A/N: TRIGGER WARNING for inappropriate language, mentions of struggles with mental illness, and mentions of suicide (not explicit). If I missed anything my sincerest apologies. -boots
Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.
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'Credi nella salvezza senza ragione se non te stesso' was the phrase carved into a wooden plaque above the front door. They were standing in front of a modest house, having been led to it by a sign right of the security gate urging visitors to check-in here.
The building itself wasn't as institution-like as she expected and instead gave off a homey feel. It even had a quaint porch up front and a sweet woman in a rocking chair peeling apple after apple. Mr.- FriendOfYourMom had tried to talk to her but she seemed very much in the apple-peeling zone.
Mr. FriendOfYourMom glanced at Emily conspicuously. "Kret...kredi… neal... nilla... sal...vezzar…oh this is tough…um..." Kill. Me. Now.
"Credi nella salvezza. It means 'you believe in salvation'." The man's voice was tearing her nerves to pieces. "It means… the full translation is 'believe in salvation for no reason but yourself'."
"Ohhh! Well, isn't that interesting." He grinned at her. "Such beautiful, inspirational words. You are so lucky to being going to this school. I hear they're very well-respected. I searched them up myself. Nothing but the best for Elizabeth's daughter. You must know a lot of languages. Elizabeth knows a lot of languages. What language is-"
Emily hesitated. "Italian." She slammed her thumb against the doorbell impatiently. Mr.-FriendOfYourMom needs to shut the hell up before I-
"You look just like Elizabeth, you know that? Beautiful just like her."
Emily's face turned to gape at him. What in God's name is your obsession- Oh no, don't tell me! Him and the Ambassador! Disgusting. Although, he must be great in bed cuz that voice is just absolutely…wait… Did he just hit on me?!
Thankfully the door opened before she could shred the Ambassador's bedwarmer into tiny, unsalvageable pieces. Behind the door was a sharply Italian man in his late 50s dressed in a sauce-splattered apron with the words "I don't need a recipe, I'm Italian!" written on it in bold, red and green letters with borders of white.
"Just in time! You must be Miss Prentiss and Mr. Cobbs. I just finished making my famous spaghetti and garlic bread!" The man ushered them inside, calling out for two more dishes to be put on the table.
"Oh no, sir, I can't!" Mr. FriendOfYourMom turned at that. "I've got to be going. It's been a pleasure meeting you."
"But you haven't tried my spaghetti!"
"I'll try next time I come around." You honestly think you're gonna be coming here again?!
"Alright, next time." And Mr. FriendOfYourMom was gone. Thank Heavens.
Then ApronMan turned to Emily and flashed a fond smile at her. "I'm David Rossi. I run Carolyn's Home. You can call me Dave, David, or Rossi."
Eyebrow raises. "So, anything?"
"Nope." Rossi sighed. "I learned pretty early on that I can't say 'anything'. That word turns even the most precious kids into little rascals that want to see how far they can pluck your nerves."
He led her down a softly carpeted hallway and into a spacious dining room. It had dark brown, laminate wood flooring with very light peach paint covering the walls. In the middle was a strangely shaped table. It was a rectangle on either end but ballooned in the middle. It was a horribly ugly merge between an oval and a rectangle, painted a dark, pumpkin orange color.
The bustle of children was what Emily noticed next. The ages ranged from short-and-looks-like-a-toddler-but-speaks-like-a-college-professor and straight-laced college-student-doing-taxes-for-fun. Most of the chattering was back-and-forth between a brightly colored, plump girl, that was no doubt around Emily's age, and a younger, cuter boy who slightly resembled Chicken Little with his scruffy light brown hair and large, round rimmed glasses. Small bits of their conversation floated to her ears and Emily realized they were discussing the accuracies in a piece of Doctor Who merchandise.
The first to notice Emily walk in was a short, athletic-looking blonde. The girl nudged the color spectrum sitting next to her who then announced her presence to the entire room with a squeal/screech.
"You are perfect! OMG it has been too long since we got someone new!" She made to go hug her but- thank the heavens- a muscly teenager behind her reached over and whispered in her ear.
Speaking aloud, the boy motioned to an empty chair next to one of the table's heads. "Your spot's over there." He gave her a onceover. "I'm Derek, this is Penelope." A lifetime of training told Emily that this Derek was not happy to see her but was obliged by his own manners to remain polite.
"Thanks." She took her seat, ignoring the whispering that the two blondes had begun between themselves. Beside them Chicken Little looked confused as to what was so important as to interrupt his serious conversation.
Glaring hungrily at the food from the corner of her eye, Emily looked at the others to find them staring straight at her. "Yes?"
"What're you here for?" It was the Derek kid again.
Emily saw Rossi's back tense from where he was bent over a small table at the other side of the room. She remained silent, gauging the environment and the ways of the kids around her.
"I thought you were some politician's kid, shouldn't you be more polite?" He was an aggressive type. She had barely said a word and the guy was already hounding her. And how the hell does he know who my parents are?!
"Fuck off." She could be aggressive too. Nobody was allowed to walk all over a Prentiss.
Rossi's head shot up and he turned around. His laid-back smile turned into a grim, disapproving frown. "That sort of language isn't okay here, Emily. And Derek, check yourself."
"So that's your name! Sounds pretentious." The other teen seemed to ignore Rossi's last sentence.
Pretentious sounds pretentious. Rossi's eyes met hers and she deduced a plea for patience. She looked blankly back at him. "Fuck off, shithead."
"Kind words are better words, Emily. Please meet me in the kitchen." He stopped at the doorway and turned back to see her, unmoving. "Now."
Reluctantly, Emily rose from her seat and followed him into the attached room. Rossi was standing at the end of the kitchen, next to an opaque window that spanned the majority of the wall. He was blowing on a spoon with a crumbly, light brown piece of food on it. He turned to face Emily.
The frown that he had had on his face had faded. He now looked more concentrated, but, as his eyes fell onto Emily, disapproval was still apparent in his gaze. "Do you use that language often at home?"
Emily blanked. At home there was no one to talk to and therefore no one to cuss to. So, the actual answer would be no. But she cussed a lot when she spoke. Even in front of her mother. Including the last time they saw each they each other. 3 weeks ago. Briefly in the kitchen as she was warming some milk at 1 am. I had just gotten home, drunk. And I went to the kitchen to steal an entire cheesecake I knew was for the dinner tomorrow with Senator Strach's campaign advisor. She was standing there in a white turtleneck and black pajamas waiting for the milk to warm. She saw me out of the corner of her eye. She instinctually turned. She grimaced when she saw it was me. She could smell the stench of alcohol and her nose wrinkled. She turned back to her milk. And what did I say: "how the fuck you sleep in that shit? I sleep in the nude." Emily Prentiss does not sleep in the nude. Why the hell would I say that?!
Rossi shook his head. "I'm assuming that's a no, considering that I've met your father and he isn't for that language."
"I don't live with him."
Not to be deterred, Rossi continued. "I've met your mother too."
"Real bitch, ain't she?"
Rossi blew a bit more on the food on his spoon and then ate it. He seemed to contemplate the taste before speaking again. "Language, such as that, hides what you're truly saying. People won't take what you say seriously, if you do not take what you say seriously." Sure shit, sensei. He opened the oven and, with mittens on, he removed a peach cobbler from the heat. "Looks delicious doesn't it? It's my own recipe." He set it on the stove top and put the exhaust on low.
Emily stood silently and watched him preen at his creation. "I lived in Italy for 8 months." Why the fuck would you bring that up?! You utter idiot!
The chef stood taller and glanced back at her. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Briefly, Emily wasn't sure whether he was speaking of the cobbler or Italy.
She spoke with hesitance. "I suppose."
"You didn't like it." Rossi stated, his voice clean of judgement. One would think such a sharply Italian man would be more defensive about the country.
"After a while, I didn't."
"Derek is very protective of his family. And he considers this group as family. They're called 'the profilers' around here, because they've been here so long, they can read a new kid like it's their job. And it doesn't help that I write crime novels in my spare time. This is the long-term group. Anyone in it, stays for at least a year. Some will be here until they're legally adults. He's been surrounded by these people since he was twelve, and the spot you are filling at that table is of a girl who was very dear to him and the rest of the group. He sees you as an outsider. I'll talk to him, but I want you to recognize that it will take some time for him to warm up to you."
"What happened to the girl?"
Rossi sighed. "You'll find out anyway, so…" He shakily swallowed. "Elle committed suicide." His eyes closed momentarily, and she could see the grief on his skin, grimy and cold. "She was battling her demons, and she lost the battle."
No wonder the muscle-dude's bitchy. I wonder what made her kill herself? "Where you close?"
Rossi smiled. "Not as much as the others. She was in this group, so I knew her. But she didn't do salvation sessions with the others. She did individual sessions with Gideon; he deals with the ones whose cuts are deeper than I can go." He sighed again, deeper and more freeing this time. "It doesn't matter though, because you don't need to have heart-to-hearts to care very deeply for someone. And she may have lost that battle, but she won so many others before that."
Emily watched as he turned back to the cobbler. Are all the conversations in this hell hole gonna be deep and dramatic? Honestly, haven't these people heard about small talk?! Way to tell a stranger all your shit. He probably thinks I'm going to spill my guts to him if he shares. My lips are sealed. He's gonna have to try harder than that.
A deep voice called out from the doorway. "The spaghetti is getting cold. Will you be joining us?" The voice belonged to a tall, clean boy. He had dark, combed hair that flopped slightly on his forehead, and he wore a black, long-sleeved polo atop light brown trousers. A chunky, men's watch adorned his left wrist and a torn newspaper crossword was tucked in his right pocket. He looked so manly; nothing like a boy. He was- quite literally- tall, dark, and handsome. Emily bit her lip to prevent a grin when her eyes were treated to the sight of the boy's Spiderman ankle socks.
"We'll be out in a second, Aaron." Rossi's pupils twinkled with amusement as he caught the look Emily had in her eyes.
"È un bravo ragazzo. È anche un pignolo per le regole. Che è buono. Sono sempre stato un fan della ribellione, ma non penso che questo sia il posto migliore per farlo. Ti suggerisco di tenere sotto controllo l'anarchia qui, Emily. I tuoi genitori hanno insistito sul fatto che ogni tuo problema dovesse essere segnalato a tuo padre. [He's a good kid. He's also a stickler for the rules. Which is good. I've always been a fan of rebellion, but I don't think this is the best place for it. I suggest you keep a lid on the anarchy here, Emily. Your parents insisted that any trouble you get in be reported to your father]." The language switch was sudden, but Emily was quick to catch on; he didn't want Aaron to hear him.
She didn't want to hear him either. "Non credo nell'anarchia, signor Rossi; Credo nella libertà e nella responsabilità. [I don't believe in anarchy, Mr. Rossi; I believe in freedom and responsibility]." With those words, she smiled at Aaron, openly leering at him as she brushed past him.
Rossi sighed. The new girl was going to be a difficult one.
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