"I'm ready to tell you what happened," Emily said into the peaceful quiet of the early evening.
Patience had never been his strong suit. He'd been doing his best not to pepper her with a million questions about what had happened and how she'd gotten out, but she knew he wanted answers, deserved answers after having waited so long. She tried not to let the fear of his reaction swallow her whole...
They'd been married for two years when she'd first been poached by Interpol. She'd been told it was because of her Academy scores, her linguistic skills, and the fact that she'd grown up around mutants. She'd later learn it was because she was Doyle's type.
She'd been anxious to prove herself an asset, to make a name for herself. Erik had been worried that she was too young, too inexperienced to be undercover (and, ultimately, he'd been right...). At the time, though, her assignments were short and relatively low-stakes and he'd trusted Clyde's promise that he wouldn't let anything happen to her.
The Doyle assignment changed everything...
Erik said nothing, instead dropping a kiss to her temple with uncharacteristic tenderness, a silent pledge that whatever terrible truth she was about to confess, he'd find a way to love her through it.
She couldn't quite meet his eyes, staring straight ahead at the glitter of the setting sun on the ocean waves. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words to explain. She stumbled, sighed, tried again. Finally, she managed to blurt out, "I'm dead." She could practically feel the waves of confusion rolling off of him. "Officially speaking," she added, as if that explained anything.
"You're dead..." he repeated.
She nodded, chewed at her thumb nail out of habit – it was a tic she'd developed in the aftermath of the Doyle assignment and had never quite managed to get rid of. "There's only a handful of people in the world who know I'm still alive. Even less who know why."
"What do you mean 'dead'?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Why?"
"Interpol faked my death – at least, that was the original plan. No one knew just how close I'd come to actually dying." She flicked her tongue out over her lip and, with a shaking hand, lifted the hem of her shirt to show him the angry red scar snaking across her abdomen.
He couldn't seem to help himself – he reached one hand over to touch his fingers to the wheal of scar tissue and she flinched involuntarily, less out of actual sensitivity than fear that it would somehow change how he felt about her.
In answer to his unasked question, she said, "I got stabbed...by a wooden stake." She hoped that added detail would keep the guilt from overwhelming him, knowing he couldn't have stopped it even if he'd been there.
"Who?" he asked, voice nearly trembling with anger. She didn't answer right away, knowing how angry he'd be. "Who, Emily?"
"Doyle," she whispered, eyes falling shut. "They were just supposed to frame him for my death, but it turned out a little more real than we'd anticipated..."
For several moments, he said nothing, and she could see him silently seething. "You never should have been under with him in the first place," he growled. "You were too young, too inexperienced to handle someone like him. They knew that – they used you..."
"I asked for the assignment," she murmured, resting a palm against his chest, his heart pounding a furious rhythm beneath it. "I wanted a chance to prove myself."
"And they took advantage of that."
In hindsight, he was right – Clyde had seen just how badly she'd wanted the assignment and he'd used that to his advantage in his desire to bring down Doyle. "They couldn't have known this would happen," she insisted, repeated, "They couldn't have known how close I'd come to dying..."
"How close?"
"I coded," she admitted quietly. "In the ambulance – just briefly, but they had to resuscitate me." She swallowed down her fear, her guilt, and finally met his gaze, watched the emotions that played across his face: the sadness, the fear, the anger...
"You never should have been in that position," he said. "None of this should have been allowed to happen."
She did agree with him, but right now, she needed to be the voice of reason and talk him down from the ledge that likely resulted in him taking revenge on Clyde and Doyle and everyone else in his path. "Whatever happened back then...it happened. But this time, I knew exactly what I was getting into and I took the fight to him anyway. I knew how dangerous he was, I had all the experience in the world, and I still went it alone. I fucked up. I let my emotions get in the way. But he'd threatened people I care about and I know you would have done the same thing in that situation."
"I could have lost you, Em..." he said softly, seeming to swallow down the barbs of his anger.
She nodded, offered a contrite look. "I know...I was foolish and hot-headed and stupid. But it's over now. I'm here, with you. That's what matters now."
He sighed, shook his head, but he did so fondly. He leaned down to kiss her, murmured against her lips, "You're too damn stubborn for your own good."
She couldn't help but laugh. "Der Esel nennt den anderen Langohr," she said.
"Touche," he admitted, pulling her into his chest. For several moments, he just held her there, relishing in the feel of having her in his arms again until he seemed to remember something. He reached in his pocket and pulled out her wedding band. "I found this this morning," he said.
Her face lit up with a smile. To keep him from ending up in any of her personnel files, to keep anyone from using her to get to him, she'd taken off her ring and kept him a secret from everyone close to her. She'd hated lying, hated the secrecy, but ultimately it had been safer. "I've been waiting for the day I could wear it again," she whispered, perhaps a little shakily, choked with emotion as she was.
Wordlessly, he slipped it on her finger for the second time.
