Many thanks to those who read and reviewed the last chapter. Your words of encouragement really do spur me on in my writing. Here is the next chapter, tagged to the wonderful 'Minimal Loss' episode. I do hope I did it justice.

As always, if you so feel inclined, please leave some words in the form of a review. Happy reading. =)

"Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do." - Voltaire

I'm sitting across from her, my eyes focused on the piece of floor between my feet. I hear footsteps and I glance up to find Cyrus walking purposefully toward us. His attempt at a calm, neutral expression is in vain – I can see the frustration plainly displayed.

"Which one of you is it?" he says with an even voice, looking first at Emily, then back at me.

She makes no attempt to answer his question, nor do I. At this point I'm not sure either of us is entirely sure what he's asking about. He keeps walking, and turns around once he has made it past us. I stay perfectly still, but Emily pulls her hands from their resting place on her knees when he pulls out a gun.

"Which one of you is the FBI agent?" he asks, with irritation evident in his tone and his gaze focused on the floor between us.

Her look of shock is quickly masked by an expression of confusion, far too quick for Cyrus to have noticed thankfully. The fact that he has knowledge of an FBI agent's presence is worrying, but it's a situation that we need to diffuse quickly. His expression and mannerisms present a clear agitation which, when paired with the presence of the loaded gun, and us as a stressor certainly can't end well.

"Why do you think one of us is an FBI agent?" I ask, chancing a quick glance at Emily. Her eyes dart between Cyrus, the gun and me, no doubt assessing our situation.

"God will forgive me for what I must do," he says as he points the gun at my head. Clearly he's not buying our attempts at misdirection.

I see Emily's eyes widen, and her mouth open as she inhales in panic.

"I don't- I don't know what you're talking about."

I can't help the stutter. Something about having a gun pointed at me managed to throw a curveball into my thought process. My stutter certainly all but paints a picture for him, no doubt identifying me as the FBI agent. I can feel Emily's eyes on me again, and I sneak a glance at her. While her eyes reveal the panic that had arisen moments ago, they also have a touch of something else in them.

"One of you does," he says, clearly not recognizing my giveaway, or not believing it, or maybe just desiring to hear a confession from one of us. "Who is it?"

His tone is impatient, and I am beginning to doubt his calm facade again. I assess the probabilities - there is a very real possibility that he will shoot me.

I meet Emily's gaze once more, and that look of something else in her eyes has grown. I recognize it as concern and pity too late, and before I can do anything she is uttering the word that will condemn her to be entirely at Cyrus' mercy and render me helpless to stop it.

"Me."

Her tone is almost unsure, the word tumbling out of her mouth entirely too quickly for her mind to really register it, I think.

Her expression hardens, and her tone is stronger this time, portraying the confidence I have come to associate with her, "It's me."

In my split-second of indecision, she had chosen to take the fall. My eyebrows raise quickly in question. Not exactly the strategy of dealing with this situation that I had in mind. Her gaze lowers to the floor, her lips pressing together in acceptance of what she had just admitted. He lowers the gun, and I see her meet my gaze for the briefest of seconds. I shoot her a look of, 'what are you doing?!' but she averts her eyes away immediately.

I mask my expression with one of confusion and surprise as Cyrus glances at me. He returns his attention to Emily as he stows his gun. Suddenly he grabs her hair forcefully and yanks her from the bench.

I hear her whimpers and groans of pain as he drags her out of the room, and I can't help but look at her with guilt and concern. The presence of another gun pointed at me stops me from attempting to help her. For a moment our eyes meet, but her expression is unreadable.

My mind begins racing, trying to figure out how Cyrus found out we were there, how we were going to get out, and most predominantly, what Cyrus was going to do to Emily. The strangled noises of pain grew softer as Cyrus dragged her further away, and were almost silenced entirely with the slam of a door.

Despite the distance he had dragged her, I could hear Cyrus' muffled voice, "I told you not to put me in this position!"

What followed his angered yell are sounds that I will likely never be able to forget. Cries of pain, the sickening sound of feet and fists connecting with her body, and the high-pitched shattering of glass.

He is speaking to her again, but I can't make out the words, my mind is still focused on the sounds of him torturing her. I feel a dull thud as something, or someone, connects with the wall that separates us.

I try desperately to tune out the sounds and focus on engineering an escape out of this predicament, but my efforts are futile at best. Several more moments of pained cries and crashing pass before I hear her voice for the first time.

"I can take it."

Her voice is steady, despite the situation and her likely weakened state. Her efforts to communicate to the team while she is experiencing what has to be a significant amount of pain only serves to strengthen my belief in her abilities as an agent.

She continues to repeat her statement, which only antagonizes Cyrus further, sending his rage spiralling out of control. The violence that follows is audible. I can hear his fists connecting with her body, and her pained inhalations of breath.

He utters something that I can't quite make out, and delivers the final blow of his beating. When I don't hear her after, the lump in my throat grows larger. He hadn't actually killed her, had he? I quickly run over his profile in my head, and realize in all likelihood he hadn't. But there was always that chance. And that chance, no matter how small it might be, was what had my legs feeling unable to support to weight as I was swiftly escorted away.

When she is roughly thrown into the room, I notice the extent of the damage immediately. Bruising covers most of her face, with the area around her left eye beginning to swell. There are cuts distributed on her face, neck and arms. Blood stains the front of her shirt, likely from her nose and lip which both show evidence of having recently been bleeding. Deep, angry cuts adorn her forearms, staining her pale skin red. Her hair, normally perfectly styled, is tangled and in disarray.

She glances at Cyrus' form at the front of the room as he reads off names and whispers her assessment to me, "He looks pissed."

My mind doesn't process her words. I can't tear my eyes away from her. From the damage he'd done. From the damage I should have endured – not her. She must feel my stare, because she turns her attention away from Cyrus and back to me.

In typical Emily fashion she vastly downplays the extent of her injuries, breathing a whisper to me, "It's not as bad as it looks."

My mind goes blank, and I can't think of anything to say other than, "I'm so sorry."

She immediately shakes her head, trying to reassure me. She focuses on Cyrus once more and brings my attention to who he is releasing. Determination and a desire to get us out of here, and get her away from him settle into my mind. I quickly tell her I'd get word to the team and that she should wait for a sign from outside about the surely impending raid.

I walk over to Cyrus, and beginning my manipulation strategy tell him, "I told her she shouldn't have lied to you like that."

"To either of us," he drawls in response and orders her to be taken back.

Emily's eyes narrow at my out-of-earshot conversation with Cyrus, but she isn't able to react in any other way, for she is grabbed roughly and pulled out of the room once more.

The explosion rocks through the air, and I feel dust and smoke filling my lungs. I stumble through the debris of the building, Morgan helping guide me past the rubble and burning wreckage.

I look up and see her standing in front of Hotch, looking decidedly worried as she scans the scene. Her eyes finally find us and she brings her hands to her face in relief. She walks slowly forward to meet us, and throws her arms around me a tight hug. We break the embrace, and stand beside each other, her arm around my waist, almost to make sure I'm really here. I smile and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to me, careful not to aggravate any injuries she may have sustained.

One heated debate over whether a hospital visit was necessary, and an actual visit to the hospital later, we find ourselves sitting on the jet, flying back to Quantico. My mind is still reeling from the events of the day, and I seek refuge in one of the books I carry with me in my go-bag.

She drops gently into the seat across from me, her movements slow and stiff. She flashes a smile at me, "Hey."

"Hey," I reply. I'm not one for conversations much like the one I think is about to happen. I tend to prefer burying my head in books and avoiding them. But Emily Prentiss is a determined and stubborn woman. I shift my attention from her back to my book, but she shifts forward on her seat and leans in closer to me. Her hands reach for mine, and gently pull the book down.

My gaze wanders over her now more bruised face. Various shades of green, yellow, purple, black and blue adorn her pale face, and her left eye is swollen likely impairing her vision. Her expression reflects a great deal of compassion and love. Her tone as she begins speaking is steady, but full of determination, and tinged with emotion.

"Hey, I need you to listen to me."

I'm not sure any conversation in history has ever gone well when it has started with that line. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, but don't avert my eyes from hers.

"What Cyrus did to me is not your fault."

She emphasizes "not your fault" with her tone, and I move my gaze from her to anything but. The chair, the window, the floor, the book, my hands. Anything and everything but her. The guilt is eating at me, has been since the moment she'd told him it was her that was the FBI agent. I can't figure out how I am supposed to not feel guilty about what she'd done. She'd sacrificed herself for me – probably to save me from enduring another episode of torture. My eyes flit back and forth between the empty spaces on the table on either side of our hands, still avoiding her gaze.

"It was my decision and I would do it again," she continues.

At this my eyes are drawn up from the table. I can feel the guilt still simmering, but her tone and eyes are doing a good job of convincing me otherwise. Her expression is one of worry, and she tilts her head slightly as she asks, "Do you hear me?"

The tone of her voice and look in her eyes are pleading with me to understand. I keep eye contact and shift my expression in reply.

"Thank you," it comes out almost in a whisper. Her gaze shifts to her hands which hold my own, and she squeezes them gently. She gives me a small smile which I return. She draws her hands back to her lap and leans back against the seat. I tilt my book back up but can't help but shoot her another smile. She returns it widely before closing her eyes and hopefully slipping into a peaceful sleep.

I take in her resting form one last time before diving back into my book. We really are lucky she made her way into the BAU. The team gained a competent profiler and agent, and another piece of our puzzle; I gained a friend, confidant, and the closest thing I think I'll ever have to an older sister.

If you have the time and are willing, I would so appreciate a review. :)