Title: Thou Bitter Sky
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Universe: Zombie Cantos
Characters/Pairing: Morgan/Prentiss
Genre: Horror/Drama
Summary: Winter's here. There's more than one way to find warmth.
Zombie Cantos: Thou Bitter Sky
Blow, blow, thou winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind – William Shakespeare
*
Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.
Victor Hugo
* * *
Twenty months after the Zombie Apocalypse
It's cold.
Not blisteringly cold, because it's Arizona, after all, and not Chicago, or Switzerland, or any other one of those places that, at this time of year, would be covered in a blanket of snow. Two years ago, she might have been reveling in a post-Christmas haze – happiness for the sake of happiness, even though it's just hit New Year's, and she'd been no closer to having something that resembles a life.
Of course, now isn't really much better, considering Christmas had been a feast of expired canned goods, and moonshine. Sometimes it doesn't really feel like there's much to celebrate.
Especially not now.
End of the world, and all that.
More to the point, it's the end of the world, and she's using a fricking cane to get around, because things like X-Rays and broken bones healing properly are the kinds of things you take for granted while they're still around.
She'd made jokes about Reid's walking implement once upon a time. Not so funny anymore. Not so funny when the only outlet she'd had has been lost to her. Not so funny when she can't pick up a gun, put on her backpack and go on the supply runs with Morgan and Rossi and an ever-changing cast of others, because it's not just her own life she's putting in danger. The ailment doesn't just make her useless – it makes her a burden.
So she's stuck, so to speak. Stuck in this small town – a fortress, but at the same time, a prison. After a lifetime of traveling from country to country, city to city, it should be freeing, but it's not. It's really, really not.
It's cold, and her body aches.
The leg is the worst – pain shoots from her ankle to her thigh, and sometimes it's hard to believe that it's been almost six months since it had broken. The arm isn't so bad, but still noticeable, and there are a plethora of other injuries that like to act up – injuries from back when a broken leg would have meant six weeks on crutches.
Remembrance of things past.
There's a scar on her abdomen from a grazing bullet wound, a scar on her forehead from one of the concussions that she seems to collect like other people collect baseball cards. Privately, she thinks that these are all child's play compared to the internal scars, and she's pretty sure that she can say that about every single member of the team.
Still, right now she thinks she'd almost prefer another internal scar, considering it wouldn't hamper her ability to walk. No matter how much Penelope had pimped up her cane (that had been looted from someone's house, she remembers) it's still another bitter reminder.
And winter really doesn't help.
She reads – partly to pass the time, partly for escapism, but (and never in all her life had she imagined that she'd ever say this) it's starting to get old. A broken childhood isn't the only reason she'd joined the FBI. She misses the adrenaline rush. The kind of rush you just can't get from watching TV, or playing sport.
It's a rush you can get from fighting zombies, but really, that's a moot point, since she's not going to be fighting them any time soon. Maybe in ten years or so, the limp will have gone, but she's not exactly getting any younger; it's no surprise to any of them that Rossi's started staying behind more often, much to his chagrin. Morgan, she thinks will keep going until his last dying breath.
It's kind of terrifying.
She returns the books that she's just finished to the library shelves; it's grown exponentially in the time they've been there – after a couple of months it had become apparent that forms of entertainment were just as important as food and medical equipment during their supply runs.
'Any Vonnegut?' She jumps at the sound of Morgan's voice from the doorway, white-knuckled fingers gripping her cane.
'Yeah.' She gives a grimace. 'But I've read them all half a dozen times. I was thinking Proust – at least that way it's the last thing I'll ever have to read.'
'You could try writing, instead,' he suggests, and she looks down, not wanting him to see her eyes – all the alternatives in the world won't get her back to doing what she really wants to do.
'Maybe,' she says, but it's an empty word, said in lieu of anything else.
Even after almost two years, he's still a profiler. He's close. So close. She misses this closeness. The lying side by side with a crossbow as they take out zombies from a distance. The ridiculously pointless conversations in the car on the way back, as if they're really ever going to see another game of Major League Baseball in their lives. The best she can hope for is watching Morgan slide home, kicking up red dust, and Hotch will argue that it's clearly out, because even though Jack's only twelve, he's a pretty good Catcher, and you really can't take the mother hen instinct out of Hotch.
Maybe they'll even let her take score.
One hand still gripping the cane, she turns to face Morgan, and with no other reason than the fact that it seems like the right thing to do, she leans in and kisses him slowly. He kisses back at first, and his lips are dry, because it's Arizona, and it's winter, and they don't exactly have an overabundance of moisturizer at hand.
'Emily…' he says, his words dulled by her mouth against his. He pulls away. 'Emily,' he says again.
'Please,' she chokes out, and it's only then that she realizes that she's crying. That things are just so. Fucked. Up, and she really, really just needs to let it all go right now.
She feels pathetic.
As though she's begging for sex, which even in her loneliest times before the apocalypse, she had never, ever done.
And then he's holding her tight, and pressing kisses to her hair, and she feels that it's coming from a place of friendship, rather than anything else, because she knows that it's been a long time for him too.
They walk back to the motel, and Emily brushes him off when he tries to let her put an arm around his shoulder. Sex is one thing, but she can damn well walk by herself. Still, when the door clicks shut, she drops the cane and wraps herself around him, trusting that the embrace should suffice to keep her vertical. It's a little awkward though, because it means her arms are still around his waist as he unbuttons her shirt, elbows sticking out. Emily's not wearing a bra, because she's lost enough weight that support isn't so much of a problem anymore, and in any case, most of hers are on the verge of falling apart.
She lets one of her hands creep up his back, settling in the fuzzy growth of hair that hadn't been there two years ago. He still shaves it sometimes, but the beard he usually just trims. His hands cup her breasts, and for a moment she regrets that he's only doing this now, instead of two years ago, when her body was something that someone could have actually given a damn about. Now, she's far too skinny, and her skin is rough, and there are scars everywhere. She feels like a meth addict, holding out for just one more fix.
He doesn't seem to mind.
Her cry is one that's half pain, half surprise as her lowers her onto the bed. He pauses briefly, but she pulls him down by the neck of the shirt and then takes advantage of her hold on the garment and slips it over his head. His knees are on either side of her thighs, and he's not pressing down on her yet, but already she can feel the length of him, throbbing with want. She feels the heat low in her own abdomen, and silently urges him to hurry up. His hands rest at the waistband of her pants, the question lingering in the air. Her fingers grope for the buckle, encouraging him to continue with his endeavor to strip her entirely. He lowers himself down, the moment her pants are off, and she's suddenly totally aware of his weight.
It's not something she's ever really been conscious of during sex; it's usually about the need, the want, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But six months ago, she'd been trapped under a fricking house for nine hours, and that crushing feeling is suddenly the most terrifying fucking thing in the world.
Her breath hitches in her throat, and there are tears in her eyes, and he stops.
'Emily?'
'I can't…' she says, and he starts to move off of her. 'No!' she says, and it's almost a yell. 'It's just…Can I be on top?'
His face relaxes in understanding, because again, even after two years, he's still a profiler.
Can take the agent out of the BAU, but you can't take the BAU out of the agent.
He rolls over so that he's lying face up on the bed, and she moves to straddle his thighs. The pain shoots down her leg, but it's better than the crippling anxiety, and she is not about to stop this now. His hands trail her torso, almost lovingly, but it's not really about love, it's about comfort. The end of the world is a very lonely place to be.
She slides his jeans and boxers down together, holding his erection with both hands. It's long, and it's thick, and she's so fucking tight right now that it's probably going to be good for both of them, if a little painful, but she's already resigned herself to the pain.
She'd resigned herself to the pain forty years ago.
With a long arm, Morgan moves to the nightstand to grab the box of condoms that he'd brought back as a joke, so long ago now, and she's almost a little surprised that it hasn't been opened, because he's Derek freaking Morgan, and even though she knows he hasn't done anything, his name and abstinence don't really seem to go together. She's almost disappointed that they need to use a condom, but she's pretty sure in these circumstances, and at this age, childbirth would probably kill her. Part of her is counting down the days to menopause, because protection issues aside, tampons are really fucking hard to find.
The hot flushes will almost be worth it.
She rolls the condom over his length, and slides her panties down to her thighs. Once upon a time she could have kicked them off with some leg acrobatics, but that's not happening today, so she just leaves them there, and positions herself over him. Her whole body aches as she lowers herself down, and he's filling her – stretching her, and it's painful, but it's so fucking good. She leans down so her breasts are pressed up against his chest, and she takes a moment to just lie there, savoring the warmth that he gives her.
His lips brush against her neck, and then progressively towards her lips, and it's only when he's kissing her, hard, that she starts to move against him. It's still kind of awkward, because she's trying to minimize the movement of her leg, which makes everything lopsided. His hands move to cup her ass, encouraging the slow but forceful thrusts. She wants to go faster, rougher, to replicate that adrenaline that she's been so sorely missing, but doing so would probably result in another hospitalization, so she shelves the idea for another time.
If it ever even happens again.
The tempo does speed up a little as they approach climax, and he moves his hand from her ass to between her legs, and rubs against her clit with his thumb and forefinger, and she's screaming his name. They're not exactly going to be able to hide this one. She doubts they would anyway, considering the people they hang around with.
He sits up slowly, gently lifting her off of him, and she's too exhausted to accuse him of being chauvinistic, and really, she's kind of grateful, too.
She collapses next to him, and is the slightest bit surprised when he spoons her from behind, curling her body into an embrace. The blanket that's lying in a tangle at the bottom of the bed he pulls up over them, because even though they're both still covered with sweat, the heat will be gone soon.
The sun will set, and the nighttime desert chill will set in, and she will remember that it's winter, but she'll be warm, if only from the arms wrapped around her chest.
At least for a little while longer.