Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds, I am making no profit from the writing of this fic.

smacky30 is endlessly patient with me and honest. She did a superb job as a beta but I messed with it afterwards, so all mistakes are mine. Also, thanks to my RL friend Kim who helped me with the parts about Catholic Mass: again, if I didn't get it right, it's my fault not hers.

She waits until the last possible moment to enter the church; she hasn't forgotten his original reaction when they'd shown up without being invited in Indianapolis. It doesn't much matter what anyone else says, a pissed off Rossi is not fun and Prentiss doesn't particularly want the first time she's been to Mass in over 15 years to start with him yelling at her.

As soon as she enters the vestibule the smell of the incense and burning candles bring the memories cascading back. Not just the ugly ones of the time in Rome, but the good ones too; other churches in other cities, other countries, sitting in dark wood pews beside her mother, round eyed and awed by the gleaming pieces on the altar and the light through the stained glass windows coloring the people and places it touched. Despite the lingering pain, Emily has never lost her faith in the need for the sacred within everyone. Some people get there through the church, others get there through art, others through logic and still others through the memory of light colored red and blue touching the face of their mother.

The acolytes have begun to assemble in the vestibule, and she remembers she isn't here for herself. She moves to the fount, touches her hand to the holy water and closes her eyes briefly. The ordinary becomes sacred through blessing and grace, and she wonders if she can get through this without feeling like a complete hypocrite. She genuflects automatically, then looks for Rossi.

It's a Saturday afternoon, so, there isn't a crowd and he's not hard to spot toward the front of the church. There's something about the tilt of his head, about his posture that is so unmistakable. He's a handsome man; she'd be lying if she said she hadn't noticed. Actually, she'd known it before he rejoined the team (honestly, the dust jackets of his books did not do him justice). But his reputation had preceded him, and all the distinguished in the world wasn't worth being another potential notch in his bedpost. Not that he's ever given any indication he might be interested. Still, if things were different, she might have been a bit more obvious. Then again, he's the best of the best. He probably knew from that first high pitched, "Sir" when they'd met he could have nailed her without too much effort. She's still cursing herself a year and a half later for having worn a dress that day; much too obvious.

After everything she'd heard, she hadn't expected to like him as much as she does. And what he did for her after Matthew's death? Well, it was unprecedented for someone to go so far for her; the only person she'd ever had in her life to go the distance with her had been Matthew. There had been a strange symmetry to it, to find there was another person that would be there for her when she was trying so hard to find peace for the first. She knows she owes Rossi, and well, that's what had brought her here, wasn't it?

It'd been a hellish week and she was tired. She'd just managed to open a bottle of wine and collapse on the sofa contemplating if there was anything close to edible in her refrigerator when her cell phone rang.

She hadn't recognized the number on her caller id, but Garcia seemed to be on a mission lately to give her number to every man she knew Emily had a conversation with. There was the detective in Texas, the guy from the Violent Crimes Unit in Chicago and the lawyer at the bar where Garcia, JJ and Emily had gone for their last girls' night.

It was a local number, so that let out any long distance matchmaking. However, the male population of the DC metro area was vast and Garcia seemed to have incredible sway over a lot of it, so Emily almost ignored the call. But Hotch was still in the hospital and though he was going to be fine, his shooting had left them all a little shaky and quick to respond, so she answered.

"Prentiss."

"Agent Emily Prentiss?" The voice was vaguely familiar and she closed her eyes, trying to place it.

"This is she."

"I'm not sure if you'll remember me. I met you earlier in the year through David Rossi." His tone was warm and friendly and she flashed back to a meeting room at the church filled with priests and conversations about unsubs and exorcisms.

"Father Davison." It was a little disconcerting that his name came back to her so quickly.

The priest made a surprised sound. "You remember me." She thought he must be smiling.

"I do, Father." She should probably have called him afterwards to thank him for his help. But she had been numb, overwhelmed and grieving. She thought of Rossi's voice "It seems almost unreal, doesn't it?" and realized it had; very much so.

"I kept your card. Something told me I might need your help sometime and I was right." For someone in need of help, he sounded extraordinarily pleased with himself.

"Certainly, Father. How can I help you?" Leaning across the couch, she grabbed a pad and a pen from the end table in case she needed to make notes. Of course, if he really needed help, Rossi had more connections than she had. This was probably about making some sort of donation or doing some volunteer work. And that was okay, too. The information he gave them had probably ultimately saved Johnny's life and contributed to what she had told Rossi she wanted, for Matthew to rest in peace. Writing a check or working the line at a soup kitchen were small prices to pay; as a matter of fact, she was a little ashamed she hadn't thought of it for herself, and long before this call.

"I need for you to come to Mass this coming Saturday."

Emily blinked, completely nonplussed. "I had heard the Catholic Church was battling dwindling attendance, but I didn't think it would result in cold calling."

Did you just smart off to a priest? A priest who is an old friend of David Rossi? she asked herself incredulously. Her mother's secondary admonition throughout her childhood (the primary being to stand up straight) to think before she speaks has often haunted her. Her innate sense of sarcasm combined with her general ineptness in most social situations has gotten her into trouble more times than she cares to track. This time, though, she appeared to have gotten a little lucky when she hears him laugh.

"Things aren't all that bad!" He had a caring voice and she remembered how open and kind he had been and she relaxed against her sofa a little as he continued. "I should probably have explained first."

"That," she reached for her wine glass, "might be a good place to start."

"Saturday would have been Dave's mom's birthday; she passed three? No, wait, four years ago." She heard the vague calculation in his voice and understood the way time slips by. "Anyway, every year on her birthday he sponsors one of our Masses to be said in her memory."

That was typical Rossi, she thought. She'd also be willing to bet that whatever the customary arrangement is for such things, his contribution was far greater. He'd talked more of past cases and his ex-wives than he had about his family, but it wasn't hard to imagine him the good Catholic son. She seriously doubted anyone could develop that healthy of an ego without a doting mother anyway.

"Normally I'd celebrate the Mass and then we'd go out to dinner afterwards. It's the only time I can get him to church anymore." His tone was both exasperated and affectionate. "But I have to be in Boston for a conference this year. "

Emily was adding one and one and coming up with one ballsy priest. She was sure her incredulity was evident in her voice. "And you want me to go? In your place?"

"Well, not exactly in my place. But I think he would appreciate having a friend there." His tone was soothing.

Carefully, she put her glass down on the table in front of her. "Surely, there's someone…" she stopped and started again. "We work together and we get along, but I wouldn't say we were particularly close."

"Agent Prentiss, let me ask you something: would you have defied your boss for just a coworker? Would you initiate a call to the Vatican for someone you just get along with?"

Her lips were stiff and she was a little cold when she realized Father Davison was not the only one she'd neglected to adequately thank. Of course, there was really no way to truly thank Dave. Not for all of that and so much more during those few days. She was pretty sure she would have gone insane, broken down completely, if it weren't for Rossi knowing the whole story and having her back.

Feeling herself wilt a little, she rubbed her temple. She wasn't surprised Rossi had told Jimmy Davison what happened with the investigation and she was also sure beyond all doubt he didn't tell him the whole story. Rossi was the kind of guy you could trust with secrets, which was why she confided in him to begin with.

The priest was continuing in his pleasant voice. "Dave might not be the best at expressing himself, but I believe he lives by the adage 'actions speak louder than words.' He appears to consider you a friend. A good one." When he paused she could hear music in the background, not hymns or even classical, but early Motown. "And the sheer determination you showed getting to the bottom of your friend's death tells me you don't take your friendships lightly either."

Her voice, when she found it, was timid. "I haven't been to church since college."

"I'm not asking you as a Catholic; I'm asking you as his friend." The gentleness in his voice was probably part of what made him so good at his job.

Feeling a little stunned, she shook herself. "He won't want me there."

Jimmy Davison barked out a laugh. "No, he probably won't." His agreement was cheerfully unrepentant. "But what we want and what we need are often very different things." He chuckled again. "Besides, there are times I'm afraid he believes his own press a little too much. Everybody needs a friend every now and then, even the great David Rossi."

Emily had to smile at the dryness in his tone. "How long have you known each other?"

His answer was immediate and warm. "Forever."

Picking up her wine glass again, she saluted her phone. "You're both rather formidable." She took a sip.

"I need to be. Really, Agent Prentiss, can you imagine an unchecked David Rossi? Never doubt the Almighty has a plan." He sounded nearly merry.

Snorting into the phone, she shook her head. "Forgive me, Father, but it's your plan I'm more concerned with at the moment."

"Call me, Jimmy. And my plan? It's perfect. If he gets mad, you can blame me."

"Oh, trust me, I will." Her tone was dry and she didn't bother hiding it. "What time?"

"It's just the regular Saturday afternoon Mass, dedicated to her memory; five thirty." He paused and there was a slight weight to the silence. "Thank you for doing this, Agent Prentiss. He's a good man and a good friend."

She silently agreed with both sentiments when she bid him goodnight.

When she slides into the pew beside him, his eyes are closed. He looks like he's simply listening to the music of the prelude. When the music changes and the procession begins, his eyes open and land on her. There's a blink of surprise, and as they stand, it's like she can see him doing the math and coming up with Father Jimmy Davison. He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head and one side of his lips tilt up, taking his cheek with it.

Letting out a breath, she finds herself very relieved that he's not pissed off. She has no doubt Father Davison is going to get an ear full, but Rossi looks almost pleased to see her.

Then the celebrant begins, "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all."

And they respond together, his rich, slightly raspy voice twining around her lighter one, joining the rest of the small congregation. "And also with you."

It moves forward, all very familiar even after so long away. There is a comfort in the ritual and the words, the Penitential Rite, the Kyrie, the Gloria, the prayers, the readings. Sit, kneel, stand.

She suddenly realizes she doesn't know why she stopped going to church. Time, probably; maybe a lingering bitterness over Father Gamino, though it wasn't something she thought of often. The months since Matthew's death have been an odd mix of finally coming to peace with the events in Rome and grieving his loss. Not just his death, but the loss of all he could have been to the drugs and doubt.

Rossi had never mentioned the situation, but for weeks after he made it a point to ask how she was doing. Never any pressure, just Dave, listening if she wanted to talk, comfortably silent if she didn't; endlessly patient and accepting, which is not something she'd ever thought she would think of in association with Rossi.

She shakes herself out of her reverie when the celebrant calls for the passing of the Peace. It seems too awkward to offer her hand to Rossi (too distant for all he knows her darkest secret, too cold for the gratitude and more she feels), so she turns to shake the hand of the two women in the pew behind them and then the man two pews behind, both of them extending hands over the pew between them.

"Peace be with you."

"And also with you."

Then Dave does the same. Before Emily can search for and find another person to shake hands with, she finds herself hugged by Rossi, his lips moving against her hair as he murmurs, "Peace, Emily."

Something in her stomach flutters, then calmly settles and she returns, "Peace, Dave."

They share a hymnal and Prentiss is conscious of his warmth beside her and the scent of his cologne which is really, really nice and probably cost more than her entire outfit. The homily is about forgiveness, not just the forgiveness of God, but forgiving each other and forgiving oneself. God is merciful, he reminds them, and they should be merciful to each other and themselves.

It's a different message than she is used to or expects. She's unsure if this is a gentler church than she remembers or if it's simply the personal views of the young priest. Still, she likes it more than she remembers ever having liked one before. Of course, the majority of her experiences with sermons had been as a child and a teenager; hardly the prime ages to truly listen and understand. She's surprised to find herself cautiously considering the possibility of a return to regular church attendance.

The idea stays with her until the preparation for the Eucharist begin. Her memory pulls forth the four guidelines to who can receive Communion and realizes she is in violation of three of the four, the main one being state of grace. She hasn't been to confession since she was in her early twenties and she had not truly believed herself to be in a state of grace since just after her first confession and Communion. Realizing she's panicking a little, she makes herself take a breath. If this Mass was a memorial for his mother, Rossi probably has been to confession and will be taking Communion and she's willing to bet he's not going to let her just stay in the pew.

Of course, she's right; he doesn't hesitate. He stands, herding her out of the pew, finger tips guiding her at the small of her back. She's sure it just adds to her list of sins, but rather than feeling awkward or nervous she simply enjoys the heat of his touch through her blouse.

When they're kneeling side by side at the rail, Emily crosses her arms over her chest to indicate her desire for a blessing instead of Communion. When the celebrant reaches them, he makes the sign of the cross over her and murmurs a gentle blessing. Then he moves to Dave and administers Communion.

The wafer on the tongue.

The goblet to his lips, his thumb against the base.

His dark head bowed.

And she is struck by the beauty of the moment, both the ritual and the man. The divine and the human.

After a moment, he offers a hand to help her up and she finds herself surprised he keeps it in his as they make their way back to their pew. They both kneel briefly on the bench and when they're both seated again, it feels as though they're sitting closer together. She's very aware of his thigh being mere inches from her own, their shoulders almost brushing. They've certainly been this close working together but it feels different.

The rest of the Mass passes quickly and Emily finds herself a strange mixture of peaceful and unsettled. Rossi thanks the priest as they shake hands, but he doesn't linger in conversation and they're out on the sidewalk in front of the church and she's not sure what to say or what to do.

Even though it's almost seven o'clock, the light hasn't started to significantly wane and the summer heat is still intense. She thinks of the last time she stood here; how cold it had been, Reid's words, "We got him," and that night as she walked through the city, the pure snow, the blood on the picture, the blood on her hands.

She makes a mental note to make a donation to the church in Matthew's name as Rossi looks at her.

He has that same half smile on his face as when he first saw her but his eyes are warm. "Jimmy?"

Emily moves her head a little, shaking her bangs out of her eyes. "His idea, yeah. I thought it was a good one."

One of his eyebrows rise, furrowing his forehead, and his voice is caught somewhere between challenging and dry. "Oh, you did?"

She gives him an eyebrow with attitude of her own. "I did."

His lips twitch slightly and she'd really like to see the smile he's fighting so hard to suppress, even if it might be at her expense. But he keeps it tightly locked down, his head tilted slightly as if he's waiting for further explanation. It's obvious he's not angry, just curious.

Emily decides to leave the explanations to Father Davison and takes a different path. "How old would your mother have been today?"

His face softens. "Seventy-eight."

Emily nods. "She must have been proud of you."

He looks a little surprised before he shrugs, his lips pursed. "Not as proud as she wanted to be, I think."

Emily gives an incredulous laugh. "How could she not be?" Ticking items off on her fingers, not caring too much she's feeding his ego, she rattles off, "You're brilliant. The work you started at the BAU. How many bestselling books? Wasn't one of them a finalist for a Pulitzer?"

"Ah, those are not the successes she was interested in." He begins ticking off on his own fingers. "Married three times. Divorced three times. I didn't give her any grandchildren." His tone is matter of fact, not laced with guilt or regret, but his eyes have lost some of their shimmer.

Prentiss chooses a tone more practical than sympathetic. Anything resembling concern was likely to get her a few choice words; this is Rossi, after all. "I doubt any of that means she loved you any less."

"No, you're right." Smiling, he shakes his head. "It just means she didn't get what she expected."

"Well," she feels her mouth droop with the drollness of her tone, "you are a little…surprising."

His eyes narrow, knowing full well she's not being a hundred percent complimentary, but he can't seem to quite figure out the insult or exactly how to call her on it. The look on his face is such a wonderful mixture of amused and chagrinned she laughs out loud and he smiles in response.

Then the look on his face changes, gentles; she feels something in the mood between them shift but she's not sure what it is. She watches as he touches the tip of his index finger to his tongue and reaching forward, touches her face gently, just under her right eye. She blinks and her lips part slightly at the startling intimacy of the simple touch. Then he shows her the tip of his finger and a single eyelash. "Make a wish, Emily."

It takes a moment for her brain to catch up, but when it does she captures his wrist with her fingers, steadying his hand, thrilling slightly at the touch, wondering if he feels the same. She purses her lips into an unrequited kiss and blows a breath across his finger; wishing, wishing, wishing, as the eyelash takes to the air.

The look on his face is just this side of stunned tinged with lust and she decides she wouldn't mind making him look that way again. As a matter of fact, doing so just may have become one of her new goals in life.

His expression evens out quickly and she smiles innocently at him as she releases his wrist. But she knows he's not fooled and she isn't sure she really wants him to be.

"Well," he inclines his head towards the parking lot, "can I take you to dinner?"

Somehow she doubts he uses that same tone when he asks Jimmy Davison, but she doesn't voice the thought. Instead she gives him her best smile. "And they say wishes don't come true."

This time she gets the full effect of his most charming smile. "If that's all you wished for, Prentiss, that was a serious waste of a good wish."

Laughing, she feels bold, threading her arm through his, gratified when she feels him give it a light squeeze between his own arm and his side as they begin walking towards his car. "Oh, that was just the beginning."

Fin