Part One: Challenge.
"All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsions, habit, reason, passion, desire." ~Aristotle
*Author's Note: Set shortly after the season seven finale.*
"I'm leaving." She flopped her hands at her sides, as if trying to find something to do with them.
"Again." It was an added qualifier, not a question.
"Yes. Again." Emily Prentiss looked down at her shoes, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her black jeans. She looked like a child being scolded.
Erin Strauss watched the younger agent, allowing her to squirm in discomfort for a few moments longer. It was petty, childish, cruel—and yet, she couldn't stop herself. It was justified. Agent Hotchner had already spoken to his supervisor earlier that day, informing her of Emily Prentiss' imminent departure (yet again), and Erin had requested that Agent Prentiss stop by her office at the end of the day. Normally, she wouldn't feel the need to see an outgoing agent—after all, it wasn't as if there was any love lost between her and most of the BAU—but she felt an odd sense of loss at the news. Loss, mixed with an equally-strange feeling of anger and a need for some kind of vengeance. Perhaps on any other day, this wouldn't have been such a hard hit (Emily Prentiss would come back, she always came back, like a boomerang, a bad penny, a patron saint returning from the dead in a cloud of miracles). On any other day, Erin could have simply shrugged, said c'est la vie, and moved on.
But this wasn't any other day. Erin Strauss had spent her morning in an AA meeting that had dragged on forever (they always made her want to scream, the endless tales of downward spirals, the wallowing in the past, the utter weakness of it all, her own disgust at finding herself part of this macabre ensemble) and her afternoon had been spent in an administrative meeting, listening to old men with pale faces in dark suits talk code about her life (we realize this job entails certain pressures…your situation…you are still taking the necessary measures?). She would have respected them much more if they had simply said what needed to be said, without dancing around it (you're a fucking drunk, Erin, we need to know you haven't fallen off the wagon again). She hated herself even more for the fact that as soon as it was over, she came back to her office, fished out a bottle of whiskey from its hiding place in the back of her credenza, and stared at it for two solid hours before pouring herself a glass (just one, not much, just enough to taste, just enough to stop that awful clawing at the back of the throat, that inner demon whispering,You're finally getting what you deserve, you failure, you fraud!).
And now, the sparkling cherry on top of the already horrendous fucked-up cake of a day was standing before her, wide-eyed and thin-lipped and waiting for her response. Well, Special Agent Prentiss could wait a little longer.
Across the desk, Emily Prentiss rocked back on her heels, uncertain of how to proceed. She knew this wasn't over, she couldn't walk out just yet. It was Strauss who would decide when to end this conversation and dismiss her—Emily owed her that much (and perhaps even a little bit more), she knew. Despite their rocky past, Strauss had been one of her secret-keepers, one of her only contacts into the world of the BAU while Emily was in witness protection. In fact, Strauss had been the one to personally visit Emily's mother and deliver the awful news—JJ had even told Emily that Strauss had requested the task, and Emily bore the section chief a begrudging sense of respect for that (it was not for the faint of heart, to stand before Elizabeth Prentiss with such news, Emily knew that, better than anyone).
The blonde's eyes were blocked by the lamp light reflecting in her glasses, and Emily couldn't read her, couldn't tell how to continue, how to diffuse the bomb that was certainly ticking away inside that icy frame. So she kept her mouth shut and her head down and waited for Strauss to speak again.
Erin let out a long, tired breath. Emily held hers.
"I took a chance on you. Twice." She was still, dangerously still. Emily knew the woman well enough by now to realize the fact that Strauss wasn't moving meant that she was livid, trying to hold back her anger like a weak dam pushing against a roaring river.
"Yes, yes you did," Emily spoke quietly. She could hear the frustration (and the slightest hint of hurt) in Strauss' voice, and it gave her the direction she needed, "And I am very grateful for that. It's been an amazing opportunity."
The BAU section chief let out a little snort of contempt. An amazing opportunity. Gods, she truly was the daughter of a diplomat. Such a neat, nice way to package up the past six years. So precise. So clean. So unlike Emily, the smiling, bumbling, sweet-natured but equally fierce and completely off-kilter young woman she'd met all those years ago. So serious. So desperate to prove herself. So determined to be hard-as-nails and unaffected, yet so obviously lost and uncertain. Erin had seen a small part of herself in that young woman—even when Emily had slipped the yoke, refusing to help her bring down Aaron Hotchner, Erin had respected her honorable (albeit aggravating) commitment to her team. She didn't always like Emily (and she was quite certain that the feeling was mutual), but she did respect her. And there weren't many people whom Erin Strauss truly respected.
Still, this respect did not prevent the section chief from holding the wayward agent over the flames. Erin simply waited and watched.
The silence was deafening. Each second seemed like an eternity, and like the condemned merely waiting for the final blow of the blade upon her neck, Emily suddenly felt the need to push forward, to get it over with, in all its ugly, messy glory.
"I, uh, I've got enough personal leave saved up, and Agent Hotchner has agreed to let me use that for my last two weeks," she cleared her throat, looking down at her hands and picking at a hangnail. "I've spent the day wrapping up the rest of my paperwork—all of my open consultations are being reassigned to Agents Morgan and Jareau. I've briefed them on the facts of each case, so the transfer will be as seamless as possible. Of course, I will still be available to consult with them by phone, if they have any further questions."
"I see," Erin said simply. She pushed back another wave of anger—she had been blindsided, left without any control, without any say in the decision, and that wasn't a position in which Erin Strauss enjoyed finding herself. Over the past few years, she'd learned the (very excruciatingly) hard way that it was best to let the BAU handle things on their own, but after so many weeks of sheer helplessness, what normally would have simply been the order of things suddenly seemed like a direct slap to the face, an affront to her position and rank.
Emily continued picking at her hangnail, wincing when she ripped off the offending sliver, but she welcomed the pain as a distraction. A red dot of blood immediately sprung from her cuticle, and she stuck her finger in her mouth without thinking. Then she realized how she must look, glancing sheepishly at Strauss as she pulled her hand back down to her side.
That was all it took to melt Erin's anger—that simple moment, that vulnerable moment in which she saw the young, timid, self-conscious rookie from yesteryear. With a sigh of irritation and defeat, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and rummaged around until she found the mini first-aid kit that she kept on hand (long ago she had learned to be prepared for anything). She pulled out a band-aid and a small tube of antiseptic gel and stepped forward, motioning for Emily to extend her left hand, to which Emily dutifully obeyed.
"I'm sorry," Emily whispered, although at this point, she wasn't even sure what she was sorry for anymore.
Erin didn't respond. She simply dabbed a small amount of disinfectant on the cuticle and set the tube on her desk. She smoothed the bandage around Emily's fingertip.
Even as Strauss cared for her mild injury, Emily felt the older woman mentally drawing away from her, shutting her out as she focused on the mundane task at hand. Her reaction to this coolness came quickly and viscerally, surprising herself with its intensity as it pricked the pit of her stomach. Being ignored was the worst feeling in the world to Emily—she could deal with anger, but indifference was unbearable (it reminded her too much of her childhood, of so many moments spent on the sidelines, praying for someone, anyone, to acknowledge her existence). Without thinking, she stilled Strauss' hands with her uninjured one. The blonde's movements stopped, but she didn't look up.
Emily wanted to beg, to plead, to say look at me, but she knew how weak that would make her sound, and she didn't want that to be Erin Strauss' last memory of her—as some petulant, needy child—especially when she knew that her abrupt departure was already leaving a bad taste in the section chief's mouth.
Erin could feel the heaviness, the anxious energy radiating from Emily's body, and she knew what the younger woman wanted, what she was waiting for—Emily Prentiss, despite spending most of her life outside the box, still wanted to be forgiven and understood, still wanted absolution for her latest offense. And despite knowing exactly how it felt to be on the other side of a situation like this, Erin Strauss still didn't want to extend forgiveness or compassion to the woman whose warm hands were currently clasping her own—forgiveness would be capitulation, and after a day of being tossed and turned at the whim of others, Erin needed to have some kind of victory. It was a spiteful, petty thing, and yet, she could not stop herself. Emily wanted—no, needed—something from her, and that gave Erin power. And right now, that was what Erin needed.
Emily could see the way Strauss' entire body stilled as if she were preparing for some great battle, could feel the waiting settling into the woman's frame, and a faint flutter of irritation simmered under her skin (a familiar feeling when it came to Erin Strauss, the woman whose mere presence usually put Emily on the defensive, who in a cosmically fucked-up twist of fate had just become the one person who could allay Emily's guilt).
So Strauss was going to play hard-to-get. Of course, she would never be kind enough to offer Emily this simple thing, this small act of forgiveness that would cost Strauss nothing yet would mean everything to Emily.
Strauss still wasn't looking at her, still wasn't acknowledging her or the question that she was silently asking—no, she was willfully ignoring Emily, with a cool determination that made Emily want to scream or shake her or do something to make her pay attention.
However, Emily Prentiss was not a three-year-old. She would not scream, she would not stomp or shout or shake Strauss by the shoulders. Instead, she simply reached up and gently removed the glasses from Strauss' face—she still needed to see those orbs that constantly changed grey-green-blue-green-grey, to read them and gauge the damage.
The older woman's jaw tightened at the action, but her eyes remained trained at her hands. She knew that Emily was trying to make her look up, to make her see just how broken up she was about this whole ordeal, but Erin Strauss was not one to be bowled over by a pair of teary doe eyes. It was childish and manipulative and frankly it was beneath Emily Prentiss, the woman who'd been so brazen and so steely against Erin's harshest attempts to bend the younger woman to her will.
Emily happened to be displaying that particular brand of mulishness right now, as she quietly waited for Erin to finally look up. However, her opponent had years' of experience in stubbornness, and in the end Emily proved to be no match for the solemn-faced woman in front of her.
"Chief Strauss." Emily still used her title, still deferred to her on some level, but the unspoken plea in her words was not lost.
Setting her mouth in a thin line of impatience, Erin steeled herself and locked her eyes onto Emily's dark ones.
"Are you happy now, Agent Prentiss?" Erin couldn't resist the barb, though she kept her voice flat and unfeeling.
Emily blinked as if she'd been slapped in the face. As much as she tried to remain unaffected by Strauss' coldness, it was that simple question which contained the root of all her problems, and she felt her eyes filling up with unwanted tears as she admitted the truth.
"No," her voice quavered. "I'm not happy at all."
"I don't see how that's any of my concern," Erin replied smoothly, reaching out to take back her glasses. Emily's hands moved, too, stopping Erin's by grabbing her wrists. Erin tried to jerk away, but the brunette's grip only tightened. A beat passed as the two sized each other up.
"Let. Go." Erin's voice was low, deadly, feral.
For a moment that seemed like a small eternity, Emily didn't move.
"Agent Prentiss." There was a warning in Strauss' tone, the low guttural rumbling of a cat before the hiss, the dark clouds before the storm. She could see the slight flicker of some unnamed emotion across the younger woman's face—Emily obviously realized that she'd overstepped her bounds, but something kept her from retreating to safety. Despite her irritation, Erin found herself curious to know what could possibly induce such odd behavior in someone as infamously detached as Emily Prentiss.
"Please." There was an edge to Emily's tone—a hardness, something that would not be denied. Her thin fingers were biting into the flesh at Erin's wrists, and in her dark eyes lay a desperate, childish pleading. She didn't say what she needed, didn't directly say what she was asking for, yet Erin understood, because she simply bit her lip for a moment, finally overcome by Emily's pitiful state—after all, how many times had she stood in that same place, begging for forgiveness and understanding from others, begging just to be heard? She knew how it felt to be unhappy and to be made even more miserable by knowing that her unhappiness was poisoning others as well.
"O…OK," Erin relented. Like Emily, she didn't speak outright, because some things didn't have to be spoken—they were understood and accepted.
"OK." Emily nodded and Erin mimicked the nod in confirmation. The brunette eased her hold, but she didn't fully let go. Erin was surprised to realize that she really didn't mind.
"I can't stay here," Emily admitted. "I'm…I can't…."
Suddenly she was at a loss for words. She could speak six different languages, and yet they all escaped her when it came to the task of describing the hurricane inside her chest. She looked down, focused on the perfectly rounded and polished nails curled delicately before her (so different from her own bitten and torn nails, she thought shamefully).
She took another deep breath, "When I was away, I wanted to be back here more than anything. I thought this was where I belonged, this was my family, my purpose. After all those years of feeling like some deformed piece that never fit in any puzzle, I had finally found the place where I clicked."
Her throat tightened as she blinked back tears, but she forced herself to keep going, to keep talking, to keep pushing the bad stuff out, to keep draining the wound in her soul.
"But when I came back, that feeling…that feeling was gone," she swallowed again. "I don't belong here anymore. I feel this…thing clawing around inside my chest, needing to get away. I'm trapped, and this is the only way that I know to get out."
She suddenly realized that she'd been rubbing her thumbs in circles on Erin's wrists, the skin smooth and cool to the touch like the black polished stones she kept in a bowl on her coffee table at home, and she dropped her hands, blushing at her actions. She didn't know where this came from, this sudden comfort in being so physically close to a woman who hadn't been much more than a passing acquaintance, a distant friend of her mother's, at times even an adversary.
Erin didn't say anything, but Emily heard a hitch in her breathing and looked up. She was shocked to see those ever-changing eyes (blue, they almost seemed grey-blue right now) glistening with unshed tears.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," was Erin's only response. She blinked, and the tears seemed to disappear without ever slipping over her lashes. She was used to that sort of thing—reining in her emotions, stamping back anger, pushing back tears. But her tears weren't entirely for Emily's plight—that gentle pressure on her skin had been the most reverent touch she'd received in years, and as soon as that contact was broken, she felt a slight pang of sadness (sadness tinged with something else, something unnamed). The softness of that touch had stopped her brain for a full beat—she'd missed half of what the other woman was saying, had to force herself back into the present, trying to calm her pulse and not act like a tittering fool over a simple, innocent touch.
Part of her was uncertain and afraid of the emotions roiling around in her hammering chest, and another part of her wanted to push forward, to explore these tumbling new feelings, to seek out the source and to dig into the rich, dark earth and find the roots of whatever fragile thing just bloomed in this darkened, claustrophobic office. Erin had always prided herself on being an alpha personality, a conqueror, a seeker, a claimer—she didn't run from fear, she chased it, because the best defense was a good offense. In this moment, Emily Prentiss was something fearful, something dark and unexplored and untamed and that gave her power over Erin and that was an imbalance that needed to be corrected.
Of course, the source of all this uncertainty was completely unaware of it. All Emily saw was the hesitation, the step back, the change of breath, and the flicker of something unreadable behind those eyes.
"I'm sorry," Emily fumbled again, and once again, she wasn't really sure what she was apologizing for. She rubbed her forehead in agitation, "I don't know what I was thinking—I just—I just needed you to understand why I'm leaving. I don't even know why I need you to understand, I just…do."
A beat passed as Emily tried to sort through her own muddled thoughts and Erin simply watched and waited. Emily pressed her lips together, finally finding an answer, "I guess I feel like I owe you an explanation, because you did take a chance on me, and I don't want you to think that I was ungrateful."
"Ungrateful," Erin spoke the word slowly, as if testing its weight on the tip of her tongue. "Interesting choice of word."
Emily had backed down, apologized again, and the power imbalance had been temporarily corrected. And yet it wasn't enough. It should have been, but it wasn't. All day, Erin had been confronted with the realization that she had lost what little control and autonomy she'd had in life, and gods be damned if she didn't extract a pound of flesh from someone, somewhere. For the first time today, she had some kind of superiority, some kind of upper hand, and it was unfortunate that the person in her cross-hairs happened to be Emily Prentiss. But then again, the tiger did not weigh the merits of the rabbit before it devoured its prey—it simply used its fangs, its muscles and claws and instincts, and did what it was created to do. It wasn't the rabbit's fault, but it wasn't the tiger's either. It was simply the way things were.
Erin was a tiger, her teeth were meant for flesh, and she didn't see it as any fault of character that she remained true to her nature. She wouldn't harm Emily (not much, not really, just bat her around a bit, ease a little frustration), but she wouldn't deny herself the chance to get something out of it.
"I know that I only got this job in the first place because you thought I'd be an asset for you." Emily admitted softly. They had talked about it once, when she was first hired (the first time she resigned, too) but it had never been spoken of since.
A wry smile twisted across Erin's lips. "Except you didn't play by my rules, did you?"
Emily's dark eyes flicked back up to Erin's face, her brows set in a hard line, "I'm sorry I wasn't the bureaucrat you wanted me to be."
This amused Erin, because it was obvious from the younger woman's tone that she was, in fact, the opposite of sorry. So they were going to get to the meat of it, then. The old slights were going to be dragged out, discussed, dissected, the whole Twelve-Step bullshit.
"Forgive me for daring to mar your pristine moral character with my unseemly offer," Erin leaned in slightly as she breathed the word, her head cocking to the side, accentuating her sarcastic tone (and yet something in her demeanor and her almost-teasing inflection made it seem playful rather than outright aggressive—playful and somehow more dangerous, though Emily wasn't certain how that could be possible).
Then Strauss seemed to switch personalities, turning on her heel and tossing her glasses back onto her desk with a careless air as her voice became flat and bored again, "I don't care much for ancient history, Emily."
She shot another dark glance over her shoulder, "And I care even less for sanctimony."
Emily gave a derisive snort at that obvious understatement. She couldn't understand this woman or what she was trying to get from Emily (and it was the not knowing that frustrated her more than Strauss' actual actions did), and her exasperation was building with every second (not that Emily had any kind of legendary patience to begin with, certainly not where this woman was concerned). Emily kept her tone neutral, although the emotion danced just beneath the surface as she quietly decreed, "Spoken like a true politician."
Erin turned back around slowly. She may not be a master profiler, but she knew enough about human nature in general and enough about Emily's life in particular to know where to land her next volley, "Don't confuse me with your mother, Emily."
The brunette ducked her head at the hit, biting back some retort from flying out of her lips, and Erin felt a slight prick of delight. Emily was watching her tongue—she was still playing to Erin as the powerful one in this scenario.
The emotions were compartmentalized, the mask clicked into place, Emily's shoulders straightened and her eyes came back to Erin's.
"I've already submitted my papers through Agent Hotchner; I just thought you deserved hear it from me, in person," her voice was paced, noncommittal. She made a move for the door.
"I don't believe I dismissed you, Agent Prentiss," Erin's voice stopped her. They were back to official titles and last names. It was a bully move, a deliberate reminder of rank, but there was something else in her tone that pulled Emily back, a slight pleading, a hint of regret (please don't go, not like this). It was a jerk of the chain, a gut reaction, and even though Emily knew that Strauss technically wasn't her boss anymore, she still obeyed.
Emily turned back around. Regardless of the softness dancing at the edge of her tone, the blonde's face was still set in an expression of annoyance.
"You're right—I did deserve to be told in person," Strauss' arms crossed over her chest. A faint flush had already begun to creep across the skin peeking out from the opening of her button-down blouse, and Emily realized that the woman was much more upset than she'd first thought. Her voice was a low rumble of displeasure, "But I also deserved to hear it long before now. You've been back for months. You've been looking for a way out for months. I could have spent that time finding a suitable replacement, smoothing the transition, but now I'm stuck, scrambling to find someone without a proper vetting process, because the longer it takes, the longer I'm leaving the team with one less agent—one less valuable, knowledgable, much needed agent."
Each word, weighted, calculated, measured. Ounce by ounce she would take her pound of flesh. It had been such a long time since she'd played this game (push, pull, advance, retreat) and Erin was delighted to learn that her muscles were still in good working order. She'd almost pushed Emily too far, almost lost her—Emily was trying to leave before the game was finished, but Erin had softened her tone, switched gears (not really apologizing, she never really apologized, she let her tone do that, let the other person infer her remorse). Emily had been pulled back in, and so she had continued her advance (one step back, three steps forward).
Emily, of course, was a bright girl, and she noticed this sudden switch, her brows twisting in confusion as she tried to piece it together.
Then, wonder of all wonders, Erin Strauss suddenly grinned, as if she suddenly remembered some great secret (the moment of revelation was always her favorite part—the moment when they silently recognized that she had set a trap, that she had bested them, that she was the assured victor).
Emily took a small step back, caught off-guard by the obvious amusement dancing in those light green eyes again (yes, they looked green now, green like the grass in early spring). She felt like she was standing on the precipice, taking that last breath before plunging into the rushing winds of the unknown, and yet (and yet and yet and yet) there was a pin-prick of curiosity, an almost-unheard voice in the back of Emily's mind that whispered, We should follow this trail and see where it goes.
So she did. She stepped back, back to the woman with the dancing eyes, back into the lion's den, the tiger's lair, the soft danger of the unknown. The teasing, the smile, these things told her that a new game was being played, and she didn't know the rules just yet, but something inside her said that she wanted to know them—wanted to know them very badly.
She wasn't sure what Strauss wanted. Chess had taught her never to make a move until she was sure, until she had played out all the possible scenarios in her mind. So she waited.
Erin saw the anxiety in those dark eyes and an amused hum rumbled in her throat. She moved forward, the corner of her mouth twitching as she fought back a grin, "You look nervous, Agent Prentiss."
"I'm not."
"Prove it," Erin stepped forward again, before she could even register the words coming from her own mouth. Her pressure was up; she wanted a response, a fight, something, anything. She'd tasted blood (and something darker, something more dangerous) and she wasn't ready to let it go. Erin knew it was foolish, brash, wrong, but Emily had lit this torch, had started down this path, and Erin would be damned if she didn't see this through. It was the least she could do.
"What?" Emily could hear the breathlessness in her own voice, and she wanted to kick herself for it. Her mouth was dry and her heart was hammering in her throat and she willed herself to look into Strauss' eyes, not at her lips (don't be so easily read) or the honey-colored pillar of her throat (don't look don't look don't look).
Of course, Erin's eyes had been trained on the other woman's face; she watched the whole thing and felt a slight twitter of delight. She had learned long ago that there were different kinds of power, different ways to hold control, and though this hadn't been the reaction that she had expected (from Emily, from her own self), it certainly was a path worth following—at least for a little while longer, at least until things got too close to that point of no return.
Emily forced her eyes upward to meet Strauss', but what she saw in those eyes was just as disconcerting—that hint of amusement, that naughty little glint. She'd seen it once before, when Strauss had been on a case with them and had slipped out of her tight-ass section chief mode long enough to crack some risqué little quip—Rossi had said something in a low tone (the kind you use for lovers, for delicious secrets and inside jokes that make others blush) and she'd tossed him that look over her shoulder (the kind you use for lovers, for delicious secrets and oh-you-naughty-boy-you-shouldn't-haves). Emily had been immediately intrigued by this rare glimpse into another side of Erin Strauss, and for the first time, she'd seen her as something more, something solid, of flesh and bone and weight and warmth and taste. She'd seen her as a woman.
She'd be lying if she said that since that moment, she hadn't thought more about what the Ice Queen of Quantico was like outside those concrete walls. But that was a passing thought, something that only flitted across her mind when the woman was near her.
She was near her now. Very near.
"What?" Erin mimicked her breathy question, her eyes wide with feigned shock, her thick dark lashes giving her the appearance of a porcelain doll. There was that light teasing, that mocking air to her smile again, that self-satisfied smugness that could only be accurately described as Erin Strauss, and Emily found it irritating.
So she took the challenge. She proved it.
"Accept the challenges so that you can feel the exhilaration of victory." ~George S. Patton
*Author's Note: This is actually one of the very first CM fics I wrote (it was originally written before season eight even aired), but for various reasons, I kept this one on the back-burner for a while….and obviously, smut ahoy—so if that's not your thing, this is the part where you leave the room.*