"This better be good," Derek Morgan complained, emphatically shaking his head back and forth. "I left three fine young ladies behind on a Sunday morning for this shit. Right in the middle of breakfast in bed. And you know what was on the menu."
"Oh god, Morgan," Emily groaned, closing her eyes momentarily to block out his flirtatious wink and Cheshire Cat grin before she dramatically stage-whispered across the table, "You know, you can always hit the 'play' button again when you get home."
"You can hit my play button any day of the week, beautiful," Morgan retorted smoothly, ignoring her petty jab at him, as Hotch and JJ walked into the room, Reid trailing slightly behind. "And, while we're on the subject, if pretty boy over here gets his own 'Friday Night Fix-It Night' with you, then I think I should get a night, too."
Emily's sarcastic smile froze momentarily, the panicked micro-expression that crossed her face imperceptible to everyone but Reid, who had taken the empty seat next to her and was watching her closely. Quickly, she flipped her black hair behind her shoulder and, with an exaggerated pout of her red lips, shrugged in faux-innocence. "Sorry, Morgan, but my nights are all filled up. Garcia's got 'Wednesday Night World of Witchcraft Night' -"
"World of Warcraft," Penelope interrupted in mock offense.
"Sorry." Emily held her hand up apologetically. "'World of Warcraft Night'. Hotch and I have 'Saturday Night Salsa Dancing Night' ..." She paused, waiting for the team's inevitable laughter at the image of their stoic, businesslike supervisor trying to salsa dance, continuing, "Rossi and I have ... Let's see. We have 'Spend-It-All Sunday Night' where he lets me spend all of his money ..."
"Yeah, right!" Morgan hooted as Rossi smiled in that good-natured way of his at Emily, his kind eyes filled with wisdom and understanding. "This guy will drop a grand on a pair of shoes but when I asked him to borrow a dollar last week for the vending machine he asked me when I could pay him back!" The team roared upon hearing yet another anecdote illustrating Rossi's infamous reputation as a tight-wad despite the wealth he'd accumulated from book sales and speaking fees.
"Oh, and of course ... How could I forget JJ?" Emily stopped dramatically as her colleagues - even Hotch - seemed to await her next joking characterization, which had already served to relieve the palpable resentment at being called into the office abruptly on a Sunday morning. "Well, that should be obvious. 'Monday Night Make-Out Night'." She blew an exaggerated kiss toward JJ, who shook her blonde hair wildly, pursed her light pink lips, and blew one back.
The team clapped appreciatively. Well, most of the team, anyway. Spencer fixed his eyes on the side of Emily's face and when she turned to glance at him, praying he hadn't been offended, he stared back at her - not in the angry, challenging way she'd expected, though. There was something almost ... soft about the look in his hazel eyes ... something she couldn't quite describe ...
"Tuesday and Thursday," Morgan prompted.
"I- I'm sorry?" Emily asked, tearing her searching eyes away from Reid's to focus on Morgan' expectant gaze emanating from across the table.
"All of your days aren't taken. You've still got Tuesday and Thursday. So what'll it be, Princess?"
"Oh," she said quietly, looking down into her lap. "Already taken. 'Therapy Tuesday' and 'Therapy Thursday'. Where, on the government's money, I get to spend an hour trying to prove that I'm still fit to work at this job. I'm sure the taxpayers would be thrilled."
Despite Emily's self-depricating sarcasm, a heavy silence hung over the room as they all remembered why she'd initiated Friday Night Fix-It Night with Reid in the first place. It was the same reason the Bureau had insisted upon her ongoing mandatory psychological evaluations: so she could prove herself trustworthy to the very people who didn't believe she was worthy of their trust.
"So you're all probably wondering what could be so important that it couldn't wait until Monday." Hotch finally spoke, clearing his throat and breaking the tension.
Everyone glanced around the table, nodding uneasily.
"Do you know what the MCATs are?" Hotch asked.
"Yeah, the Medical College Admissions Exam. They're like the SATs for medical school. Only about a million times harder," said Rossi.
"But they're even more important than the SATs. An applicant's MCAT scores can make or break the admission into medical school, regardless of undergraduate GPA," Spencer added. "An acceptable score is usually anything above 24, with the top medical schools often looking for a score above 37. The highest possible score is a 45, but it's designed to be unachievable, so very few people have ever gotten a perfect score in the entire history of the test."
"Let me guess ... " Emily muttered to herself.
"Yes, I am one of the only people in history who received a perfect score on the MCATs." The affective disconnect in Reid's matter-of-fact statements about himself never ceased to startle Emily, even after all this time. There should have been a trace of bragging or even a hint of false modesty in his voice but there was none of that. His admission was devoid of the type of pride or excitement that most people would convey if they'd been one among only a handful of people to score perfectly on one of the most challenging standardized tests in existence.
Lila Archer was, for Spencer, what a perfect MCAT score would be for anyone else, Emily suddenly realized. Something he thought was impossible and yet still managed to attain. Finding out it wasn't real must have been like a medical school hopeful with a perfect MCAT score finding out that there had been a mistake and that the exam had been rigged somehow. Her heart sank. In one night, she'd managed to destroy the only "achievement" that had ever really mattered to him. How could she have been so naïve? How could she have been so selfish in trying to make him fall in love with her that she'd single-handedly destroyed the only illusion of love he'd ever known?
"Reid, how many test-takers will receive scores equal to or above ... let's say, 37? Or 40?" Hotch questioned.
"75,801 people take the MCATs annually. Since the test is offered 22 times yearly, that means that about 3,446 will take the test on any given testing day," Reid recited, his brown eyes skimming the air back and forth, almost like he was reading an invisible page in front of him. "Each year, 1% of all MCAT test takers, or about 758 people, will score 37 or above and 0.2%, or about 152 people, will score 40 or above."
"That's more than I would have thought," Morgan remarked, surprised.
"Well, not really," Reid responded, his fingers moving rhythmically against the side of his chair. "The results aren't only compared to yearly statistics but also to the test scores of other medical school applicants on that particular exam date. So every time the test is administered, only 35 people will score a 37 or above and only 7 people will score a 40 or above."
"What's this about, Hotch?" Emily finally asked, her head throbbing from either the statistics being thrown around or from the aftermath of last night's OxyContin. Probably both. "Why were we called in on a Sunday morning to hear about the statistical breakdown of MCAT scores? Does the Bureau want us all to pursue degrees in medicine?"
"Over the past six months, there have been a series of murders connected to the MCATs in and around the New York City area," JJ informed them, passing around the brown case folders. "All victims were widowed or divorced fathers and all survivors were only children - daughters, to be precise - who scored in the top 1% on the MCATs. Home invasions, no sign of forced entry, death by throat-slashing. The victims bled out immediately. All were found the next morning by their daughters. Since the MCAT scores are released 30 to 35 days after the test has been taken and can only be obtained by logging onto the official website, there's a good chance that this unsub is either highly skilled with computers or actually works in some capacity for the examination board. The last four MCAT testing dates resulted in two or three murders, approximately a month after the test had been taken. The first murder involved only one victim. We believe that the surviving daughter of this murder, which took place in the suburban Westchester Village of Scarsdale, holds the most important information about the motive and maybe even the identity of the unsub, although she probably doesn't know it herself."
Emily felt chills sweep through her body and visibly shivered. She remembered that first coked-up encounter with Mandy in Paris and the story about finding her father murdered the morning after they'd gone out to celebrate her MCAT score over dinner. But Mandy ... well, Mandy didn't exactly seem like "top 1%" material. Of course, "Leigh" never would have been mistaken for an FBI agent, either.
"Have we been able to contact the first survivor for questioning?" Emily asked, her voice wavering.
"No," Hotch said. "She decided not to go to medical school and disappeared to Paris. It has proven nearly impossible to track her down; she inherited a large fortune from her father and this has bought her either protection from the police or protection from a gang feared by the police. She does not live at the apartment listed on her initial travel visa, which expired months ago, but she appears on no watch list despite continuing to stay there without a visa and without citizenship."
Her passport photo and information appeared on the screen in front of them. Amanda Bernard.
Mandy.
It was an old photo, taken years earlier, and Emily had to bite the inside of her cheeks to hold back the tears as she stared at the image, the image that was both Mandy and yet not-Mandy. The features were the same, but there was a sense of innocence and happiness in those large blue eyes that had been permanently destroyed by the time Emily walked into that museum bathroom and into Mandy's life. Why did this happen to you, of all people, Mandy? Emily couldn't help wondering. Why would anyone want to steal that lightness on your face and replace it with the permanent darkness I witnessed in you?
Hotch's severe tone interrupted her thoughts. "Prentiss and Reid, you're going to Paris to try and find Amanda while the rest of us fly to New York to work on creating a profile based on available victimology. The most recent MCAT was offered three weeks ago, which means we have only seven to twelve days before the unsub strikes again. And, while I understand that it may be ..." he trailed off, helplessly raising his arms and the air and dropping them against his dark blue suit, "it may be difficult for you to return to Paris, Agent Prentiss, you're the only member of the team who speaks fluent French and has gained a ... a familiarity with the area and the local culture."
"Why does Reid have to come?" Emily demanded defensively. "I can do it on my own."
Hotch stood silent for a long moment before responding.
"Because, Emily, I don't want you to remember who you were at the expense of forgetting who you are. If anyone can prevent that from happening, it's Reid."
Emily swallowed thickly and glanced over at Spencer, fearing that she'd see resentment and dread on his face. But when she met his sunken eyes, he smiled - a genuine smile, not the forced "don't worry, I'll play along" smile she would have expected from him - and reached out to pat her leg reassuringly.
"I've never been to Paris," he announced happily to the team. When he turned back to face Emily's bewildered expression, he ran two fingers slowly (almost ... suggestively?) over his lower lip, his hand no longer patting her leg underneath the table but stroking it, as he moved forward in his chair to whisper in her ear, "I hope we'll have time for you to show me things I've never had a chance to experience before."
Fortunately, the rest of the team had diverted their attention to the logistics of the case and were spared Emily's dazed confusion as her disbelieving eyes followed the light movements of Spencer's fingers on her thigh and her mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out.
What the fuck is he doing? she wondered, as his secretive erotic thigh-stroking underneath the table caused her to, despite her best efforts, breathe more rapidly and spread her legs wider on the chair beneath her, the familiar slick dampness in her underwear increasing with each gentle caress. Is this how he's planning on getting back at me? Because this ... this torture by desire ... oh god, this is so much worse than his indifferent manner or his cruel remarks earlier.
"I- I need to stop by my apartment, sir," Emily stammered as Hotch ordered the team to gather their pre-packed flight bags. "My passport is locked in a safe in my bedroom. I had no idea this would be an international case."
It was a lie, of course. Her travel bag had always contained her FBI passport, but given the recent threat to her security as "Agent Emily Prentiss," it was a believable one. What she did need - that bottle of OxyContin - seemed, to her, to be equally as crucial for this trip as her documentation papers.
"Fine," he agreed. "We'll be taking the BAU plane from Quantico, anyway; at present, the active use of U.S. government aircraft with international capacity has been frozen due to the recent tension in the Middle East."
"Wait, but doesn't that include the BAU plane?" Reid interjected, puzzled. "We're capable of overseas travel."
"That fact was, somehow, overlooked during the audit," Hotch replied, frowning.
"Garcia," Emily and Reid realized simultaneously.
Hotch held up his hand, suppressing the half-smile twitching at the left corner of his mouth. "I don't know how it was overlooked, nor do I want to know. But I will say that finding secure transportation was certainly more of a ... challenge than usual. The only solution was to charter a private luxury jet out of Dulles."
Emily stiffened visibly. "Sir, I've been on those types of jets before. With my mother. I'm not sure if I feel comfortable taking advantage of so many unnecessary amenities while working a case."
"I'm grateful for your concern, Agent Prentiss, but this won't be quite the same as flying on the Ambassador jets. The only one available on such short notice belongs to a ... a personal friend of the President and the Bureau. And, to minimize costs, we've declined the individualized catering and massage services, although you will have access to a stocked refrigerator, a microwave oven, an espresso machine and - although I'm sure I don't need to advise either of you against using it - a wine bar." Emily nodded, thinking, go ahead and advise all you want, Hotch; that wine bar is going to become my new best friend on this plane ride.
"The cabin itself is also different than what you may have been accustomed to in the past: it contains a full-sized bathroom, a small chair for Internet use, and a large bed, so while you will certainly be comfortable, you won't be pampered."
"A bed?" Emily exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise. "As in, one?"
"Perhaps now you'll appreciate why I decided to send Reid along with you instead of Morgan," Hotch replied, only half-kidding.
"'Appreciate' is not quite the word for it, sir," she responded through gritted teeth as he turned to make his way toward the team awaiting his presence on the plane to give the 'wheels up' command.
Emily turned to look at Spencer, the apology implicit on her face. "I'm so sorry -" she started to say before he stopped her.
"I'm not," he shrugged casually. "I'm actually looking forward to it. Besides, we can spend a few days in Paris to prevent the rest of the team from trying to figure out how you were able to locate Mandy in about ten minutes."
Emily blinked, stunned. So he'd already connected her description of Mandy with the Amanda Bernard they had been sent to find. Then again, she considered, it was only her own self-protective denial that prevented her from knowing instantly that he would make the connection between the two. The details that Emily had provided about why Mandy had decided to travel to Paris rather than attend medical school hadn't escaped his profiling instinct, either.
"And," Spencer added carefully, "I think my presence will help her mourn you."
"Mourn me? But I'm right here! If she's been mourning me since I left ..."
"She hasn't been mourning you, Emily. She's been mourning Leigh. Just imagine what it's going to feel like when she finds out that the person she trusted - quite possibly the only person she trusted since her father was murdered - never really existed at all." There was an undertone of anger in his voice that Emily was afraid to confront, understanding intuitively that she - she, who had lied and manipulated and caused so much pain to so many people she truly cared about - didn't have the right to confront.
Instead, glancing down at Reid's twitching fingers ... the fingers that had, not ten minutes earlier, been teasing her thigh and rendering her almost incapable of concentrating on anything but those long sure fingertips and the magic trick they'd been performing on her body ... Emily insisted, in a voice intended to come out as solid and firm but emerged as a whiny plea instead, "Spencer, I know what you said earlier, but I really think we're going to need to talk about Friday."
She was taken aback when he bobbed his head up and down in agreement, wanting so badly to believe that all had been forgiven, but her instinct warned her to be suspicious of the 180-degree turnaround in his behavior from earlier that morning. It was almost like the sensation she felt when first learning how to play chess, the constant reminder that if she failed to see two moves ahead of the other player, she would lose the game.
On their silent drive to Emily's apartment prior to departing for France, Emily kept trying (and failing) to imagine what Spencer's next move might be, what he could possibly be planning. She was certain of one thing, though: whatever it was, she was not going to like it.
Meanwhile, Spencer stared out the window of the passenger seat, considering each and every move he planned to make ... and fantasizing about just how much Emily was going to like it.
