Thanks for all the wonderful reviews - you're the best readers a writer could ask for! Seriously.
Big ups to the wonderfully talented Shadpup who gave me the suggestion for this one, and was patient enough to wait for me to post it.
It's tagged to the oh-so-fantastic "Demonology" episode in season 4.
Happy reading (=
"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion to death." – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
"Hey Garcia!" I call as I spy her colourful outfit across the bullpen. "I need a favour."
"Anything you need, good sir. If you divulge your secret pizza sauce recipe to me," she bargains as she walks toward me.
I raise an eyebrow and shoot her an unimpressed look.
"Well it was worth a shot, wasn't it?" she says with a cheeky smile. "What can I do for you, Rossi?"
"I need Emily's home address."
"Uh, but it's- I mean, that's sorta, you know, private."
"And yet you know all of ours."
"Yeah, but I'm supposed to. It's in my job description as gatekeeper of all information."
"Penelope," I warn.
"But sir…"
"I promise you, I have her best interests at heart."
She sighs dramatically. "Okay, but I want it on record that I protested and gave it under duress," she says as she grabs a scrap of paper, scribbles an address down, and hands it over.
"You don't have to look it up?" I ask, a bit surprised.
"For a rumoured ladies' man you sure aren't up on all things female. Of course I know where she lives – we have ladies' nights, duh!"
I shake my head and chuckle lightly. "Of course. Thank you," I say sincerely. I shoot her a grateful smile and turn to leave, but find her hand gripping my arm tightly, preventing me from moving.
"Hey Rossi? Make sure my crime-fighter is okay. I don't like it when my babies are… you know… not okay. Make sure she knows she isn't alone. You make sure she knows we're all here for her. And if she needs anything at all-"
I place my hand over hers and squeeze gently, shooting her a comforting smile and nodding gently. "I will."
"Rossi. Hey," she says as she swings open the door to her apartment. "What's up?"
My eyes sweep over her quickly, noting the lack of put-togetherness that I have come to associate with Emily Prentiss. It's not that she's completely dishevelled, but it seems she hasn't put the same care into her appearance that she usually does. My eyes notice a depth of sadness in her eyes, and I swear I can see evidence of tears, despite her best efforts to box it all away. Considering all that I'd learned about her in the past few days, it doesn't surprise me that she'd give in to her swirling emotions over Matthew, and of course it would be behind closed doors.
Before I can respond to her question, I see her frown and a skeptical expression settles onto her face.
"Aren't you supposed to be working?" she asks.
"Paperwork day," I reply with a shrug.
"Still," she says. "We generally have to actually do the paperwork..."
"I know it's not for another hour or so, but I figured I would offer some company."
She exhales loudly, knowing exactly what I'm referring to. "I'm not going."
My eyes widen slightly in surprise and my expressions shifts to one of confusion. "You're not?"
She shakes her head sadly. "His parents wouldn't appreciate my presence."
I raise an eyebrow in response. It's not like her to particularly care what other people think – this last case was proof enough that if she believed something strongly enough she would go after it, regardless of what others said or thought, even if it meant arguing with her boss and colleagues.
"You met his parents, how do you think it would go over?" she offers in explanation.
"But why do you care?"
She takes a few breaths, and seems to try and settle on an answer in her head before responding, "Because he was their only son. They deserve to bury him in peace."
"And what about you? You were his friend and-"
"I hadn't spoken to him in years, Rossi," she interrupts.
"He was still important to you, Emily. You deserve a chance to say goodbye to him."
"Not after what he went through because of me."
"Emily you don't know-"
"Yes I do!" she says firmly, the emotion she'd been keeping tightly locked up bubbling over. Her eyes widen at her own outburst and she takes a moment to collect herself before continuing. "Everything went downhill for him after that. He started using to escape, and then began questioning the very thing his whole life was built on. We drifted apart, eventually stopped talking altogether, and then went our separate ways when mother got a new assignment. I knew he was going through hell and I didn't do anything to help him. He saved my life, but I didn't do anything to save his," she finishes, regret and sadness in her tone.
Her eyes seem to convey a sea of emotions, and yet appear devoid of life at the same time.
"Did you give him the drugs?"
"Rossi, I know what you're-"
"Did you give him the drugs? I repeat in a stronger tone, ignoring her protest.
"No," she admits grudgingly. "But-"
"Did you tell him to question his faith?" I interrupt once more.
"Rossi, I-"
"Did you force him to ask those questions of his beliefs?"
She glares before answering. "No."
I don't voice it, I don't have to, but the conclusion from the answers to those questions hangs heavily in the silence that follows. But I know she doesn't accept it, so I press on.
"Did you love him?" I ask.
Her eyes grow wide and she blinks several times quickly before squeezing her eyes shut, nodding slowly, and swallowing the lump that was surely lodged in her throat.
"You may not have spoken to him in years, but you can still say goodbye to the boy you loved. He deserves that. You deserve that."
She doesn't respond, and I feel compelled to drive the point home even further. "He was important to you, Emily. You told me he made you feel worthy of love and friendship. He had a big impact on you, and was a big part of your life. You deserve to have a chance to say goodbye to him."
She finally responds, after another moment of careful thought. "Maybe you're right. But I don't need to do it at his funeral."
"Then we'll go after they've finished," I say. "But until then, let's get you back to being the Emily Prentiss I know."
A hearty lunch, cup of coffee, shower and change of clothes later, we're in the car and on the way to the cemetery. As I wind the car through the snow-covered streets, I can see her pick at her nails and bounce her leg – both telltale signs of agitation. Every so often I hear her breathe out heavily as she shakes her head ever so slightly. With anyone else, I'd reach over and grab their hand to offer some comfort, and provide an anchor of sorts, but with Emily I know that's not what she needs right now. Instead, I stay quiet and keep my eyes on the road, giving her as much privacy as our close proximity allows.
I park the car and turn off the ignition, but make no move to exit the vehicle. I turn to face her and I find that her eyes are wide and her gaze is fixed on her hands in her lap, while her leg still bounces. I see her swallow a few times, no doubt to try and banish the emotion threatening to spill and build up the necessary courage to go through with this. After a few minutes, she carefully removes her seatbelt, opens the door, and steps out. I follow suit, slipping off my own seat belt and joining her next to the car.
We stand there for several minutes, her gaze fixed on the ground in front of her and her nervous energy seeping out the cracks of her carefully constructed walls. The snow continues falling gently, covering the already white ground with more layers of flakes.
"I don't know if I can do this," she whispers finally, breaking the silence.
Her admission of weakness gives me the opportunity to give some comfort, and so, keeping my eyes forward, I reach over and grab her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Words aren't needed – everything I would've and could've said was communicated with that gesture.
Another minute passes before I hear her let out a shaky breath and then feel her squeeze my hand slightly. She's ready.
We make our way slowly and carefully, her hand gripping mine tightly. When we finally reach the headstone bearing his name, she drops my hand and steps forward. I make no move to follow – this is her moment now. I watch as she squats down and gently brushes the small bit of snow from the stone before sitting down cross-legged. It's almost as though she's a teenager again, sitting in front of him on a bed, chatting about anything and everything. She reaches her hand out and traces his name with her fingers. It is an intimate gesture, and the few tears that fall to the ground beneath her only serve to confirm this.
I watch as she swipes the tears away and briefly turns her gaze to the grey sky to compose herself once more. It is a few moments before she speaks, but when she does, the words leave her lips so softly I struggle to hear them over the rustling and creaking of the tree branches around us.
"Hey, Matty. It's me, Emmy." I can hear a small smile in her voice.
I hear her breathe a few shaky breaths in and out before she continues. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to say... or if I'm supposed to say anything at all. But...Matty? Thank you."
She pauses, and I can see her walls are completely down, her emotions in plain view for the first time since I've known her. I can't help but think that she's completely unaware that I can hear her conversation. I briefly consider stepping away to give her that privacy, but knowing her streak of feeling she has to shoulder punishments for things she is not responsible for, I stay put.
She lets out a long, shaky exhale before continuing. "You saved my life, in more ways than you ever knew."
I hear her choke back a small sob and breathe out another shaky stream of air. "And I'm sorry that your life unravelled because of my insecurities. I'm sorry I screwed up your life. I- I wish I could have saved you from your demons the same way you saved me from mine. You deserved better from me."
Her voice is barely a whisper, and I can hear cracks of emotion. She sounds far from the confident and strong woman she has become, and instead sounds a lot like the lost 15 year old she described to me.
"I didn't deserve you, but I'm so glad I got you. I know things got a bit nasty after all of it went down, but I never stopped loving you. I really hope you knew that."
She pauses again, this time to stand up. She takes a moment to smooth out her pants and coat, and brush the snow from them before she speaks again.
"I'm so sorry, Matty. I'm- I wish I- I-"
Emotion overcomes her and she is unable to speak as she chokes on the emotion of it all. I step forward quickly and wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly against me. After remaining stiff for just a moment, she relaxes into my embrace and lets herself go. Tears flow freely, and I feel her body shake with small sobs. She's finally letting out the emotion she's held inside for almost 20 years.
"Shh," I whisper. "It's okay. He knows, bella. Trust me, he knows." I rub her back soothingly, and continue holding her tightly. We stay that way until her tears stop and I feel her breathing return to normal. Slowly I release my hold on her, and I watch as she straightens her coat, dusts the little bit of snow off of it once more, and wipes the tears from her face.
"Thank you," she says, as her gaze meets mine.
I smile reassuringly. "Of course, bella."
She turns to face the headstone once more, but stays silent. It's as though she's trying desperately to convey everything else her mind wants to say with just one look, because she knows speech is beyond her right now. She stays frozen to the spot, seemingly unable to move – stuck in some sort of emotional limbo.
Just as I begin to wonder if I should step in, she whispers a soft, tender "goodbye" and turns to face me.
"Come on, I've got some 30-year old Scotch that seems just about right for this occasion," I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. There's still tension in her body, and I can sense emotion is still threatening to spill out of her, but the familiar determination that I associate with her has appeared once more. Maybe, and I certainly hope it is the case, in some very small way, she got some closure.
If you have the chance, I'd love to hear your thoughts and/or impressions on this one. I must have rewritten it a dozen times before I was satisfied with it. Truly maddening, I tell you.
As always, if you have suggestions/ideas for a conversation, let me know. I always love to banter about where to take this story.