Chapter Two: Revival
Though his eidetic memory may never allow him to forget the animosity he's seen, he's grateful for the convenience it has to him now. To know her reaction means he's a step ahead, and that's what he needs. He knows that her lips are parted halfway, mouthing words that she can't seem to string together, even with a mind like hers. He knows that because her lips are parted halfway, her eyebrows will line with disbelief, and when that happens, he's positive a line of uncertainty will appear between when she furrows them.
"You want me to do my job—I beg your pard—excuse me?" He isn't surprised by her reaction, the broken sentence caused by the ambiguity of his answer.
He turns around with a smug look on his face. Pursing his lips into a mocking smile, he ends her suffering with clarification. "Your old one."
"Wh-what?"
Reid moves away from the door and brushes past her, his eyes set on the manila folder flipped open on his desk. "The team and I are here on a case. We usually don't, well, rarely, fly out of the country unless it was of grave importance and this time it actually is. Garcia brought this to our attention. It's this series of murders that's happening around the—"
"Spencer." The calling of his first name stops him immediately. Its tone is different, and he feels a shiver at the sharp ending. "Spencer, look at me." One hand rests on the desk as the other grabs hold of the folder in mid air. "Please look at me." He knew the moment he locked the door this wouldn't work. Though he never admits to missing her, the decision his subconscious made says it well enough. He can hear a small sigh unintentionally escape, and it's in that moment he complies to her demand.
"What are you doing?" He can see those dark eyes struggling to hold their composure, her voice already giving in. It's a mixture of grief, anger, frustration, and unmistakable confusion.
The latter emotion is one he can relate very strongly to at the moment. He doesn't exactly know what he's trying to accomplish either, though he does have a vague idea.
"Do you even know the danger you're in because I'm in this room? Do you even know the—"
"Do you even know the dangers of being a prostitute, Emily?" His reply comes as a shock to her. Even to him, actually. He shakes away the consciousness he feels, knowing to be coarse is the only way to be if he wants her to talk.
"Technically, I'm a high end call gir—"
"Prostitutes are one of the largest demographics in crimes that end up in abuse and murder. Yes, that has much less risk than your old job. Great convenience when it comes to weapons, too. I assume you don't need to holster the one between your legs." His sarcasm flies across the room, nearly slapping her in the face.
He sees her lips move in an attempt to speak, but she shuts them quickly before uttering anything she might regret. She swallows what could have been the last of her patience, and he hopes for it to be. He can't stand using incivility to evoke any reaction from her. It disgusts him what he has to say to make her angry, to get her to talk, to stay. She turns to the window, pulling hurriedly at the sides to bring down the blinds. Like she's afraid—like she's still in hiding, and in that moment he considers his cruel joke as a possibility. That maybe this profession was safer than being on the team. He said it himself that prostitutes had a large demographic, a harder find for Ian Doyle compared to her being on the—
"Dr. Reid, extraordinary young genius, discovered by Jason Gideon," She flings her arms in the air with exaggeration, her voice startlingly loud. "Now using prostitutes to relieve the overwhelming stress of being in the FBI. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" She sneers at him as she paces the room mercilessly.
There it is. The bitterness, the relentlessness; there's the Emily he was afraid of. There's the woman he was indifferent towards when she began her tenure at the BAU, and the woman who undoubtedly stood right next to him during his darkest moments of denial and need.
"What's happened to you?" He looks up, and just like that, she's gone; the woman he knows is nowhere in sight. The intensity her eyes display vanishes, and an irrefutable sense of hopelessness replaces them. "What did you think— that just because you've found me, I can pick up from where I left off? I can't do that, and you know why I can't."
She paces slower, and he watches the dread in every step. It creeps its way up her neck as she swallows her emotions, tainting the beauty of the features on a face that was once stone. It looks softer now, and he wonders why the year hasn't weighed on her. She would have been—she is forty-two now.
"God, Reid, this is completely like you. You always fool me. You make me think you've changed. I thought you changed," She gestures vaguely at him, raising the hand to her head quickly thereafter. She must have a headache.
Without even thinking he sets down the file on the desk, reaching in his bag for something to—
"It's okay. I don't need any." The quiet refusal stops him. "Do you see what I mean?" She huffs out a laugh, frustration evident in the breath. "There's this part of you that hasn't changed, Reid. The sweet, innocent, caring part of you that's naïve but at the same time so.. so mature. You're angry with me, I understand that. But I can't understand is how you could just think this to be so easy. You study some of the most intricate and puzzling subjects, you analyze theories and create your own, and you know, Reid…" Her finger shakes in his direction, and as they curl into the comfort of her palm, he wonders what hurts more.
Her words or those fake nails.
"You know just how tangled this web is." She bows her head at the admittance of her defeat, at the curse Ian Doyle has given her. "Why can't you accept that? Why—What's hurt you so much that your head isn't screwed on properly? That you're powerless when it comes to controlling your own petulance?" She takes a breath to release the remnants of venom in her words, and when she speaks again, he wishes for that hostility to return, unable to handle the feebleness in her voice.
"What's hurt you so much, Spencer, that you need to use sex to make it go away?"
He's wondered that as well. He's wondered a lot, actually. He's wondered countless times and regardless the difference of his approach, he always ended up with the same answer. "You."
He expects many things to come out of her mouth. Whether it be profanity or refusal, he's prepared himself for whatever reaction she may have. His hands are now stuffed into his pockets, and he fidgets with them at the prolonged silence. He watches as she sits herself down on the sofa, scooting over the edge.
The stillness between them stretches out to the point of discomfort. He's the one to be usually left speechless, the one lacking social skill.
"I'm.. I'm sor—"
"No." He stops her before those words get the best of him. "I told you, you don't get to apologize." He steps forward, and when her eyes finally relent and look up, he is hit with heavy pangs of guilt. "I understand why Emily had to die. I understand, but I'm not able to accept the end of her existence. Emily meant—she means a lot to me…"
He rocks back and forth at the sudden anxiousness rising in his chest. "About five years ago, when I was struggling with an addiction, she, uh… she knew something was up. The team ignored it to my preference, but she kept picking at me like she wanted my approval of her joining… but she knew, and as much as I detested the fact she'd give her all to be there for me, even if it meant leaving me alone, I secretly liked it. I was appreciative of it, and I'm grateful she did that. I have so much to thank her for I—" He rocks forward on his toes, digging his hands as far as possible into his pockets. "I can tell you about the time she and I got held hostage by a cult leader, and what she did for me then, but uh, I think you understand." He sits himself on the seat across from her, averting her gaze. "She knew the difference of wanting to be alone and feeling lonely. I could talk to her about peas and it's relevance to love. She was the only one who I could call if I had the sudden urge to watch a foreign film without subtitles. She understood me… which a lot of people rarely do. You don't get to apologize because you're not required to."
He can see what he's done, and though he feels somewhat accomplished at getting to the core of a woman he thought to be unbreakable, he also feels... awful at the state he's put her in. Her eyes glass over with tears, and he can see the resistance she displays at not blinking.
"Emily's gone but—"
He tries to move forward with whatever it is they're having, but when she shakes her head, the tears she tries so hard to hold back brim over, and it forces him to stop.
"I," She takes a deep breath. "I think you may have just brought her back to life." She blinks rapidly to get the tears out and breathes loudly to speak through them. "And I think she wants to stay alive for you, but right now," Her head tilts in that manner he dislikes, the one she unknowingly does before saying something she doesn't want to. "But right now Carrie has to leave."
"Carrie.." he pauses. He thinks back years ago, the name ringing a familiar bell.
Carrie.
Carrie.
Then he remembers.
Carrie. That was the name of the girl involved in a case where two men would use a cat to get into homes, using the innocence of the feline to kill families. He was sure of it, and now, looking at the fragile woman before him, he isn't surprised.
She nods at him, knowing he understands the significance behind it. "I can take care of her this way, like I always wanted to." She continues to stare nervously at her lap.
He covers her fidgeting hands with his own, bravery evident in the action. "I'm not sure high-end prostitution is a proper way of stabilizing a life, Emily."
"You don't need to worry about that."
"Yes, I do." He squeezes the still hands softly.
"No, you don't." She pulls away from his grip, and when he thinks she's closed back up, he feels warmth cover the entirety of his hands. "Another reason why I can't go back to my old job is because I'm still doing it. Just not as… extreme."
"No kicking down doors anymore?" He teases, subtly celebrating his discovery of this profession to be nothing more than a cover. He makes note to ask her what she's working.
She scoffs, forcing a weak smile. "Morgan always did that for me." He then realizes that his hand is placed overtop her knee, feeling a rather odd vibration. He drops his gaze to see her tapping her feet nervously, and when he glances back up he catches her eyes fixed on the clock behind him.
"I wish you didn't have to leave." He mumbles, feeling horrible at the realization of this possibly being the last time he'll see her again.
"Carrie has to. I never said Emily does." He can feel the warmth of her fingers tangling with the iciness of his. "Emily has a lot to talk to you about, and she knows that now you're aware she's still alive, you won't let go of her."
He looks back down and nips at his bottom lip. "I'll walk you out, Carrie." He pulls back from her grip, slowly, so he can remember what her skin feels like against his. He stores that feeling in his mind, marking its privacy.
They stand up at the same time and he lets her walk ahead, reaching into his bag to grab what he's been debating on giving her the moment she walked in his room.
"I told you I didn't need any—" She stops when she turns back to him, eyes fixed on what he holds.
"This is a way for me to be always with you." He timidly offers her the stack of envelopes. "I never did get to say goodbye. My therapist told me to write a letter for closure, but I just ended up writing to you like you were on a really long vacation. I kept thinking about putting them on your.." He pauses, blinking away the images of her tombstone, trying to erase it from his memory. "It didn't feel right. But this does."
She hesitantly takes them, brushing her fingers over his as he hands her the burden of his kept emotions and secrets. "Thank you." He should be the one thanking her, but when he finally notices the crack in her voice, his mind wanders someplace else.
She's leaving him, again.
"Thank you." She whispers, placing the letters in her purse. She takes a step forward and rests a hand on his shoulder. His mind quickly gets to work on remembering the lightness of her hand, burning her touch onto his body so he knows just where her fingers end and where her wrist curves. "Thank you." She says again, and it takes every fibre of his being to not act out on the odd feelings that desperately try to control him.
All he does is nod and steps to the side, keeping his head faced away so he doesn't have to see her leave. The door closes, and he's alone again. The only difference this time is that Emily now carries his secrets, holding his darkest of moments in that small leather purse.
He should feel happy at the thought of them never coming back to haunt him, but instead, it causes him grief. Because he knows that if they don't return, neither will she.
To Be Continued
Thank you all for the reviews on the first chapter. I really do appreciate it, and hopefully this satisfies you until the next update :)
Again, your thoughts on this would make me incredibly happy. Thanks for reading!