Written for the cmrossiprentiss Family Picnic Summer 2010 ficathon, my prompt was 'Emily's father'; everything up to "100" is fair game.

This is the third CM story I've written but it will be the first one I'm posting; English is not my first language and I did not have a beta for this story, so, talking about the ironies in life…

I don't own Criminal Minds or anything related to the show; if I did, Dave and Emily will be married already and there would be no 'refreshing' of the show.

For il mio amore, Ikuz, because without your love, kindness and endurance I'll be lost, I love you. Fukei & Andy, thanks for listening to my ramblings and putting up with my crazy ideas. This goes out with a big 'Thank You' to microgirl for her huge help and patience.

The Ironies in Life

The day is warm but not sweltering so, the sky is a bright shade of baby blue and white, fluffy, clouds seem to be merrily grazing in it as they are moved along by a pleasant breeze; the grass is green and it's soft blades bend easily under the weight of the small, bare feet of the children gleefully frolicking around on it; there are luxuriant trees, nicely spread all over the place, providing a cool respite where to enjoy a companionable meal or relax and lazily doze off as is being done by cousins and nephews, fathers, daughters and nieces, brothers, mothers, sisters, children and grandparents, who are taking advantage of it at the moment.

All in all, the weather and settings can't be more perfect for an outside get-together even if they had been paid for.

My line of work requires me to attend and participate in a great variety of multicultural festivities, galas and functions amongst other social gatherings; none of them has been as innocuous as this one: A family picnic. The Rossi Family Picnic, to be precise. The invitation to this affair was unexpected but not displeasing, quiet the opposite.

I came here today, to the Rossi Picnic, to see my little girl again, a woman all grown up now and venturing for the first time into the experience of parenthood herself.

I am sure a man of my status and background shouldn't be or sound so sentimental but mine is a very exclusive club, one where only those with the knowledge and understanding the bliss and heartaches that being a parent could bring are welcomed to join, so of course I don't expect other people to understand.

I could never forget the first time I laid my eyes on my daughter; she was so small, barely had any hair in her little, perfectly, round shaped head, what little she had was dark, soft and silky; her thin lips had looked like a rosebud, soft pink colored and puckered into a pout she had been moving in a steadily sucking motion; her nose had been nothing more that a button and her eyes… My God, in a private moment, one of the most intense in my life, when I had been allowed to hold her for the first time, I thought that she was going to break in my hands and then she had popped open those huge, luminous eyes of hers and I was lost; she had the most gorgeous eyes I've ever seen, they had a steely shade to them and were a mixture of greens and grays that I knew would change in a few days. I knew it was a ridiculous notion to think a newborn would be able to look back at you if you looked them in the eye when, at that stage, they can't even distinguish what they're looking at, but the moment I looked into my daughter's beautiful eyes I know a connection was ensued, one I can still feel when I look at her, in that moment I swore to do right by her, protect her and love her and always be there for her.

She had been flawless; my little girl was perfect, my pride as a father had roared inside my chest and I knew there an then that it didn't matter who I was or used to be nor what I had done before or up until then, my life had started the day Emily Prentiss was born.

Isobel, my granddaughter, has scarcely six months now and I've just met her for the first time but I'm not surprise to discover that, like her mother, she already has me wrapped around her little finger.

Now, while I watch Emily and Dave play affectionately with the beautiful black-headed baby and bright chocolate eyes on Emily's lap, I wonder what kind of playful tricks will Isobel be doing in some weeks, how is she going to sound in a couple of months when she starts talking or how will she look like in a few years from now. Will she inherit the fair complexion of her mother or the Italian traits of her father? What will be her first word, mommy or daddy or maybe something entirely different and unpredicted? In Emily's case, her first word had been something more like a sentence than an only word and it had sounded suspiciously something like 'woomy, oolate', it makes sense I suppose, 'mommy' and 'chocolate', her two favorite things at the time, and I can't but smile mildly at the memory.

Emily was a lovely child, with three years old, slightly wavy baby-hair and a cherry polka-dot bathing suit she was a vision, shyly wiggling her little toes in a puddle by the pool because that was as far as her mother would let her go even with the nanny around; it always had to be me or her with Emily inside the water, so you can imagine how often my daughter would go for a swim.
Emily could be a resourceful kid too; there was this one time when she got a kid's painting kit for Christmas from the wife of one of the dignitaries who worked with the Embassy, she was six years old then and we thought we might have a renowned artist in the making when she started painting on anything that would stay still long enough, not even the embassy's dogs had been safe. Anyway, Emily threw a tantrum when her mother told her it was wrong of her to have 'decorated' the walls of her bedroom and that she would have to clean up the mess she had done, after that, she had spent the rest of the afternoon seated quietly and looking into the corner of the room, she was supposed to think about what she had done and what was expected of a lady such as herself; that had been the end of Emily's fits of temper, at least until her teen years, and of her career as a painter as well.
But above all, Emily always has been a very compassionate and sensible person. She was not the kind of girl who'll be in direct contact with stray animals or homeless people but, even as a privileged child, she was not blind to the deficits and failures which societies all around the world were victims of. While accompanying her mother in a visit she had had to do to Mexico city, a girl had approached the Embassy's vehicle in a red light and had tried to sell them some gum, the girl couldn't have been older than Emily but her clothes were dirty, her hair was tangled and she wore sneakers with holes in them; the driver had kept the windows shut the whole time and, of course, they hadn't bought any gum, this had upset Emily a lot and that night she had cried herself to sleep, she was nine years old then but after that, she has always looked for ways to help no matter where she is or where she goes.

Coming out of my daydreaming, I tell myself I am here for reasons other than walking down memory lane. I sigh wearily and move my eyes around the open terrain, past a group of women from the Rossi clan who are chatting animatedly amongst themselves, and I can see present Emily again, still occupied with Isobel, but I notice David is now conversing with an elderly couple, uncle Ray and aunt Dora I believe. My eyes return to Emily, her fingers brushing now distractedly at her bangs in an feeble attempt to keep them out of her face as she watches over Isobel, today she is wearing light makeup so even from where I'm standing I can see the faint discoloration of the small scar on her forehead. I remember hearing the story behind that injury from Elizabeth who in turn got it, not from Emily, but Erin Strauss, Emily's Senior Agent when it had happen; Elizabeth told me the woman sounded contrite when she had called, and that's a damn good thing because, even though I know this kind of things happen sometimes, they are occupational hazards, I have yet to know a parent who doesn't get worried and demand an explanation or some sort of vindication when their kid is clubbed with a chunk of wood in the head. Elizabeth had been outraged (and worried, of course, even if she wouldn't admit to it); I, for my part, had been concerned too, I feared that this occurrence could have affected Emily's view about her job and ultimately her ability to stay in it, but I really ought to have known better.

It was like when she was eight and she was learning to ride on horseback and she fell off the horse and broke her left arm in two different places; we hadn't been with her at the time but when we went to get her we were told she had been very brave, she hadn't cried after the fall and she had even been quiet as the doctors put a cast on her arm, though she had display some reluctance to speak about the incident or about horses, for that matter; her mother had been very upset then too and I remember thinking that Emily would never mount a horse again. By summer, the next year, she was riding as if she had done it all her life; I swear she was even more adept at riding horseback than riding a bicycle.

"Mother says you can't live in fear or it will control you, if people can't conquer their fears they will be slaves of it forever, I don't want to be a slave; besides, she also says can't let other people see our weaknesses, you know, kind of like when you and I are playing 'Go fish' and you won't show me your cards and I won't show you mine." She had answered me in all seriousness when I had asked her about it.

Afterwards, I hadn't known whether to feel pleased with Emily for having such great moral values at her age or annoyed with Elizabeth for using the things I did with my daughter to teach and engrave into Emily her own, personal morals.

Speaking of which…

I remind myself to keep Elizabeth inside my peripheral vision at least, it wouldn't do if anything should arise and I didn't know where she is; right now she is seating gracefully at the picnic table talking with Angela Rossi, David's mother, she is dressing as casual as I'm ever going to see her but still daintily enough to spell out 'Politician', incongruously, she blends in nicely with the rest of the exuberant Rossi family all the same.

Again, I get distracted by a small group of boys who are throwing a football at each other; one of them has missed my head with the ball by inches, while another one shouts a hastily apology as he dashes past me to retrieve the offending piece of sport equipment. I watch them run away noisily, asking for passes from their mates; they can't be more than fourteen or fifteen years old, sixteen at the most and I recall the bittersweet memory of experiencing Emily at that age.

At fifteen, there had been Italy and Matthew Benton and John Cooley for Emily.

Uncharacteristically for her, but not out of character for a teenager, at fifteen Emily didn't know what she wanted to do with her life; and I don't know what compelled her to befriend them, maybe it was the fact that they shared a nationality or maybe it was because they attended the same school or maybe it had been the feeling that they were all in the same train, so to speak, but she had spent all her spare time, most of her waking hours, hanging around with Matthew and John.

I liked Matthew, he looked like a nice, decent boy, the best part was that he seem made for priesthood and that sat perfectly well with me; but John, oh Lord, he didn't appear the kind that knew how to keep their hands to themselves and was just too eager for his own good, just the sort of boy one wouldn't want near your fifteen year old daughter. Turns out I was right, didn't I? And, oh how I wish I had been wrong because in my case, for all the architecture, history and pretty sightings the city has to offer, between work and everything else, the only thing that Italy means for me is heartache and adjustment.

Our jobs and multiple occupations demanded most of our attention; it tended to happened more frequently than not and that is something I am not proud of, something I'll try to change if I could. In one of those nights when Elizabeth and I where supposed to be at a meeting or something of the like and Emily had to be studying for a test in her room at the Embassy, I don't know, I guess she had counted on us being distracted enough not to notice her absence, just like every other night, or had hoped for us to really pay attention at her for the first time in months…

Having to go get my drunken, teenage daughter out of a filthy hole in the wall was totally harrowing.

John Cooley had been with Emily that night but had scurried away before I could give him a piece of my mind and Elizabeth prohibited me of doing so at a latter time, alleging the shame Emily had already vested upon the Prentiss' family was enough as it was; Emily wasn't a child anymore and she knew what she was doing was wrong, she had to learn to take responsibility for her actions and this was as good time as any to start. Her mother had been rather harsh on her and, thinking back to that time, I might have been too, but I had felt hurt and disappointed of her. I stopped talking to her to show her how angry and dissatisfy I was with her, a childish gesture on my part, I know, but by the time I had realize my mistake Emily had stopped talking to me. Everything changed after that, she had cut out any contact with John and had started to spend more time with Matthew than ever, but even the Benton kid had mutated, somehow he had lost his way and I am certain he started doing drugs; I heard about his demise a couple of years ago and I know Emily had felt it deeply. For her part, Emily had become glum, with a sad look that permeated her eyes; she hardly ever talked with me or her mother anymore and didn't seem to own a single piece of clothing that wasn't dark. Everything had changed after our stay in Italy; it had taken its toll on us, leaving us with deafening music of angry lyrics, some hard feelings, yelling and anarchy.

I shake my head to dispel the image of an unhappy and rebellious, teenage Emily and try to remember that although the shadow of sadness has never leave her eyes completely, she did grew out of her moody phase; Emily had managed to survived growing up into a political spotlight and had even encounter a way to live through the dangers that typify aristocracy's exclusivity; she had endured puberty and matured; she had choose a career, gone to collage and tried to prove her autonomy. She got into law enforcement and works for the Bureau's elite Behavioral Analyst Unit as a profiler. She fell in love, got married and now has a gorgeous baby girl of her own to love and rise.

Ever since Emily was born I've felt completely inadequate, always doubting myself; wondering, supposing, and guessing; only relying on appearances and impressions. I'm not a perfect person and I probably had been a less than stellar father; I doubt I'll ever get to know for sure what transpired in Italy to my daughter and, to be honest, I am not sure that is something I would like to be privy of, see what I'm talking about? But against all odds, Emily became an impressive woman, beautiful and caring, intelligent, loyal and honest, a happy, independent and functional woman with a streak of stubbornness maybe too thick for her own good; so again, I am going to rely on impressions and I am going to say that, apparently, her mother and I did something right.

The Irony is, even though I love my daughter very much and I had always tried to be there for her, I had also vowed to protect her and do the best for her, unfortunately that means, as painful as it is, never claiming her as mine.

Everybody knew that Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss, a promising, young politician, had turned into a widow a few months after her nuptials and had never remarried again.

But before that had happened, Elizabeth had I had met.

I was one of the agents assigned to the USA Embassy in the Republic of Albania when Elizabeth had been posted there as one of her first assignments and as soon as I started working under her command it became fairly obvious we had chemistry. Ours had been a passion that had seared white-hot but had died down fast, consuming itself to never to be alight again. We had been young and somewhat naïve, but we soon realized that chemistry and a lighted match were not enough to maintain a real relationship; we didn't harbored any grudge against each other, it was just the way things were and there was nothing we could do about it but we got along well enough to fall into a good-natured friendship. When Elizabeth's pregnancy came into the picture, we managed to keep our friendship but agreed on the reality that we would not be together: Losing my job or cutting Elizabeth's career short were inconsequential matters but the small life that grew in her womb deserved better even if it had not been a planned, because it already was desired and eagerly waited for; of course I would give the baby my name but we both knew that an innocent child conceived out of a random encounter between an Ambassador and her subordinate was bound to turn into an scandal, a kid born under this circumstances never survive a world that revolved around politics and it's options will always be limited.

Elizabeth had come across Richard Prentiss, a lifelong friend with her family, at a gala party; they had danced together and chatted a lot, catching up with each others lives. It was no secret that Prentiss had always had a special interest in Elizabeth and as the evening had advanced it didn't take him long to noticed that something was not quite right with her. Intuitive and clever, it had taken him even less to figure out her predicament. A businessman of vocation, from an old family and old money, Richard had presented Elizabeth with a deal she wouldn't be able to resist: Marriage and a well respected –and scandals free- name for her unborn and so far unknown to the rest of the world child, in return he would get a beautiful, well-connected wife with a rising career in politics; it will be a win-win situation.

Rick Prentiss had been one of the good guys and I felt secure in the knowledge that he would love and take care of my Emily (we knew by then we were going to have a girl and, yes, she was going to be name Emily) as if she was his own, sadly he died in a plane accident a couple of months before she was born; but not before he gave my daughter his name and Elizabeth a title.

And so, Emily was born to the world, the family and society, a Prentiss, and up till this day I am grateful to Richard Prentiss for it; he had given my daughter the opportunity of a normal, happy life, at least as normal as the life of a politician's child can be.

I square my shoulder and stand straighter, dispelling all previous thoughts from my mind when I notice David is walking towards me with a couple of bottles of beer in his hand; today I'm supposed to be posing as Elizabeth's security escort and I don't want to look feckless.

"Agent Baker" he greets me with a small nod of his head as he stops at my side.

I nod back at him in acknowledgment, never taking my eyes from the picnic taking place in front of me.

"I'm not an Agent anymore," that much is true. After the death of Richard and taking in consideration the nature of Elizabeth's job, I decided it would be better for everybody's peace of mind if I could stay near her and my child. Elizabeth hadn't been thrilled about it but after some 'persuasion', we reached a compromise; I stepped down from my position as an Agent to become Chief of the Personal Security for Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss. "And it's 'Joel'" I throw in as an afterthought.

"Joel," he repeats, as if measuring the name, "I've heard a great deal about you." He tells me, a crooked smile in his face, as he offers me one of the bottles he's been carrying.

"All good things, I hope." I turn slightly so I can take the proffered beer and use the opportunity to look at him and give him a half smile of my own.

"You are something of a legend," his smile widens as if he had finally been able to make sense of something that is beyond others comprehension.

I have to laugh at his statement.

"Has Emily been telling on me again?"

He just stares at me for a few moments with mischief written al over his features, he bites his lower lip and then nods again, more pronounced this time, and takes his eyes away from me, looking at something or someone ahead of us before answering me.

"She has your smile, you know?" He tilts his head toward a distant Emily. "She smiles just like you…"

I have to confess I am shocked by his remark but I'm not going to insult him by asking whom he's referring to or what he's talking about, after all he is my son-in-law, and he is supposed to be one of the finest profilers this country has to offer, but still I think is pretty offensive and it sucks that after all this time, the only reason someone has finally figure it out is because we smile alike.

"I know," I answer him, both of us enthralled by Emily and Isobel playing in the grass a few feet away; and after a brief pause I carry on, "I can't believe a smile gave us away." I snort with disbelief as I take a drink from the beer in my hand, said smile still plaster on my lips.

"It was not the smile," he assures me. "It is the way your eyes brighten every time you look at her, with that mixture of love and pride slightly tinged with regret and uncertainty. Though, the smile sort of confirmed it."

"Yeah, well, I wonder if what you think you saw in my eyes was really love, it could be the sunlight reflecting on them, they will shine alright, but it will never be enough to burn anything…" I finish dejectedly, taking another drink. "Was it ever enough? Will it ever be?" I ask not really expecting an answer, yet David surprises me when he answers back.

"I think it always has been more than enough. You loved her enough to give up your rights as her father in favor to offer her a better life, a great one; you loved her enough to stay at her side even when you could have turn around and walk away, no one being the wiser; what else could have been asked of you? And nonetheless you still love her enough now to keep it all a secret in an attempt to protect her and spare her any unnecessary pain. A parent would do anything for their child, I understand that now," He tells me, his eyes never straying from his daughter and wife. "But I've been around enough to know that life is not always fair and every time it becomes easier to find ourselves in less than ideal situations, where doing 'anything' for someone you love can cost you as much as it means."

"No wonder you are a writer," I muter, "You sure have an undeniable vein for the dramatic." this time I take a larger gulp from my cold beverage while I pretend to ignore him.

"Does Emily got her biting wit from you?" he asks with genuine curiosity in his voice, the crooked smile is back on his lips.

"No!" I laugh as I turn again to face him, "That, I can assure you, she got from her mother." I make sure of drag the first word to emphasize my point.

"Who got what from her mother?" Apparently we've been quiet a bit distracted for the last couple of minutes because Emily, with Isobel perched on her arms, has sneaked up on us. She doesn't wait for a response; instead she keeps on as if she hadn't said anything. "David! You were supposed to come and fetch him, not set camp with him." She glares at her husband.

"Cara-" David begins.

But Emily cuts him off with a warning tone, "Don't 'cara' me…"

"Don't be hard on Agent Rossi, Em-ee-lee. We were just making some small talk." I tell her, teasingly using my occasional nick name for her and tilting my bottle of beer towards her.

"It's 'David' or 'Dave', Joe," She admonishes me. "You don't get to use work titles when you are with your family." With that, she hands a giggling Isobel over to me. "You better hurry up, or we will be eating without you two." She calls over her shoulder, already walking back towards the picnic table where the rest of the Rossi family and Elizabeth are getting ready to eat.

Dave and I share a look.

"We better hurry up, or else…" He says, following after his wife.

I look down at the bouncing baby in my arms and smile.

The irony is, even though I've been masking my feelings and the true intentions behind my interest in the well-being of the Prentiss women, I managed to find the way to my daughter heart and I know I have my own place in it.

"What else can I ask for, little peanut?" I whisper to Isobel with complicity, as I walk over to my family, all thoughts about the ironies in life forgotten.

FIN