AN: This fic contains veiled references to CSA - nothing more explicit than what's referenced in canon, but bear that in mind when reading, if that triggers you.

Fifteen Years Earlier

I see the new girl eating alone at lunch and sit down next to her, trying to remember her name. I settle into the seat and she gives me a half smile. I can't help but think she's beautiful, with her Snow White looks and endearingly awkward ways. She's way out of my league, though, that much I'm sure of. "Hey, Princess," I greet her when she continues looking at me expectantly and I can't think of her name.

"Princess?" she asks, quirking a brow, not unamused. She doesn't seem offended, thankfully, because she looks like she packs a mean right hook if she'd wanted to use it.

I shrug, but say nothing. "I'm Derek Morgan," I supply when she continues looking quizzically at me. I wink flirtatiously and flash the grin Mama calls a 'winning smile'. Mama always says I could sell a cage to a lion when I'm in the mood to be charming.

She smiles, more genuinely this time. "Hello, Derek Morgan," she replies. "It's Emily, by the way, not Princess."

"I like Princess better," I say, smirking. "It fits."

She just rolls her eyes. She hasn't stood up and left yet, though, so I take that as a good sign.

"So, Italy?" I ask. It's not really a question, but it's the only thing I remember from when the principal introduced her during history class. She'd seemed almost shy then, like she wanted to be anywhere else but at the centre of attention. I know the feeling.

She seems to understand the non-question I sort of asked. "My mother was posted in Rome. She's a foreign ambassador. This is the first time I've been State-side in years."

"Oh..." I say, pouting a little dramatically.

"You sound disappointed," she says with a little laugh.

"It's not a very good story," I admit with a shrug. "I was hoping maybe you were a spy."

That gets a genuine smile out of her and it's almost blinding. "If I were a spy I couldn't tell you," she points out.

"Touche." She's quick with the witty repartee. I like that.

She stands up, abandoning her half-eaten lunch. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" I ask, around a mouthful of fries stolen off her tray. Mama can't always afford to send much in the way of lunches and if she's not going to eat them, they might as well not go to waste.

"I need a smoke," she says. Somehow, I hadn't expected this proper designer-dressed socialite to be a smoker, not if her mother's an ambassador. I would soon learn she's anything but what she seems. "Are you coming or what?" she says, turning around, tossing her hands in the air, but she's smiling.

Emily says nothing as we slide onto the hood of the car; it's a nice car – too nice for a high school parking lot – and I'm not entirely sure whose it is, but she doesn't seem to care either way. She must see my concern on my face because she elbows me. "Relax, it's mine."

She reaches a hand into the fake leather purse slung across her body, sitting against her hip, and pulls out a pack of pastel coloured cigarettes. She slips one out and puts it to her red glossy lips, lighting it with a dented Zippo that looks older than the two of us combined.

She takes a long slow drag and shuts her eyes, tipping her head back as she exhales with relish before offering it to me. I shake my head – my whole future depends on my body being in top physical condition, including my lungs.

She shrugs as if it's my loss. "So..." She flicks ash nonchalantly onto the asphalt below us. I watch a small sliver of pink tongue flick out to lick her top lip. "Who's the sick bastard in your life?" She says it like she's asking about the weather.

I set down my coffee too suddenly and look at her, but she's not looking at me, gaze distant and unfocused. "I don't know what you mean." I know exactly what she means, I just don't know how she knows...

She looks at me then, unimpressed. Her eyes are dark enough to get lost in and I can't look away no matter how much I want to. "Mine's the head of my mother's security. She hired him to come to Russia on her new posting with us after my father left. Apparently the guy in charge of doing the security checks could've used a better one himself." Her tone suggests the irony isn't lost on her. "I was six. Asshole still lives with us."

Neither her tone nor her demeanour change even the slightest bit while talking about him. I get the feeling she's compartmentalized it all to the point where it seems more like something she read in a book than something that actually happened to her personally. I wish I had that skill, wonder how she does it.

I don't particularly want to talk about this – not to her, not to anyone – but after she's divulged her deepest darkest secret to me, I feel obligated. "Football coach. Started after my dad died, when I was ten."

Her slow nods are indecipherable and I can't help but wonder if she's judging me because she's been suffering so much longer than I have.

She reaches out and gives my hand a small squeeze, but the contact is brief. She doesn't offer condolences or platitudes and I appreciate that. We just sit in silence, each contemplating our own suffering. It's almost nice knowing someone understands exactly. Almost.

Eventually, she breaks the silence with a little unladylike snort. "Well, this has been fun." She drops her cigarette butt to the ground and watches the trail of smoke dissipate into the air as the wind blows it across the parking lot.

I don't have to tell her not to tell anyone. I already know that she won't.

"Catch you later, Derek Morgan," she says as she slides off the hood of the car.

"Catch you later, Princess," I agree. She tosses a wave over her shoulder as she marches off.

I stay sitting there, thinking about what she said, for so long I'm late to my next class.