A/N: Yes, I realise that this has been done before, so no infringement intended.
we fall through the gaps
before.
Her phone rings, and she looks down without meaning to, and her heart clenches painfully because he's smiling.
(she told him once, jokingly, you should smile more, then bit her tongue, but he responded surprisingly, deadpan of course, that there wasn't a camera)
There's no camera now, and she can't answer her damn phone, because then he'll know, and no one should ever know. There's only a mirror in front of her, in this clean clean bathroom, and she absurdly thinks that she should have hidden everything behind the mirror instead.
who are you anyway?
"Emily, I know you're inside. You need to tell me what's going on."
Her phone is now silent, his uncharacteristically cheerful countenance disappearing as the screen fades to black. Bracing her hands against the sink (neurotically white to the point of reflection), she swallows and shudders and she can't stop the thick tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.
"Emily. I'm coming in, okay?"
Her mumbled response does nothing to appease his increasing worry, and he pushes the door open, and his heart breaks at the woman in front of him. Though her head is bowed and her hands are squeezing the life out of the basin, she's alert and hyperaware, and hell, he's seen this behaviour before… This is not the Special Agent Emily Prentiss that he knows, but really, when did you take the time to know her? He knows that both he and his team have taken her for granted. He's even ashamed to say that her initial value on the team was only for her linguistic and behavioural skills, and then she was so good at keeping secrets (everyone's secrets), and so she stayed, and she never left.
She's staring blankly in the mirror, gazing unseeingly at him, and he approaches so as not to spook her any further. He's not stupid; he's noticed her pulling away from everyone for the past three weeks, almost as if she knows she's about to die and she's trying to lessen the impact. And then that thought freezes him momentarily, and he tries to scoff, because that only ever happens in the movies, right?
"How did you get in here?" She mutters, eyes darting around and finally settling on his face.
"I've still got your key. From… after Foyet." And he almost looks guilty, like he held onto something that should have been let go an eternity ago.
Carefully, making sure he keeps the eye contact, he lets his hands run smooth lines down her arms, and it is strange because he's in his subordinate's bathroom, and he's never been known to initiate any physical contact (with the exception of his son).
the hunted are lost, somewhere… can you find me?
He tries again. "Emily, tell me what's going on?"
Her head ducks and a whole minute passes before she manages to look into her supervisor's eyes.
"You just called me 'Emily'."
"I did." He obliges her deflection, hoping that it's some twisted logical way of hers to get to the point.
"Three times. You never call me that. Not even when I was at Yale."
"I'm in your bathroom, and something is clearly wrong. It's hardly a normal occurrence." And he knows that she knows that they'd both rather not beat around the bush. They're both masters of deflection and hiding behind walls, and it's already emotionally draining, but he feels (knows) that he owes it to her to hear her out. (you've never been one to interfere in a colleague's life, have you?)
She deflates slightly, knowing that there's no way he'll leave without some sort of response from her, but damn, she doesn't know what to say that she isn't ashamed of, or isn't classified.
i've worn a mask for too many years
"You know what it's like…" She breaks off, unsure as to whether she's close enough to him to broach the topic. She's not Rossi, or JJ, or even Morgan. It's only been tonight that she's Emily.
She tries again, regardless. (He's standing there for a reason.) "It's like a game of hide-and-seek on steroids. All your friends have been found, and the guy's counting down, and there's not really anywhere else that he needs to look to find you. But because everyone else has lost, and you're not there, he eliminates all the other spots, and if…when…you move out into the open…"
Chills run down his spine, because yes, of course he knows what she's talking about. It's a dark dark place, and one that he's tried eradicating from his mind with too many bottles of alcohol and very little sleep.
"Is someone after you, Emily?"
And she starts painfully, because he's used her name again, slipping so fluidly from his tongue, dark cadence and all.
(not lauren, not prentiss, just emily.)
She stares him in the eye and nods. Just once.
i'm sick and tired of lying to everyone
"Who?"
Unconsciously, her hand darts towards her face, nails bitten by teeth. Thumb, index finger, left hand…
"I can't… you… and Jack, and the team…"
This is her family. And it's just as well that Jack's at Jessica's this weekend, because like hell is he going to leave her without one. With a relationship as tenuous as the one she has with her mother and virtually nothing with her father, he wonders who a young Emily Prentiss would have confided secrets to. Even in his somewhat distant position as Unit Chief, he can tell that this is the closest she's had to a family.
"Jack's at Jessica's this weekend," he says, watching some of the tension dissipate from her shoulders. "What's his name?"
"I'm sorry, I can't. He knows too much already."
"Then tell me what I can do, Emily." He's reminded of himself over a year ago, wide-eyed and paranoid, running on pure adrenaline, red stress ball with holes from having the stuffing pulled out of it. And in the midst of that, drinks with a particular brunette on his team, held at arm's length, determined not to let him wallow alone. At the very least, he's repaying the debt.
And he can't get rid of that tiny voice whispering to him…
Abruptly, she stalks out of the bathroom, leaving him stunned and following her to the lounge. She drags the low table by the hall to the front door, and places the vase and a few other glass knick-knacks on the very edges.
He's curious until he realises, and then it isn't so amusing anymore.
"Where did you learn to do that?" He never thought of that.
She gives him a sad look, ignores the question, then beckons him over to her rather extensive DVD collection.
"What do you want to watch?" She manages to offer him a small smile.
He stares openly at her. "Someone's after you, and you want to watch a movie? With me?"
Her smile only drops a little, and she meets his disbelief head-on. "I just want to…" Pretend? Forget?
And maybe he gets it, because he finds himself sprawled inelegantly on the chaise, with her head resting on his left shoulder, falling asleep to the sweet accordion soundtrack of Ratatouille, the animated Paris skyline a comical contrast against the D.C. skyline just beyond her windows.
where is reality?
Her breathing is harsh, shallow, and he finds his hand in a death grip in hers. He rubs concentric circles against the back of her hand.
And he doesn't take his eyes off the table and the door.
The hours tick by until it's six in the morning, and she must be really exhausted, he thinks, because he's never seen her this tense yet simultaneously relaxed in weeks. He shifts her so she's lying in a more comfortable position, yet no further away (and still maintaining that physical contact). He thinks about Jack, about her, about budget reports, about her, about their next potential case, about Jack's weekend with Jessica, about her, about Foyet, about her, and it goes round and round until he feels her stir.
He sees the panic flash through her eyes as she registers her unfamiliar position, and watches as her gaze darts toward the table and the door, all objects present and unbroken. Eyes sweeping across the apartment, she catalogues everything within ten seconds, and it's only after that she realises the present company.
"Have you been up all night?" Shame and apology cloud her voice, but he detects a hint of relief mixed in as well. "Hotch, I'm sorry."
"It's fine. You've done the same for me before."
He offers to cook breakfast while she takes a shower, and it's so domestic (and normal?)that she's allowed a slight grin to unfurl, and it's only until she's standing under the pounding hot spray that it hits her, that he never left last night.
(The shower is no longer warm.)
Bolting out, she hurriedly gets dressed and rushes into the kitchen.
"Hotch, you need to go. Right now. Please." And she's standing there, hair wet but unwashed, begging her supervisor, who's holding a spatula looking adorably confused were it any other day. Her voice is high and frantic, and he's suddenly at a loss as to what the hell is going on.
"Emily, why?"
She begins to pack up the table, piling the objects toward the middle, and pulling it away from the door. She takes his jacket from the couch and passes it to him, gesturing for him to pull it on.
"He's been watching. And you didn't leave last night."
"And if I leave now, will he not notice?"
"Just…" Her only coherent thought is get him away as soon as possible, away from her crazy past and present.
(This is what it feels like, to send away your family.)
"Emily, where are you going to go?"
She feels a shutter sliding down in front of her. "I need to figure things out. I'll see you on Monday, Hotch. You really need to go, but just stay safe, please, and don't tell anyone else about this."
He's almost forcibly pushed out of her apartment, and carefully descends the stairs to the lobby, reading every person he sees out of the corners of his eyes. Reaching his car parked next to the building, he double checks it for hidden traps, before sliding into the driver's seat. It takes him five minutes into his drive to realise the amount of trust she's placed in him, and then the realisation that he should never have left, leaves him slightly winded. He resists the urge to turn around and drive back (her frantic pleas circle around and around for the rest of the weekend), knowing the danger she would be in, with him as a bargaining chip.
(He wants to bash the steering wheel. Repeatedly.)
Monday comes around, Rossi asks him about the weekend (he had a long weekend), and he discovers at his desk, a yellow sticky note folded twice over.
He looks out the window to the bullpen, and sees her (the first one in) at her desk, twisting a rubber band into intricate knots.
He unfolds the note to see her simple bold scrawl.
Thank you. –E.
(And he wishes she would let him in.)
(She wishes she could.)