A/n. This story is dedicated to saturdayslump. Thank you so very much for your time and effort in helping me beta my fics. You are truly wonderful and I appreciate your help very, very much. I hope you enjoy this.
Tigereye77 gave me this idea when she said that JJ meeting Emily in Paris was tacked on at the last moment, and for all we knew, it could have been Hotch. So I went with it! Thanks tigereye77. I've also incorporated a few things from Casablanca. With the way the show is going, I think I'll be permanently stuck in the space up to the beginning of Season 7. No further for now. This oneshot is obviously going back in time, and it's AU.
Also, go listen to Frank Sinatra's version of As Time Goes By on youtube. So beautiful.
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, nor the extract from the movie.
It is a bitterly cold night, unusual for that time of year in Paris. Her boots click on the pavement, the sound hollow as it bounces off the wall of the building next to her. She walks as if she has all the time in the world. Her demeanour is casual, but it is an act, a facade she presents to the world to deflect attention from herself. A gust of wind swirls the leaves on the pavement beneath her feet and her steps falter briefly when a memory from her previous life intrudes unexpectedly.
She is out running, the rising sun reflecting off the little peaks of water in the Potomac. The air is cold on her face, stinging her nostrils and throat. Her heart beats a fast, steady beat. She hears her breaths rushing in and out of her slightly parted mouth as her feet drums rhythmically on the leaf-strewn footpath. It is the only time of the day when her mind is clear. No past, no present, just that moment in time.
That morning is the last time she feels completely at peace with herself and with the world. It is later that day that Garcia tells her that Sean McAllister called. Even now she remembers the ice cold prickle of fear at her spine when she hears his name. Since her meeting with Sean, not a single day goes by where she doesn't wish that she had never decided to join the Interpol task force.
She has never felt this lonely in her life. Cut off from everyone and everything she has ever held dear, the emptiness fills her until there is nothing left of her. She wonders what her friends are doing right now. She wonders what he is doing at this moment. She misses him. The intensity of her feelings for him has taken her by surprise. She has always looked up to him, has possibly even felt the barest start of something for him, but she had shut it away. She is nothing if not professional. She would never have crossed the line. Neither would he. Regret fills her heart. Because now she will never have the chance.
Second chances. He presses his palm to the cold glass of his motel room window and looks down at the passers by below. He, always professional, never fanciful, has not dared to think that he would ever see her again. And yet here he is, minutes away from meeting her. He feels his heart quicken at the thought. His palms break out in sweat. He can't remember the last time that has happened. His wedding day perhaps. Whenever it was, it had been a long time ago.
It feels like an eternity since he has seen her, when it has only been two months. At work, he finds himself turning to speak to her or ask for her opinion, but she isn't there. He misses her. So much that he is taken aback at his feelings. Never allowing his personal feelings to encroach upon his job, he is unsure where his feelings for her has come from. Has he always felt this way but had blinded himself to the truth as a result of his work ethic?
A quiet knock on the door startles him out of his reverie. His heart jumps into his throat and he straightens up immediately. As he walks to the door, an image of her face appears in his mind and he can't help wondering how she looks like now. Taking in a deep breath, he turns the doorknob.
As she waits for the person to open the door, she absentmindedly wonders how the person from the State Department looks like. Not that it matters. It is just that it will be the first American she has spoken to in a month. A conversation, no matter how brief, will be nice. She shakes her head at herself. How pathetic can she be? So desperate for a 'normal' conversation that she is actually looking forward to meeting some paper pusher.
The door opens and her heart stops. It cannot be, can it? She whispers his name. His voice is soft as he murmurs hers.
Her eyes drink him in thirstily, roving over him and noting every little detail about him. Even in the dim light of the room, she can tell that he's lost weight, his shoulders thinner under his grey pullover. The lines are deeper on his face, and she only just manages to catch herself before her hand lifts up to touch his face. A face she never dared hope she would see again.
He murmurs her name again. She blinks, wondering if she has imagined the emotion in his eyes. In the next second it is gone and he is standing back, inviting her in without words. She steps into the room, taking no more than a cursory glance around. The room is a standard motel one, double bed, desk, chair and tv. And then her eyes are back on him. He stares at her unblinkingly for a long moment before clearing his throat. How are you, he asks quietly.
She wonders how she should answer. She opens her mouth to say that she is okay, but hears herself saying instead, not so good. She watches his eyes darken, a frown forming on his brow. God, how she has missed seeing that serious expression on his face. It is something she has never even realised missing. It hasn't escaped her notice that she sounds like a love struck fool.
What's happened, are you all right, he asks, concern in his voice and eyes. I'm fine, she reassures him. Just ... her voice trails off. Just what, he prompts. He draws closer until he is at the very edge of her personal space. Close enough to show that he is worried, but not enough to be intrusive. Always so careful in everything he does. Her eyes are still locked with his. Just … lonely. Her voice is no more than a whisper.
He says nothing for a long time, his jaw working. I wish I could tell that you'll never be lonely again, he says, his voice strained. You can't, she tells him. No one can. They stand there in silence, and she feels as if it is a moment frozen in time. She aches for him to hold her, for that basic physical contact that each human being craves, whether they admit it or not. This, combined with the soul emptying loneliness, the sight of his dear familiar face, and the emotions she feels brimming up and spilling over in her heart causes her to open her mouth.
Yet again, she catches herself just in time. No matter what she thinks or feels, he is still who he is. Always holding himself just that slightest bit back, always that small distance between him and the team. She understands why he does it. He is the Unit Chief. He alone is responsible for the team, he alone is answerable. He has to remain objective and if he is too close, too involved, he cannot protect them. Because she knows that his loyalty to his team is unquestionable.
To distance herself she asks him about her the package that she is expecting. He hesitates for a moment, looking as if he is about to say something, but then appears to change his mind. He walks towards his black utilitarian suitcase and takes out a white envelope from the inner pocket. He returns to her and hands it over, telling her that inside are three passports of different nationalities and details of various bank accounts. She thanks him, her thumb worrying the corner of the envelope.
Her time is almost up. She finds herself staring at him again, this time frantically trying to memorise every line and curve of his dear, dear face. She presses her lips tightly together, forcing back the tears that are trying to claw their way out. She swallows hard. I should go, she tells him, glad to hear that her voice is almost steady. After accidentally telling him that she is not doing well earlier, she is resolved now to appear strong. She is a veteran federal agent, ex-CIA and Interpol, not some useless, vulnerable woman who needs protection.
He stands before her, appearing as if he is searching for something to say. She has never seen him like this before, unsure, tortured almost. She waits for a while, but when he remains silent, she turns to leave. She has to go before she loses all control and throws herself into his arms. She is already grasping the doorknob when his hand comes down over hers, startling her. His skin is shockingly warm against hers. Her heart skips a beat when she realises how close he is to her. She closes her eyes as she breathes in the familiar scent of his sandalwood and mint cologne.
Stay. His voice vibrates in her ear and travels the length of her body. It is an order. It is a plea. She is unable to suppress an involuntary shiver when his warm breath caresses her ear. She knows she shouldn't. It is too dangerous. Worse is the thought that if she stays, she might never be able to leave. Her hand tightens on the doorknob and his fingers follow suit.
Stay. He says it again. He is so close to her that he can smell her apple-scented shampoo and the light floral scent of a new perfume. So close that he can almost feel the indecision freezing her in place. He has not missed the look of painful yearning on her face earlier. The only reason he recognises it is because he holds that identical painful yearning in his heart. He knows it is hopeless. There is no future for them. Not unless Doyle is captured or killed. It had taken him only one look at her lying still as death as she was being loaded onto the ambulance to make him realise he had lied to Clyde Easter. He can put a bullet between Doyle's eyes, and he will, given the chance. He would break his own personal code of honour, risk prosecution if it means that he can keep her safe. If it means that she can return to the team. No, that is a lie. He wants her to return to him.
She is still silent, unmoving. So he says the one word that he has never uttered to her. A word he has rarely used in his adulthood. Please. He hears her exhale slowly and then she is turning around. Her hand slips from the doorknob but he doesn't let go. A moment later, she faces him, her right hand in his left. He sees the uncertainty in her eyes, but that is not all. There is a softness there, an emotion that he is unable to fathom. Or perhaps it is because he is too afraid to. He is a profiler after all.
She utters his name softly and for a brief moment, the thought crosses his mind that he should let her go. It is too dangerous. More importantly, he isn't sure if he will be able to let her go if she stays. But then she licks her lips. He has seen her do that a hundred times. Maybe more. This time is different. The gesture sends a lick of flame through his stomach. Her eyes unblinking, she touches his cheek with her left hand, her fingertips resting tenderly upon his skin.
It is the last straw. The tight rein he has held on his emotions breaks like a dam that can no longer hold the uncontrollable surge of water within it. He pulls her towards him and their mouths come together, hard. He would have liked to say later that their first kiss was the stuff of romance; tender, romantic and loving.
It is nothing like that. It is painfully awkward, completely lacking in finesse, full of desperation. It is the culmination of emotions so long repressed that the sudden release was overwhelming in its intensity. He invades her mouth, possesses it, demanding her response, which she gives willingly. He gives no quarter, and neither does she. They are pressed up so tightly against each other that not a molecule of air exists between them.
Before long they are forced to part, but only briefly, hands flying which way, stripping off layers of clothes until they were finally naked. He pulls back the covers on the bed and she lies down gingerly, averting her eyes, hands fluttering to conceal the still angry scar on her abdomen. He gently draws them away and presses his lips on it for the longest time. Lifting his head, he tells her the truth. That she is the most exquisite thing he had ever seen in his life. He watches as tears fill her eyes. Shifting upwards he touches his lips on each eye before kissing her again.
There is no foreplay. They are both too impatient. She twines her limbs around him, urging him into her. A moment later he slowly forges into her soft depths, clenching his teeth as he does so and fighting for control. He tells himself to go gently, so gently. He would rather die than hurt her. But she defies him, pulling him downwards and pushing up at the same time, so that he is fully seated within her before he even realises what has happened. Their gazes met, both of them suddenly aware of the significance of the moment. They are motionless for a while, and then her expression softens. She utters his given name softly, the look in her eyes so gentle that he feels tears prick in his eyes. No one has ever said his name like that, her voice hush, but saturated with emotion. Make love to me, she says, lifting her head up to press a kiss on his lips.
So he does. He is relentless in his quest to please her, and he watches as she peaks again and again in his arms. Finally, he can hold back no longer and mutters her name under his breath as he releases into her, her arms holding him tightly to her.
They sleep for a time spooned together, their fingers entwined, unwilling to let go even in slumber.
Sometime later they wake and make love again. Twice.
He ventures into the corridor and comes back with an armful of junk food from the candy machine. They lie back and watch an old movie while they eat their haul of sugary confectionary. He watches her laugh up at him, her teeth flashing as she feeds him a square of chocolate. He files away that picture of her, hoping against all hope that he would never forget this moment of perfect happiness. He had thought he had known what love was. How wrong he was.
She realises now that she has never known what love was. This night that they are spending together is bittersweet. To discover the love of your life and knowing that you had not choice but to part was unbearable. Ironically, the movie playing before their eyes was Casablanca. Watching the emotions on Ingrid Bergman's face as the theme song plays, she finally allows the tears to flow.
You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by
And when two lovers woo
They still say I love you
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by
He must have sensed something, because even though she has not moved or made the slightest sound, he looks down at her. He murmurs her name, brow creased with worry. She shakes her head and smiles through her tears. There will be time later for the pain and the regrets. She tells him that she is fine, then pulls him down for a kiss before he can disagree.
This last time, their lovemaking is frantic and is filled with desperation. They both know that the end is near. She clutches him as tight as she possibly can, biting her lip to stop more tears from escaping. When he pulses his release within her body, she closes her eyes, unable to stop herself from picturing a dark-haired baby being held in her arms, him standing next to them, looking down lovingly.
As the sun breaks over the horizon, its first rays illuminating one of the most recognisable structures on earth, they put on their clothes from the night before. Once dressed, they stand there awkwardly, neither knowing what to say. He is pale, his jaw and fists clenched. She knows she has to go before she begs him to stay. She takes the two steps towards him and cups his face in her hands, drawing him down for a kiss.
He arms are like steel bands around her but she doesn't care. Because he is kissing her as if there were no tomorrow. And for them, there isn't. She closes her eyes, tasting her tears. Or perhaps they are his. How is she going to survive without him?
He isn't sure if he can survive without her. Now that he has had a taste of her, a taste of a love that he had never dreamt existed.
They finally break apart.
He looks into her eyes, the pain contained therein ripping his heart apart. Has he been too selfish in asking her to stay? No matter, it is too late now.
"Will I see you again?" He hears his voice shake. He vaguely wonders where his usual composed, stoic self has vanished to.
"I don't know." Her lips are trembling and her eyes glisten with unshed tears. It is all he can do not to reach across, pull her into his arms and never let go. "But hey," she tries to smile, "if we don't, we'll always have Paris, right?" Her voice is lighthearted, but it is woefully unsteady.
He can't answer, his throat has closed up from the pain welling in his chest. Before he can touch her, do anything at all, she gives him a fleeting kiss and then she vanishes, leaving him with nothing but memories and the faintest scent of apples.
He flies back to DC that afternoon. He has never felt so emotionally weary.
Night after night he sits alone, the black and white images flickering on the screen in front of him. It is the only connection he has to her. He can't help but wonder if she too, like him, has watched the movie so many times that each line was permanently etched in her memory.
Ilsa: But what about us?
Rick: We'll always have Paris. We didn't have, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.
Ilsa: When I said I would never leave you.
Rick: And you never will. But I've got a job to do, too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that.
[Ilsa lowers her head and begins to cry]
Rick: Now, now...
[Rick gently places his hand under her chin and raises it so their eyes meet]
Rick: Here's looking at you kid.
She was right. They would always have Paris. It was enough.
For now.
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