A/N: Please check the poll on my profile and have a say in my next bigbang subject matter.
Emily and Morgan stood together in silence as they rode the elevator down to the parking garage. He stared at her with wonder that she was really there and the slightest bit of fear because he'd never be able to forget what had happened in that warehouse. And how it could just as easily happen again.
"Hey," he said as the doors slid open and they stepped out onto the concrete floor, "Wanna go get coffee? There's something I want to show you."
She smiled and elbowed him lightly. "As long as you're not talking about your junk," she teased, "I'm game."
He chuckled. "No, not that. But, if you want to see…"
"Derek Morgan, that is no way to talk to a lady."
"My apologies." He smiled and bowed a little. "So, milady, your car or mine?"
Once they'd settled into the booth at the late-night diner, things were silent and a little awkward. Seven months was a lot of lost time to catch up on when two people had once been so close.
"So," he started a little awkwardly, "How are things with you?"
"Well, all the government paperwork has been a real pain in my ass. You'd think no one ever came back from the dead before," she joked. She cringed afterwards as she thought maybe it was a little too soon to joke about such fresh wounds.
He didn't laugh in response as he once might've. "Well, you're probably only the third person to ever come back from the dead, so they probably have to figure things out."
"It was a joke," she said quietly, feeling like she'd just stuck her foot in her mouth as she was often wont to do. She sighed. "In all seriousness, I've been busy. I'm staying with my mother because apparently they don't rent apartments to dead people."
"You could've come to me – I've got properties that are just sitting empty. They might be a little sawdusty, but they're liveable."
"I thought that might be a little weird," she shrugged, "Since, you know, you kind of saved my life and everything, I think I owe you enough already."
"I didn't save you, Emily," he whispered.
She looked at him seriously and rested a hand on top of his. "If you hadn't been there, I might've lost too much blood to survive."
His eyes fell to the table. "I was still too late."
She frowned. "Too late for what?"
"It's nothing. Forget I said that." He grimaced. "How's your cocoa?"
"Are you mad at me?" she persisted.
"Never. I could never be mad at you," he emphasized again.
She narrowed her eyes. "Then what is this really about, Derek?" She used his first name deliberately to tug at his emotions. "Be honest."
He shut his eyes and took a long slow breath, then started rolling the sleeve of his shirt back to his elbow. "This…is what I wanted to show you. This is me being too late."
Emily cocked her head slightly as she looked at his forearm and his newest tattoo. "Because I wanted to die?" she said slowly.
"You told me to let you go," he said forcefully. "You told me to give up on you and I couldn't. I can't."
Tentatively, she reached over to lightly trace the black lettering with her finger. "So, you got a tattoo of my last words to you?"
He looked a little sheepish. "Hotch said it was a bad idea." Under his breath, he added, "But he also didn't tell me you were still alive, so..."
"Why did you do it?"
"I don't know." He shrunk slightly under her disbelieving glare, asking what his motivations really were. "I was mad. At myself. If I had just been ten seconds faster, if I had just found you a little sooner, none of this would've happened. It's my fault."
"No," she insisted harshly. "It isn't. I still would've had to disappear or Ian would never have come out of hiding."
"I could've caught him. You could've been saved seven months of hell."
"And you wanted to permanently remind yourself of…failing?" she asked softly.
He shrugged. "Maybe. So I wouldn't make the same mistake again."
She squeezed his hand gently. "I have something to show you too."
"What is it?" he asked, curiosity piqued. She pulled back the collar of her sweater, stopping just short of exposing her bra to him. He gave a sharp intake of breath. "That…"
"That is Ian Doyle's brand," she finished when words seemed to fail him.
"He did that to you?" he growled, fire lit in his eyes. "Why?"
"As a reminder. That I'll always be his."
Morgan clenched his fists. "That bastard."
"He's dead, Derek," she reminded with a sigh. "And he's not wrong."
"Yes. He is. You belong to you, Emily. No one else owns you."
She shook her head. "He will always be a part of me. I'll always be the girl that 'died' because her ex-fiancé stabbed her. That's always going to be a part of who I am."
"Just a part of you. That's your past and no one can change that, but you are not his," he said with intensity that was almost frightening. "He just wants you to think that, to believe that you can never escape him. But he's wrong."
"I can't escape him. Not really."
"You can," he insisted. "That scar and those memories don't define you. You are an amazing woman and you are nothing like him. You will never be like him."
"I don't really expect you to understand," she said with a soft smile. "But for what it's worth…I'm sorry."
He smiled back and squeezed her hand. "Don't. You never have to be sorry."