt a weight drop into her stomach. "We've got two more bodies."
"Another couple?"
"Two hours might not cut it JJ."
"I'll call you when we land."
Staten Island, 0825
Crime Scene, Home of Scott and Patricia Lancaster
Mac had his hands on his hips, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses as he stood in the doorway of the latest murders. The papers were starting to call this fuck the Two by Four Killer. Two victims every four weeks. Only the four week mark had passed the week before, and the carnage he was staring at now was what must have happened in the week the NYPD hadn't gotten any bodies. Scott Lancaster's face was nearly shredded off. They had to id him from the broken watch hanging on his shattered wrist, his name engraved on the back of the face.
"I really hate his guy, Mac," said Stella softly at his shoulder, walking up from behind him. He didn't glance at her, just nodded.
"We'll get him, and he'll pay."
"We have no evidence," said Stella, turning her body into his. "We have no connections between the victims, no witnesses. How many more people are going to die before he messes up and we get a break?"
"I called the BAU," said Mac, stepping into the room that housed Mr. Lancaster's body. He pulled his sunglasses off his face and placed them carefully in his jacket pocket, concentrating on the room for any sort of pattern, any connection to the other murders.
"You called the profilers?" asked Stella, and Mac could hear the surprise in her voice. Or maybe she was just a little annoyed. "Abandon all hope, Mac Taylor has to go to the FBI just to solve a case-"
"We need all the help we can get," snapped Mac, squeezing his eyes shut. The anger in his chest flared and died and he turned back to Stella, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I just want this man found."
"This is our case Mac," said Stella firmly. "They remember that and we wont have a problem."
Mac nodded just as his phone rang. He checked the id. "That's them. Tell Flack to meet me out front, you and Danny continue processing. We'll see you back at the lab."
"Hope they can help."
Hotch had sent JJ and Reid to CSI headquarters ahead of them, had instructed Morgan to start a sweep through the house staring with the point of entry, and was currently standing outside the crime scene with Rossi and Emily flanking him. Emily was talking to JJ on her phone, turned away slightly to concentrate when Mac walked out of the house. Hotch took a step forward, holding out his hand.
"Detective Taylor. Agent Hotchner, this is Agent Rossi and Agent Prentiss."
Mac nodded to Rossi, turning to shake the older man's hand as well. "Heard a lot about you people."
"Likewise," said Rossi, turning to look past him at the house. "Same MO as the last five murders?"
"The level of torture is different with each couple, but it's the all the same. Patricia was found in the kitchen, tied to a chair, and Scott Lancaster was beaten to death in the bedroom."
"JJ and Reid are talking to the corner," said Emily, closing her phone and turning to Hotch and Mac. "Might get some specifics on the torture."
"Mac, some guy's talking to himself in my crime scene." Mac looked over his shoulder, watching an annoyed Flack walk up, his memo pad pointing back towards the house over his shoulder. Mac nodded to the trio in front of him.
"One of the FBI agents," said Mac. "This is Detective Don Flack, Don, these are Agents Rossi, Hotchner and Prentiss."
"You were the first detective on the scene for the first murder," said Rossi. Flack nodded, his eyes flickering onto Emily.
"That's right, and every murder since. I thought you were in Chicago."
"I've been in the BAU for a couple years."
"You know each other?" asked Rossi. Flack shook his head.
"Nope." Hotch didn't seem to care, and continued as if he hadn't heard either of them.
"Agent Morgan is walking through the scene as we speak. Rossi, I want you to stay here with him. When you're finished, run through the last two crime scenes," said Hotch. Rossi nodded and stepped away, heading into the Lancaster house. Hotch turned to Flack. "If you don't mind taking Agent Prentiss to the first crime scene-"
"I do mind, actually," interrupted Flack. "You're here to consult, and I have a job to do. 'Scuse me."
He brushed past them, headed for the crime scene tape and a cop. Emily turned her head to watch him go, a slight tint to her face that looked like embarrassment, vaguely registering Mac's apology of sorts for the detective's behavior.
"Prentiss." Emily's head whipped back around as Hotch said her name. He gave her a look. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah." Hotch stared at her for a moment before turning back to Mac and asking him if he had any detectives to spare in order to escort Emily to the first few crime scenes.
"I'll take her there myself. Flack will be here if you have any questions."
"I'll meet up with JJ and Reid. Detective." Hotch nodded to Mac and turned to leave. Emily folded her arms across her chest, turning her head to watch him go. Hotch walked past Flack and stopped to ask him something and Emily's eyes drifted onto him.
"Agent Prentiss?"
"Right," said Emily, quickly turning back to Mac. "I've read the files on the case, could you fill me in on any other details?"
New York Police Department, 1005
Crime Lab, Evidence Room
Hawkes leaned over the evidence table, concentrating on the bloodstained clothes, possible murder weapons and photos of the crime scene. Sid had sent up a report of his findings along with Dr. Spencer Reid. Hawkes had heard of the younger man, but had never met him in person and found him quite amusing. Reid was going over the case files with Lindsay.
"Dr. Hawkes?" He looked up, surprised to see Reid standing in the doorway, a file in hand, looking nervous and serious. Hawkes straightened up, pushing the magnifying glass away from the evidence he was working on.
"What is it, Dr. Reid?"
"We have a problem."
The victims had dark hair, all were athletically built, they worked or had worked with law enforcement in their lives (one was a defense attorney, another was a parole officer, three of them were local cops), and every couple was trying to have a child. They had been to different fertility clinics, had different doctors, had no contact with each other. Reid had created a geographical profile of the crime scenes and the clinics, coordinating the most likely area the UnSub would target next. Hawkes had gone back to his evidence after Reid had informed him of this and began looking for wounds in common with each victim.
It was going to take a while.
New York Police Department, 1345
Crime Lab, Office of Detective Taylor
Mac was standing in his office, hand on his hips, staring at his desk and the files on it. He'd already read them twice, but he figured once more would do the trick and change the information into something less disturbing and more to his liking.
"Undercover agents," repeated Mac under his breath. He felt uncomfortable with most of his team in his office, along with most of the BAU. Hawkes was still going through evidence with Lindsay, but Stella, Flack and Danny were there, frowning at him as he concentrated. The FBI wanted a couple of their agents to go undercover, posing as a couple in order to draw out their killer. It was a good strategy, Stella had said, and Emily Prentiss was a good agent, but…
"I want Flack to go on this," said Mac, looking pointedly at Hotch. "He's been on this case from day one, he's a senior detective, he's had experience. No one knows this case better than him." They missed the look that passed over Emily's face, who glanced quickly at Flack out of the corner of her eye, his posture playing off uninterested. Hotch finally sighed and nodded.
"You'll both need to be committed to this. This UnSub likes to take his time," Emily nodded and Hotch motioned to Flack. "The house is still being set for you both, but give it a few hours before breaking in the place. I now pronounce you husband and wife."
"Great," muttered Emily, running a hand through her hair, her other falling against her hip. She could feel Flack (Don, she corrected silently. For this she'd have to start calling him Don. She'd have to kiss him and touch him and look him in the eyes. For both their lives she had to do this, and she couldn't let whatever qualms she seemed to have with him get in the way.) staring at her from where he was standing behind Mac, his arms folded across his chest, just starring at her. Hotch cleared his throat and Emily's eyes snapped onto him.
"You'll both need to change into something less professional," he started, handing the file in his hands to Emily, staring her down. "We'll discuss your covers later. Right now we need to get you set up as soon as possible. The quicker we do that the quicker he'll turn his focus onto you."
New York Police Department, 1452
Unisex Locker Rooms
"Drawing the focus of a serial killer," muttered Flack, unbuttoning his shirt in the locker room. "Great idea."
"You don't have to do this," said Danny from his lean against the lockers next to the one Flack was standing in front of. "I mean you really don't have to do this. There are actual undercover cops who can-"
"I'm doin' this, Messer," snapped Flack, shedding his work shirt and pulling a plain black t-shirt over his head. "I know this case better than anyone. I've been on it since day one, for cryin' out loud."
"I know, Don," said Danny seriously. Flack looked over at him and the two held eyes for a moment before Danny had to look away. "You'll be careful?"
"I will." Danny nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, walking past him and out of the lockers. He turned back to the other man and raised an eyebrow. "At least you have the FBI to watch your back, eh?"
"Yeah," muttered Flack, staring into his locker after Danny left. He swung it shut and closed his eyes, shaking his head bitterly. "I just wish it wasn't her."
There was something nice about the feeling of people pressing in on you at all sides, that because everyone was going the same way, looking at the same things the chaos became structure. Seminars were like that, the people were all the same, even if they were from different places, had different jobs, they were all fighting the same fight. Here the anonymity covered them, made them one. That's the only reason Don went to them, to see the people, trade stories, look at the tech that none of their departments could ever afford. He'd been pressed next to the same girl for the last half hour, pretty woman with dark hair, too pale to be a street cop or even a detective. She caught him staring, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, held out his hand and introduced himself as Detective Don Flack, still getting used to the title, but liking the way it rang. She smiled at him and he knew that his weekend just got a hell of a lot better.
"Emily Prentiss. BAU."
"FBI. Nice. You related to Ambassador Prentiss?"
"She's my mother."
"Don't you just hate people who knew your parents?"
"You know all about it?"
"My dad was a precinct Captain in New York before he retired."
"What a coincidence. We just might get along."
"I'm hoping."
Don shook his head once more, not exactly in the mood to reminisce, picking his coat up off the bench behind him and shrugging it on as he made his way out of the locker rooms. He needed to ask Adam about bugs in the house he was supposed to be living in. He didn't want to have to worry about a video feed when he was getting out of the shower.
New York Police Department, 1527
Crime Lab, Break Room
"Operator."
"Operator?" asked Morgan, leaning back against the break room counter, frowning in amusement. "No witty commentary?"
"I've been watching The Matrix," said Garcia lightly. "What can I do you for?"
"Look up Don Flack, Jr. for me."
"Suspect?"
"Detective."
"Again I say, suspect?"
"I think he and Prentiss have a history," amended Morgan, watching said detective exit the elevator in street clothes, slinging his arm over a tech by the name Adam.
"Good history?"
"Don't be coy, Penelope, this is serious. They have to go undercover together. I just want to make sure they can handle it."
"Does Hotch think they can't work together?"
"No."
"What about Detective Taylor?"
"No, it was his idea."
"Then you have to give it a rest, sugar."
"But-"
"Derek, I'm not going to rifle around in the poor man's life just because you're iffy about Emily on an undercover op with one of the best detectives in New York. If they were uncomfortable about it, don't you think they would have mentioned something?"
"You're right."
"Always am. Hey, is he as good looking in person as he is in his drivers license?"
"I thought you weren't lookin' through the man's life?"
"You peek my interest, and trust me sugar, that is one man no woman would ever be uncomfortable about."
"Naughty girl. I'll talk to you later."
"You better." Morgan shut his phone and pushed himself away from the counter, heading out of the break room and in the direction of Adam and Don, catching them in the middle of a conversation.
"I'm not kidding, Ross, if I find out there are any cameras, I'm comin' after you first."
"I swear, Flack, no cameras inside the house," insisted Adam, holding up his hands innocently. "Just a surveillance team 24 hours and cameras at the doors. I'm not a pervert."
"Hey, Detective," called Morgan, nodding at the detective. "You got a sec?"
"Sure, Agent Morgan."
"You up for this?" asked Morgan as soon as Adam slipped away, seeming relieved at his break in attention. Morgan watched the detective's face go blank, knew without asking again that the man was more than up for it. "I'm just asking. This UnSub will without a doubt have you in his radar the moment he sees your cover profile."
"What is our cover?" asked Don, folding his arms over his chest.
"Nothing too outrageous. You and Prentiss are married, looking into having kids, real minor stuff."
"Sounds minor enough," said Don. Morgan narrowed his eyes at him in curiosity.
"Then why do you look like this is Judgment Day?"
"Don't profile me, Agent Morgan."
Morgan shrugged, inclining his head in acknowledgement. "Alright." Don nodded and turned to go, heading in the direction of the elevator when Morgan called out again. "Hey, Detective, do me a favor?" Don stopped and turned back around, nodding for him to continue. "Keep her safe."
Don couldn't answer him. It was a given that he would keep her safe, he didn't need to convince Morgan that he would do his job. He nodded anyways and continued back towards the elevator. Of course he would keep her safe, what kind of person- what kind of man would he be if he wouldn't keep her safe? It was Emily for god's sake, she was…she used to be important to him.
"Hey." Don looked up as the elevator door opened, almost surprised to see Emily standing there. He hesitated but walked in, quirking his lips at her in greeting. She tried not looking at him, folding her arms across her chest and watching the floor numbers go by. Don rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, moving around Emily and pressing the emergency stop button on the control panel. He turned to her. "We have to talk."
"I think we were doing pretty fine without talking."
"Well, forgive me for wanting to get this out of the way before one of your coworkers figures out we used to date."
"I'm fairly certain they all already know," said Emily. "We are profilers."
"Fine, whatever. Can we talk for my sake then? I haven't seen you in years and you show up like nothing's happened." His voice went quiet and he leaned into her personal space, one arm bracing against the elevator wall.
Emily sighed. "It's been ten years, I've moved on. I thought you would have too."
"I did," growled Don. "Of course I did, but you were important to me. Christ, I asked you to marry me."
"I didn't want to bring that up," interrupted Emily, glancing away. They went silent, Don staring down at Emily with his brown creased.
"I get it," said Don. "Why you said no."
Emily looked up at him, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat. "Don-"
"Em, I'm going undercover because it's my job. If working with you is going to stop people from getting killed then I'm all over it. We just need to let the past go so we can do our jobs."
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You did," said Don, pulling away and pressing the emergency button again, starting the elevator back up. "But it's been ten years, and I've moved on."
"Glad we got that out of the way," muttered Emily. They rode in silence of a moment before she broke it, looking sideways at him. "It is good to see you again."
Don looked back and could help the grin that tugged on the corner of his mouth. "You too."
The silence was easier, the air seemed less thick. Don's phone vibrated on his hip and he checked it with a sigh. "My sister's calling."
"Yeah?"
"I was supposed to have dinner with her, but with the case I just…"
"You're pretty close."
"Yeah, we are," said Don. He sighed and answered his phone. "Sam, hey."
Emily watched Don talk to his sister, trying to shake off the conversation they just had. She hadn't just said no to him, she had left the state. Transferred to the Midwest as fast as she could. She had been terrified by him. Emily tried not to eavesdrop as he talked to Sam, or argued with her about missing dinner.
"You should have dinner with her," said Emily as the elevator doors opened. Don watched her walk out and Sam stopped talking on his end.
"Who was that? Was that a girl?"
"Yes it was a girl," muttered Don, rolling his eyes and following Emily out of the elevator, into the underground garage, finding Emily waiting for him, straightening her hair around her coat. He could practically feel Sam's mouth gaping open on the other line.
"Like a girlfriend type of girl?"
"Sam-"
"I need to meet her. Tonight at dinner, no objections."
Don sighed, glancing at Emily. "I'll see what I can do."
"No objections, Donny." Don shook his head, closing his phone as Emily watched him.
"We have some time before we have to get to the house. Do you wanna grab some dinner?"
"Sam actually wants to met you," said Don, jerking his head in the direction of his car. "You up for it?"
Emily nodded thoughtfully, following Don to his car and climbing in. "Should we tell her?" Don shot her a look.
"About the undercover mission to draw out a serial killer that could possibly get us both killed? She might hurt me."
"We should tell them something," muttered Emily, leaning back in her seat as Don pulled out of the garage, frowning.
"Who are they?"
"Your family, my family."
"They don't need to know anything."
"Fine," said Emily, shrugging, looking out the window, counting slowly in her head, waiting for him to-
Don scoffed, shaking his head in annoyance. Emily tried not to grin at herself as she pulled out her cell, dialing her mothers number.
"Hello, Mother? It's Emily."
Carmine's Italian Style Restaurant, 1704
Restaurant Parking Lot
Don stared at the restaurant door with a grim look on his face, standing next to Emily who was fishing in her purse for her cell phone.
"This is a bad idea," said Don, inclining his head towards Emily, still staring at the restaurant.
"Text from Morgan. He says the house is ready and…oh that's real mature," grumbled Emily, narrowing her eyes at her phone and replying to Morgan. "It's better that they know something. My mother would never forgive me for ignoring this golden opportunity to pretend her daughter isn't a total failure."
"Let's just get this over with." muttered Don, heading inside only to stop when he noticed Emily wasn't following him. He turned back to catch her staring at the restaurant sign. "Emily?"
"This is where we went on our second date," said Emily. Don blinked at her.
"You remember that?"
"Of course I remember that. I've been craving this place for the last ten years."
Don laughed at her. "I come here at least once a week."
"I'm not surprised, Don. You're a foodie."
Don shook his head and nodded toward the door. "You comin' or what?"
"I'm coming. Oh! Do they still that that sherbet?"
"The one made with coconut? Comes in an actual coconut? Oh yeah." Don watched Emily's face brighten and her practically bouncing ahead of him into the restaurant, and he couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. "Who's the foodie again?"
Sam was already at a table, waiting for them when they walked through the door. She stood up, waving them over. Don kept the smile plastered on his face as he leaned into Emily. "Here we go."
"Don!"
"I can see you, Sam," said Don, moving around the closely arranged tables to pull his sister into a quick hug. "Emily, this is my sister Sam," introduced Don, pulling away from Sam and stepping back to her side. Emily felt his fingers brush against her back, but they were gone in an instant. "Sam, this is my uh, this is Emily. My wife."
Sam did a double take, the smile on her face shuddering and freezing. She gaped at Don. "You're what?"
Don smiled tightly. "I got married."
Sam gave him a weird look. "Were you drunk or something? How come I've never met her?"
"It's complicated," muttered Don, glancing sideways at Emily, who was shifting on her feet. "Look Sam, this isn't a big deal, it's for a-"
"Liar," scoffed Sam, poking her brother in the chest and folding her arms. "So a big deal. Does Dad know?"
Don's silence was all Sam needed. She whacked him across the shoulder, narrowing her eyes at him. Don batted her hand away, pulling out a chair for Emily and dropping into his own. "I'm gonna tell him."
"When?"
"Sit down and I might tell you," said Don, grinning at her cheekily. Sam didn't look convinced as she sat, and opened her mouth to tell him so when she was interrupted.
"Don, Sammy."
"Speak of the devil," said Sam, smiling up at her father. Stony blue eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled back before moving to Don. Don, Sr. clapped his son on the shoulder and pulled a chair out from the table, signing as he dropped into it. "I didn't know you were having dinner with us."
"I guess it's a first," he said gruffly, leaning back in his chair. He nodded to Emily. "Who's this?"
"Dad, this is Emily Prentiss."
"You mean Flack," muttered Sam under her breath, sending Don a cheeky grin. Don, Sr. didn't catch it, too busy reaching out to shake Emily's hand, introducing himself.
"It's nice to meet you," said Emily.
Don, Sr. nodded. "Pleasure," he leaned back in his chair and nodded to the fifth seat, currently empty. "Who else are we waiting for?"
"My mother," said Emily. "She's in New York for the weekend, attending a party for the American Embassy."
"You're Ambassador Prentiss' daughter," said Don, Sr. with a nod. "I've met her. She's quite an…impressive woman."
"Thank you for the compliment, Detective Flack," the four seated at the table looked up to see Elizabeth Prentiss standing behind them. She looked at Emily pointedly. "Well don't just sit there, Emily. Introduce me."
"Mother, this is Don Flack," stammered Emily quickly, standing up and stepping away from the table. Don followed suit, holding his hand out for Elizabeth to shake. She did stiffly, giving him a once over before turning her attention to Sam, who had remained sitting. "This is Don's sister Sam, and you've apparently met Don, Sr."
"Yes, it was a charity event I believe," said Elizabeth, nodding curtly to Don, Sr. before making her way around the table and taking her seat across from Emily's.
"So what's the occasion?"
"Don has some interesting news," blurted out Sam a little too loudly and a little too excited, smiling wide, trying not to laugh at the look on her brothers face as she turned her head to look at him. Don, Sr. looked expectantly at his son, raising his eyebrows in impatience.
"Well?" Don shook his head, glaring at his sister before glancing over at his father.
"Thing is, Emily and I…"
"We got married." said Emily quickly, not able to look at her mother or Don's father. They stared. And it was silent. And it was awkward. Elizabeth blinked herself out of her stupor suddenly and took a deep breath.
"Well," she started. "I think the most important question is, when am I getting grandchildren?"
Emily's head whipped around so fast it hurt. "That's the most important question?"
"I agree with the ambassador," said Don, Sr. leaned over the table, pointing at Don. "I want at least two."
"They'll have to have a proper wedding eventually," said Elizabeth in a matter-of-fact tone. She raised her eyebrow at Don, Sr. "I'm assuming you're Irish Catholic."
"Damn right."
"Well, I have no problem with a Catholic wedding. I'll need to call your father, of course. You couldn't have given me any notice, could you, Emily?"
"I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Mother," muttered Emily under her breath, closing her eyes and sinking into her chair. Elizabeth and Don, Sr. continued to talk, occasionally interrupted by Sam's titters of glee. Flack grunted and glanced over at Emily.
"Should we tell them it's just for pretend?"
"We should have started out with that part. It's too late now."
"So what do we do?"
Emily sighed, leaning back in her chair as their waiter came over to introduce himself and take a drink order. "Try and get out as soon as possible?"
As soon as possible turned out to last a good two hours before Don insisted that they needed sleep and excused themselves. Emily was red in the face as they made their way out, unable to look at anything but her shoes.
"Well," began Don awkwardly, stopping short, unable to come up with anything to make the situation better.
Emily blinked in disbelief. "They named our children."
"I don't know, I kind of like the name Andrew," Emily glared at him. "Or not."
"They named our imaginary children, Don," said Emily slowly, clearly annoyed. "They planned every holiday until our imaginary children turn eighteen."
"Hey, it was your idea to tell them," said Don, trying not to laugh as he unlocked the car and climbed in. Emily huffed and followed suit.
"I didn't know they would get along so well," she muttered. "No one has ever been able to stand my mother. It's why she's a diplomat."
Don laughed, put the car into drive and followed the GPS to the address of their temporary home. It took a good twenty minutes to get out of the city at that time of night, and about ten minutes on surface streets until they pulled into a driveway of suburban looking home. Don parked the car and peered out the window shield at house in front of them.
"Is that it?" asked Emily, her voice too loud in the sudden quietly, uncomfortably aware that they were very alone. Don glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
"Looks like."
"It's nice."
"Yeah, well, they all do before they become crime scenes."
Emily shook herself out of her nervousness at his words. "Right, that's why we're here. Catch this son of a bitch." In her sudden confidence she climbed out of the car into the night air, glancing over her shoulder at her new neighbors, asleep in their beds, unaware that they were all in so much danger.
"Emily? You okay?"
Her heart caught in her throat, looking over the top of the car at Don. She managed a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
Don nodded and headed for the front door, pulling out the key Mac had given him before he'd left. The lights were on when they opened the door, small courtesy. A second one was an armed security system. Emily felt a weight shift on her chest, lightening the pressure somewhat as she pressed the code into the keypad, listening to it disarm and arm once again after the door had closed. The rest of the place was pretty bare. It wasn't like they needed anything. There was a television on one wall, facing a couch in the center of the living room. The kitchen was off to the right and a hallway to the left lead to a couple bedrooms.
Besides the television and the couch there were a couple boxes scattered around. One of them was marked 'PAPERWORK', which Emily noticed first. "Oh great, work. Must be to remind us that we're not on vacation during all that time not dying we'll be trying to do."
Don chuckled at her dry statement, nudging one of the boxes with his foot. "Danny must have dropped off some of my stuff."
"That was nice. Is that a note?" Don picked up the slip of paper, scanning it once before reading it out loud.
"'Who knows how long you'll be in that house until that freak comes to kill you. In the meantime, have Adam's Battlestar Galactica collection and that Doctor Who guy you seem to like so much. Don't die. Messer.'"
"Kind of a morbid type of nice, then," said Emily, grinning.
"He's thinks he's funny," said Don in amusement, dropping the note back onto the box. He checked his watched, noting the time. "We should probably get some sleep."
"Right. You want the couch, or should I take it?"
"Doesn't that defeat the purpose?" asked Don, looking up.
Emily frowned for a second before it clicked, closing her eyes briefly. "Right, married people sleep in the same bed."
"That usually seems to be the case," quipped Don. He glanced at the hallway. "I'm guessing the bedroom's down that way."
Emily started down the hall, unbuttoning her coat as she went, Don close behind her. The whole house had hardwood flooring, except for the bedrooms; those seemed to be carpeted. They passed two other bedrooms, a hall bathroom and a hall closet before they reached the master bedroom at the end of the hall. It was nice; sparse, but nice.
And there was a bed. Emily tried not to look at it or Don as she moved to the armoire, finding her go bag sitting in front of it with a silver present bag on top. She frowned at it, picking it up and digging through the tissue paper until she found a pair of lace underwear and a note that said "Love Morgan" written on it. Emily rolled her eyes, making a note to kill him later while she stuffed it back in the bag and then into the bottom of her suitcase. She grabbed something to sleep in and turned to head to the bathroom, but stopped.
He was undressing. Right in front of her. His pants were gone and he was pulling his shirt over his head when she turned. Her brain stopped somewhere mid-turn, staring at him openly until he glanced at her.
"You okay, Em?"
"Pants. Please, pants," were the only two words she managed to get out. He seemed to realize he was standing in front of her in his underwear, and she could have sworn he blushed.
"Right. Bathroom's through there," he waved in a general left direction, looking through his own bag for something in the pants variety. Emily nodded to herself and turned in the direction of the bathroom, shutting the door quickly and leaning against it.
It had been a very long time since she had seen him without anything on; hell, it had been a long time since she had seen anyone without anything on. Her life was sad. She sighed to herself and changed.
The bed was large enough that they could sleep on either sides and not touch, and they took full advantage of that, trying to ignore the awkward silence between them as they rolled away from each other, trying not to breathe too hard or move too much or close their eyes in case they forgot where they were and who they were with.
"This is so awkward," whispered Don into the dark after five minutes of total silence. Emily snorted into her pillow.
The spell seemed to be broken though, and they breathed easier.
Day Two, 0630
Emily wasn't in bed when Don woke up the next morning. At first he had no idea where he was, but when it all came rushing back to him, seeing her yesterday and agreeing to go undercover, he panicked. He didn't bother with a shirt (he was wearing pants, and that fact alone gave him pause before he remember that Emily had asked him to wear them) as he practically tore out of the bedroom and down the hall. He reached the living room and was stopped in his tracks by the smell of maple syrup and bacon.
Emily was making breakfast; standing in her PJs over the stove with a spatula in one hand and the TV remote in the other, flipping music channels on the television over her shoulder. Don watched her cook from across the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. "Having fun?"
Emily dropped the remote (accidentally turning off the TV in the process), spinning around on the ball of her feet, holding up the spatula defensively. She sighed when she noticed him, lowering her arm. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry," he shrugged, glancing at the stove behind her and leaning over the counter. "You're making breakfast?"
"Yeah," she said thoughtfully. "I wanted to sort of start over, and I thought what better way to do that than French Toast and bacon."
"You're a genius," said Don, moving around the counter and into the kitchen, looking over Emily's shoulder as she went back to cooking, too busy looking hungry to notice the blush creep across her cheeks at his closeness.
She whacked him with her spatula when he tried to grab a piece of bacon from the pan. He pouted at her amusement. "I almost tripped over some of the boxes in the living room," commented Emily. "You want to go through them later? See what kind of work they gave us?"
"Nothing better to do," mumbled Don, glancing over at the living room, munching on a piece of bacon (Wait….when did he-? Emily glared at his profile). He grinned at her. "Breakfast first?"
"Give it a minute."
They ended up eating breakfast on paper plates, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the counter. Emily was swinging her bare feet in the air and Don was on seconds, sucking maple syrup off his fingertips. Emily glanced over her shoulder at the boxes in the living room and winced.
"That's a lot of paperwork."
"Between both our jobs we could down a forest with all the paperwork we have to do," said Don, shaking his head and hopping off the counter. He took her empty plate for her and tossed them both in the trash, turning back around and offering a hand to help her down.
"A man who does the dishes. I could get used to this," said Emily with a grin, taking his hand and jumping down from the countertop, leading the way into the living room. Don stared at her for a moment, watching her walk away before following.
They fell into their paperwork, sitting next to each other on the couch, swapping pens and cases. Emily muttered to herself that Garcia must have sent the unfinished paperwork for the last three of her cases as well as the next three they didn't even have yet. Don grinned at her muttering, occasionally interjecting with his own comment about how it was her own fault she didn't just do it at home like the rest of them.
When Emily's muttering got old, it faded into silence, which in turn became uncomfortable, until Emily had to put down her work and grab the remote from the kitchen floor, turning the news on low for a little background noise. When Jerry Springer started playing, Don figured they'd had enough.
"Okay," said Don suddenly, closing the file in his hands and dropping it onto the floor. "I need a break."
Emily watched him stand up and move to the box that Danny had dropped off for him, flipping open the lid and looking at the contents. He chuckled to himself and pulled out a few box sets, turning them over in his hands to read the titles.
"Is that what I think it is?" asked Emily, straightening up in her seat to try and look over Don's shoulder.
He grinned. "Farscape. Thank you, Danny."
"You are still a nerd," said Emily, shaking her head.
"Do you still watch it?" asked Don, not looking back at her as he arranged his DVDs on the table underneath the television, on display for all to see.
"Occasionally," said Emily. "Maybe on the plane after a case."
"You want to watch an episode?"
They ended up watching seven, because every time one ended they realized how uncomfortable the silence was. Don cleared his throat uncomfortably as the episode blacked out. It was the end of the disk, and he'd have to get up if they were planning on avoiding eye contact for another four hours. He moved to stand when his stomach growled. He sighed and leaned back against the couch, letting his head fall against the couch.
"I'm starving."
"I was waiting for you to say something along those lines," said Emily with a grin. "It's almost five. You want go out and get something?" Don rolled his head around, looking at her over the couch cushion.
"Like a date?" Emily's face reddened slightly and Don mentally kicked himself.
She lifted a shoulder, feigning indifference. "I guess it could look like one," she said. "You know, for the UnSub."
"Right, look as normal as possible," agreed Don.
"It's been awhile since I've been to New York. Do you know any good places around here?"
"There's an Italian place we passed by on the drive up here," said Don. "Nice place, been there once or twice."
"Sounds good," said Emily, moving to stand up when she stopped, pursing her lips. "I'm still wearing my pajamas."
"I've been waiting for you to say something about that."
Raymond's Bistro, 1700
Restaurant Lobby
The restaurant was small and romantic, and when Emily walked through the door she knew the only reason Don would come here would be on a date. If he had come here alone it would have been for the food. The hostess smiled brightly at them, recognizing Don almost immediately and leading them to a table. For a small place it wasn't too crowded and the service was pretty decent. Emily was in her head, analyzing everything, profiling their server and the bartender who had come out to say hello to Don, and the hostess who flirted with them for a minute before she had to be pulled away. She was in her head because it was silent and awkward and she didn't want to make a complete idiot out of herself. But after five minutes of trying not to watch him she had to say something. Anything. Now.
"So there was this serial killer who went around posing as a therapist, trying to get people over their fears and ended up killing them with it."
Don blinked at her, processing her sudden outburst. "Yeah?"
"He killed himself before we could arrest him."
He snorted in understanding. "Had a case last year with a guy and a time machine."
"You must have loved that."
"One of the highlights," said Don, grinning. Emily relaxed into her seat, talking easily with him, falling back into something that had come easily to them when they were twenty.
She screamed in a very girly, very endearing sort of way as she clung to him. He laughed at her, one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her from falling.
"I can't believe you've never ice-skated before," he said into her hair, keeping her close as she tried to move on the ice with shaky legs. She rolled her eyes up, looking at him, clearly not amused, her pale skin that much more so in the cold.
"You're enjoying this too much," she sniffed, turning her head away. Don just grinned, sliding the hand on her waist up her shirt, against the skin of her ribs.
"Maybe I am," he murmured, brushing his nose along her cheek as she glanced back at him. Emily couldn't help the grin that came with being so close to him, and she slid the hand clutching at his shirt around his neck, hooking her elbow around his shoulder. She dug the toe pick of her skate into the ice, rising up and pressing her lips against his. Her lips were chapped and cold and he took his time kissing her, sliding the hand under her shirt around to her back, pressing her against him while his older hand slid down her hip.
Emily pulled away from him, licking her lips and letting her head fall to the side, looking up at him.
"What's the state law about sex in public?"
They laughed about their coworkers, their families, they talked about cases they'd had and the ones they couldn't solve. They ate good food and drank surprisingly good wine and before they knew it, it was way past eight o'clock and the restaurant was closing up for the night.
"So I had a really good time," said Don with a grin, unbuttoning his shirt, looking at Emily over his shoulder as she pulled the tie to her pajama bottoms, making a bow.
"I did too." Emily pulled her hair into a ponytail, smiling brightly and feeling more comfortable around him than she had yesterday. She watched him undress out of the corner of her eyes, wondering how they could act so differently around each other then they had last night.
"You're staring at me," said Don, looking over at her, grinning at the blush the crept over her neck.
"Sorry."
"It's the scars, right?" asked Don, gesturing to his midsection. "You didn't say anything yesterday about them."
"I heard about what happened," said Emily softly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I didn't want to bring it up."
"It'll always be there." She nodded, moving closer to him, looking at the damage more closely. She had been in Kansas City when she'd seen the explosion on the news. She had connections in New York, she found out he'd gotten hurt and nearly caught a plane and flown up there to see for herself that he was alive. But there had been a strangler case across the river and she hadn't been able to. Looking at it now, at him now, she tried not to feel guilty for not going to see him. She swallowed and sighed, looking up at him. He managed to smile at her.
"'Night, Em," said Don softly. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Emily turned her face into his, her eyes closing in the moment his lips were pressing against her skin. He pulled away a bit and stared at her, weighing the consequences before ignoring his inner monologue and leaning in to kiss her. Emily kissed him back softly, feeling her pulse quickening.
The kiss was short and chaste, but they both pulled away feeling flushed. Emily took a step back, a grin falling onto her face.
"'Night, Don."
This time, they lay on opposite side of the bed in awkward silence for a completely different reason.
Day Three, 1322
Don had a sandwich sitting on the kitchen counter. Salami, ham, lettuce, tomato, onions, pepperoncinis, melted cheese and Italian dressing on toasted Italian bread. So why was it sitting untouched and tempting within his reach while he was staring off into space?
Don pushed himself away from the counter and moved into the living room. Emily kissed him back. She had looked at him like it was her fault he had his scars and then he kissed her and…
She was in his head and he couldn't get her out. He wasn't going to get hurt again. He needed to vent, he needed advice, he needed someone who knew Emily now to tell him to just suck it up and go for it.
Don ran his hand through his hair in frustration, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing a number he'd gotten from Hotch for any technical support he might need. He waited patiently for a few long seconds until someone picked up.
"You have contacted the office of divine omnipotence. Knower of things unknown and known. Speak, and be heard."
"I'm sorry, I'm trying to reach Penelope Garcia."
"You spoil my fun, strange caller. This is she."
"Oh…kay. This is Detective Don Flack-"
"Ah! Bad ties and blue eyes. How can I serve you?"
Don shook his head in amusement, dropping into the couch. "You're friends with your co-workers, yeah?"
"You want to know if Emily likes you," said Garcia and Don could hear the smile in her voice. He sighed. He needed advice on this, on Emily, from someone who knew her now. Because the Emily he knew ten years ago….
"I need to know if it's worth it."
Garcia twirled her fluffy pen in her fingers, frowning at the speakerphone as the pretty detective's voice filtered through. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant when her cell went off. Picking up the only piece of electronic she rarely used, she blinked as BABELICIOUS flashed across the screen of her cell.
"Hold on, buttercup," she said quickly, putting Flack on hold and answering her phone. "Let me guess, you want to know if he loves you."
"You really are all knowing," said Emily after a stunned pause. "Wait, how did you kn-"
"Not important, sugar. What makes you think he doesn't love you?"
"I know he loves me, Garcia," said Emily softly. "I just don't know if I love him."
"Hold please."
"Wha-?"
"Alright, Flacky, you've got Garciavision." she heard him sigh.
"Don't call me that."
"You'll deal, blue eyes. Now gimme the deets on this whole 'is it worth it' chiz."
"We…dated."
"Dated as in…human contact prior to this case?" asked Garcia. She listened to Don sigh on the other end and took it for a yes. "So, Morgan was right and I owe him a lap dance. What's the big deal if you used to date?"
"I asked her to marry me and she said no. Now we have to pretend we're married and in love so this guy will try and kill us. Only I can't pretend that I love her."
"Because you do."
"Didn't I just say that?"
"Do you like J-pop?" asked Garcia, suddenly needing to talk to Emily.
"What?"
"Japanese pop music. Do you like it?"
"I've never-"
"You'll learn to appreciate it, please hold." Garcia sighed and leaned forward in her chair, dropping her elbow on the table and dropping her forehead into her hand as she pulled Emily off hold. "Why don't you love him? Isn't he New York's most edible detective?"
"You mean eligible?"
"Apples and oranges. Answer me, sweet pea."
"He is…I mean, I do love him, well…it's complicated."
"You want complicated then have a conversation with Reid about his unlucky habit of getting held hostage. You're just in a relationship."
"We're not in a relationship."
"Emily, listen to me, you are crazy about this man, otherwise you wouldn't be calling me asking if you love him. How do you feel about him?"
"I don't…I can't, Garcia! I can't fall in love with him. Our relationship is complicated enough as it is. You know we used to date? Ten years ago! We met at a seminar and I had never been happier in my entire life. Then he went and ruined it by asking me to marry him."
"Why didn't you?" asked Garcia quietly. Emily laughed harshly, her voice fading away as she pulled her phone away from her mouth. When she did answer, her voice was small and soft and it made Garcia's heart ache.
"I was scared. I was still too busy trying to introduce myself without following up with 'yes, my parents are doing fine'. When I met Don he was…fun. He kept up with my geeky side, got me hooked on Doctor Who, taught me how to play hockey on our first date. We had only known each other for three months. I said no because I didn't want to end up trapped. I left him. I just left him…"
"Emily…"
"I don't want to hurt him again."
Garcia sighed, leaning back in her rolly chair and tossing her fluffy pen back on her desk. "Get over it."
Emily was silent for a whole minute (Garcia had watched the clock, and almost started speaking again when it got ridiculous) before she spoke again, her voice filled with shock and a little bit of embarrassment. "Excuse me?"
"Get over it, Prentiss. You are totally ready to commit to this guy. You are both successful forces of law who don't take shit from anyone, and you're crazy about each other. You're calling me for advice and this is what I'm giving you. Tell him how you feel."
"Thanks, Garcia."
"You're welcome. Oh! How's the sex?"
"Goodbye, Garcia."
Garcia smiled to herself as she flipped her phone closed, tossing it back to it's spot on her desk, mostly forgotten, feeling quite accomplished as she clicked the speakerphone to her landline on, propping her feet up on her desk. "I have the solution to your problem, Detective Flack: suck it up."
"'Scuse me?"
"You heard me, suck it up. Don't sit there and complain to me, no matter how flattering it is that you thought of me first, about ten years worth of fears."
"Penelope, how did you know it was ten years ago?"
"Does that really matter?"
"Did you tell her to suck it up also?"
"I actually told her to get over it. You get the unrated version because you called first."
"You make me feel so special." Garcia grinned, feeling like she was going to overflow with giddiness.
"Go get her, tiger. And invite me to the wedding."
Don shook his head, smirking into the phone. "You'll be the guest of honor."
"Damn skippy."
Don snapped his phone closed, tossing it onto the coffee table. So Garcia had talked to both of them, meaning they were both on the same page. He heard their bedroom door close and looked up just as Emily walked in, her shoulder falling against the corner of the wall, arms crossed over her chest.
"Garcia gives good advice," said Don. Emily nodded, curling her toes into the wood floor.
"Can we just start at the part where I tell you I love you?" said Emily softly.
"We could," said Don just as quietly, getting up from the couch and moving a few steps closer to her. Emily raised her shoulders noncommittally, sliding forward across the floor.
"Maybe I could finally admit that I never really got over you. And that every boyfriend I've had since you has been at this impossible standard."
"How do I match up to it?" asked Don, swallowing in anticipation as they stepped closer. Emily's breath caught in her throat, stopping in front of him, her toes curling, her eyes flickering up to his.
"You are the standard."
He swallowed again, licking his lips because they were suddenly very dry, his fingers moving towards hers until they brushed against skin because she was just so close.
"I love you," said Emily again.
"I never stopped."
The dam broke and he kissed her suddenly, hard, his hands on her face, catching strands of her hair in his fingers. She clutched at the front of his shirt, pulling him close and rising on her toes so she could get better access at his mouth, groaning as he slid his tongue against hers, their teeth clicking together. Don moved his hands away from her face, wrapping around the backs of her thighs and lifting her up against him easily.
Emily's fingers twisted around the collar of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath it an needing to feel it against her own. They couldn't stand there forever, not with the surveillance team outside watching them, the thought was enough to get Don moving, staggered steps that got them into the hallway before he pressed her into one of the walls, holding her up with one arm and pulling at the hem of her shirt with the other.
They were both older, different, her skin was paler than it had been, and her hair was longer. He had more scars than she remembered, she could feel the muscles in his back move under her hands after she shed his t-shirt, feeling ribbons of scar tissue run up his shoulder blades. His mouth moved away from her, trailing down her neck and she stopped thinking.
New York Police Department, 1759
Crime Lab, Tech Lab
Adam was leaning back in his chair, making a paper airplane when he glanced up at the computer monitor in front of him where the feed from the surveillance van outside of Flack's undercover mission house was streaming on. The wistful expression he'd been wearing as he'd fiddle with the world's greatest paper airplane slid off his face. He tossed the world's biggest diversion to the side and rolled his chair closer to his monitor, staring wide eyed at it, his hand creeping over his mouth.
"Hey, Adam, has the computer deciphered the…what are you doing?" he didn't bother looking over at Hawkes, just waved him over frantically. Hawkes did as he was bid, looking over the techs shoulder at the monitor and then, "Is that Flack?"
"They're just going at it," interrupted Adam, his voice full of awe. He jerked into a sitting position suddenly, typing something quickly on the keyboard. Hawkes looked at him.
"What are you doing?"
"That Garcia tech the FBI has me sharing info with needs to see this. She'll flip."
"Adam, this is personal."
"Yeah, and they managed to get their dumb asses captured on camera," mumbled Adam, concentrating on the stream to send to Garcia. The door to his lab opened again, this time it was that skinny doctor kid.
"Hawkes, are the wounds the same with all the victims?" Hawkes turned toward the doctor, holding up his hands in defeat.
"Adam had more important things to do."
"Adam Ross, I want you to be the father of my children."
"Is that Garcia?" asked Reid, walking further into the lab, next to Adam and Hawkes. Garcia was on a chat screen on a separate monitor, she waved at him.
"Hey, Reid."
"What are you watching?" asked Reid, leaning closer to the monitor, squinting his eyes at the video. Garcia smiled.
"The good detective and our naughty coworker make sweet, sweet love."
"I didn't think we would be able to see into the house," admitted Adam, biting the corner of his thumb, his head tilting to the side as he watched. "Maybe I should get out of the labs more…"
"Emily's just pale all over, isn't she?" commented Reid. He coughed uncomfortably and turned to Adam. "We should stop watching."
"But it's getting good-"
"We need to isolate the wound patterns we found on the male victims. It could give us a common weapon."
"I thought we narrowed down the suspect pool enough to get a warrant," said Adam, still staring at the monitor. Hawkes reached over and turned it off. "Hey!"
"We need all the evidence we can get. There are thousands of people who fit our current profile…we can narrow it down to a couple dozen if identify the weapon of choice."
"Alright," muttered Adam, dropping back into his chair. "Give me five minutes and you'll have your results."
Day Four, 0125
It had only been three days since he'd killed the Lancaster's, but the couple, this couple, had been too good the pass up. Undercover for the NYPD, what could be better? Maybe if they slept together and dropped their guard, but wait… They thought they were so clever, with the background story that immediately caught his attention. But he did his homework; he was much more thorough than they thought. He recognized Detective Flack from new interviews and the paper, and SSA Emily Prentiss was a legend in her own right. He did his homework…he was thorough. He had only been watching them for three days, but he knew them, better than he knew any of his others…he knew them.
He smiled, stepping out of the hall closet, not bothering with shoes or a mask, because he didn't need either. He didn't need anything, not when they had everything he would need to stop the nasty itch against his palms. They would stop this feeling he couldn't name; it was already in his back, crawling up his spine and making his teeth itch. He needed to coat his fingers in blood, taste their screams, feel their skin tear apart. He ached with it.
Their bedroom door was closed, the light coming from the master bathroom leaking underneath the door, shadowing against his feet as they stuck against the dark hardwood flooring. It was a painfully slow process, turning a doorknob without making a sound, especially when you couldn't stand still in your skin, nearly shaking with anticipation. But where was the fun going in with guns blazing? He'd learned a long time ago that the longer he waited the better the release would be when he finally stepped through the door.
And when he stepped through the door, watching them sleep curled around each other in nothing but their underwear, he smiled involuntarily, the feeling in his spine spreading warmth through his muscle, stilling the itching in his palms. His fingertips brushed against the knife handle in his back pocket, and it sang to him, sweet words that swelled his heart and filled his head. He slipped it out of his pocket, held it loosely in his fingertips and prepared himself.
They were perfect.
Present Day, 0437
Mac couldn't think of anything to say to make this situation any better. All he could do was stand next to Emily with his arms folded over his chest, looking imposing, because he had a feeling that it made her feel better. The nurse was finishing up with her. She had a broken wrist and a concussion; it confirmed their theory that the female victims were tied up, meant to be saved for last.
"Thank you," said Emily softly, her voice low. Mac looked over at her sharply, slightly startled to hear her speaking to him.
"For what?"
"For getting here before I went into shock for starters," said Emily. She had still been screaming Don's name when Mac and Morgan had kicked down the door. Morgan managed to pull her off in the short amount of time it had taken the paramedics to show up after them, had whispered things into her hair as he held her into his chest, telling her that he would be okay. Emily touched the bandage wrapped around her head gingerly. "For staying with me until someone from my team can. For a million other reasons that all have the name Don in them."
"I'm not going to pretend I didn't notice the tension between the two of you," said Mac. "It's not my business, but Don's a good man. He's someone I trust with my life."
"I know the feeling," said Emily softly. The door opened, a doctor walking in with a clipboard in his hand and what looked like a smile hidden in his face.
"Detective Taylor, you wanted to be informed when Detective Flack was stable?"
"Yes, thank you."
Emily straightened up slightly, looking from the doctor to Mac. "Mac, could I-?"
"Room 418." She brightened, sliding off the examination chair and heading for the door. Mac watched her go, pulling his phone out and dialing a number. "Hotch, it's Mac." he paused as Hotch spoke and nodded to himself at his words. "Absolutely."
Saint Vincent's Hospital, 0905
Recovery Ward, Room 418
Emily slid into the room Don was in, the only sound coming from the heart monitor next to his bedside, beeping reassuringly as he slept. She winced as she moved a chair over to his bedside and sat down next to him. She closed her eyes for a moment against the wave of dizziness from what the doctor had given her. She leaned forward in her chair, dropping her elbows on her knees and her forehead into her hands.
Don winced as he opened his eyes, blinking against the dim lighting heavily, turning his head to the side. His face softened when he saw Emily sitting there. "Told you this could kill us," he said, his voice grainy, the corner of his mouth pulling into a grin when she looked up at him. She smiled back and pulled her chair closer to him, reaching out to touch his face.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself," Don frowned at the bandage wrapped around her head. "We really got our asses handed to us, didn't we?"
"He got away," said Emily softly. "I didn't get a good shot at him and-"
"Hey, hey, it's okay," whispered Don, reaching out to grab her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. She looked at him, her eyes swimming.
"We'll get this guy, Don," said Emily softly, swallowing back tears. Don lifted a bandaged hand, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers.
"I know we will."
They looked up as the door slammed open and Sam practically charged into the room with a teddy bear in her arms, looking pissed. Her shoulders slumped in relief when she spotted Don and Emily sitting together, hugging the stuffed animal to her chest.
"You really gotta stop doin' this to me, Don," said Sam breathlessly, slowing to a stop.
Don gave her a reassuring smile. "I knew what I was doing. Didn't want you worrying about me."
"I always worry about you, Donnie," said Sam softly, sitting on the foot of Don's bed. She frowned. "What do you mean you knew what you were doing? Mac told me you were attacked in your home."
"I was undercover, Sam," explained Don. He nodded to Emily, the hand on her face falling to her shoulder. "Emily and I have been undercover, trying to draw out a serial killer."
Sam blinked at him, pursed her lips and chucked the teddy bear she was holding at his head. It bounced of his forehead and dropped into his lap. "You idiot-"
"I'm sorry, Sam."
"-putting your wife in-"
"Okay, wait a second, Sam," interrupted Don. "Emily and I aren't really married, it's a cover."
Sam snorted. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Well, yeah!"
"C'mon, Don, that's the most ridiculous thing-" Sam stopped mid eye roll, snapping back to her brother. "You lied to me?"
"Why, who'd you tell?"
"Everyone!" shouted Sam exasperatedly. "And this whole time you're running around trying to get your ass murdered?"
"Calm down, Sam," said Emily, reaching for the younger girl. Sam rounded on her.
"Don't tell me to calm down."
"Sam, would you rather I told you I was undercover?" Sam frowned, chewing her bottom lip in thought.
"No. You shouldn't have said anything." Don winced and swung his head around to look at Emily.
"Shouldn't have said anything." Emily blinked at him humorlessly.
"At least we have the names of our children picked out."
"Wait. Wait, just…stop," said Sam, holding her hands up pleadingly. "You caught the guy, right?"
Saint Vincent's Hospital, 0945
The initial excitement of not finishing, of almost getting caught, was over. He couldn't stay still anymore, he could sleep. All he could think about was emotion filled eyes, wanting him dead. He snarled, slamming his hand against the window of his car. He needed it finished. He needed to stop this anger and the anxiety. He was going to tear out his skin if he couldn't get his hands on them soon. He had to. He had to.
The lights of the ambulance flashed across his face, snapping him out of his mind for a minute. He took a deep, settling breath and calmly got out of his car. Calmly walked into the hospital, calmly found the rooms they were staying in and walked calmly to the first. His resolve almost broke when he found it empty, the only thing keeping him together was the second room number. He repeated it in his head as he walked, 418...418...418...
He could see the door from his spot in the hallway, it was practically illuminated, and he couldn't help the cheery smile that crossed his face as he walked up to the door, bounce in his step, pulling his knife out of his pocket, feeling it hum against his skin. He reached for the door handle and the knife warmed in his palm.
The audible click of a hammer at his ear gave him pause, his hand already clasping the door handle. He felt his lip twitch he was so close.
"Hello, Anthony," said Mac. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him around, and Anthony stared up into Aaron Hotchner's steely face, looking back at Mac who was lowering his gun.
"The gun was unnecessary," said Hotch, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
"I like precaution."
"I think you have the wrong person," said Anthony, swallowing back anxiety and the knowledge that this prey was right behind the door.
"I don't think so, Mr. White," said Mac.
Hotch glanced at Anthony. "Do you want the honors, detective?"
"I have a better idea," Mac stepped around Hotch and Anthony, opening the room Don and Emily were in and nodding to the two of them. "Flack, I think this is your collar."
"He's here already?" asked Emily curiously. "Huh. He's more impatient than I thought."
"That's what a serial killer looks like?" asked Sam, pointing at Anthony. "He's so boring looking."
"They usually are," said Emily with a shrug.
She looked up after catching movement out of the corner of her eye, just in time to see Don get out of bed. Sam made a noise of protest which he ignored, moving stiffly over to the door, clapping Mac on the shoulder. "Thanks, Mac."
"Any time."
Don grinned at Anthony, taking the cuffs Mac offered him and reaching out for Anthony, shoving his as best he could into the wall next to his room. "This is for tying my girlfriend to a chair," he growled, low in Anthony's ear, tightening the cuffs around his wrists and hauling him away from the wall.
New York Police Department, 1010
Interrogation
"You made it very easy for us, Anthony," began Rossi, almost pleasantly, his hands folded on top of the table he and Stella were sitting at. He was staring across at Anthony White, a fairly well built man who kept digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. "You gave us everything we needed. You told us exactly what type of person you were going to kill, when, where, how."
"Everything but the why," interrupted Stella, pulling out photos of two older people, smiling, dressed in uniform. "Jessica and Stanly White. Decorated officers, honored by their city, only one child."
"A disappointment to the family name," said Rossi. "Isn't that what they called you? They knew you were a nobody-"
"That's not true," growled Anthony. "That's a lie, I am so much-"
"You're nothing but a child," interrupted Rossi. "You still live at home, you wet the bed. Do you know how we found you?"
"It was easy when we thought about it," said Stella, continuing where Rossi had left off. "You disgust the people you come into contact with, Anthony. You're parents listened to the profile we provided for the press and they turned you in."
"You couldn't kill them so you had to use substitutes," said Rossi. "But you must have forgotten that your mother still does your laundry and cleans your room."
"They have no idea what I'm capable of!" thundered Anthony, slamming his shackled hands onto the table. Stella stood up quickly, drawing his attention. "They don't know anything! They're weak, stupid people. They deserve to die, and I deserve to do it. I'm the only one who can clean up their messes. I have to do it, I have to do it all."
"It's over, Anthony," said Stella, her eyes hard. "You lost."
Saint Vincent's Hospital, 0905
"So, now what?" asked Don, watching Emily adjust the go bag on her shoulder. They were standing outside the hospital together. They had put away the bad guy, they were alive.
Emily looked at the ground. "You called me your girlfriend."
"Aren't you?"
"I want to be," she said softly. "I do."
"But?"
"But…we have different lives," she said. "You're worth flying out to see every weekend, I just don't know if that'll be enough."
"What would be enough for you?"
Emily frowned thoughtfully as her phone went off. "Hotch," she said, reading the caller i.d. out loud. Don nodded.
"So this is it, then?"
Emily sighed and nodded. "Yeah, it is." She flipped her phone open and held it up to her ear, watching Don's face as she spoke. "Hotch? I'm cashing in my vacation days."
"I figured."
"Tell Morgan I'm kicking his ass in two weeks."
"We'll see you in two weeks. And, Emily?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Have a good time."
"I will, Hotch," said Emily, feeling Don wrap his arm around her shoulders. It would be the best damn two weeks of her life.