Sincere thanks for the reviews on last chapter. Your feedback is always appreciated.
I feel a bit bad jumping right back into the heavy stuff after such a fluffy and fun last chapter, but that's just the way it is. I usually make it a point to avoid any quotes that the show has already used, but this has always been one of my favourites and fits this conversation perfectly.
Shouts to rebelangel444 for the premise of this conversation!
As always, happy reading (=
"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." – Henry Ellis
"We still on for tomorrow morning?" I ask as we make our way off the jet after another long, and draining case.
"What? Oh, right. Uh…yeah. We said meeting here in the gym, right?"
"Yeah, 5:30am."
"Ugh," she groans in response.
I can't help the smirk from forming on my face. "Too early?"
"No, no. It's fine. Just not looking forward to an early morning without coffee," she says with a half-hearted chuckle.
"Without coffee?" I say in confusion, my brow furrowing before I remember her efforts to relax more. "Oh, right. You gave it up to relax more. How's that going?"
"Medically, doc says it's working. Psychologically, I'm not so sure," she quips back quickly. Too quickly to realize her words, I think.
I frown once more, concern twisting in my heart. "Doctor? I thought you were good. We can reschedule this for when you're-"
"No, it's just checkups and whatnot. Nothing major. I'm good, I swear," she says quickly, choosing to ignore my concern. "So, tomorrow, 5:30, here at the gym."
I study her carefully for a moment, my intense scrutiny not lost on her as she shoots me a slightly irritated look. "Morgan! I'm fine. Are you showing up tomorrow morning, or not?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be here."
"Good. See you then."
"So what's on the docket for today?" she asks, throwing her bag onto the bench at the side of the room.
"I figured we'd warm-up a little with some procedural stuff. You know, the stuff we used to be able to do in our sleep. Takedowns, arrests, etc.."
"Used to…" she murmurs, trailing off unsurely.
Shit. We hadn't even started and I'd already shoved my foot into my mouth.
"Prentiss, I didn't mean-"
"It's fine," she says coolly. A little too coolly. If I wasn't careful she'd throw up her walls and that'd be the end of our steady, forward progress.
"Honestly I didn't even think-"
"Morgan. It's fine. I've been away, it makes sense. Let's just get going."
We ran through several different scenarios, each of them proving she could still do this stuff in her sleep. But she humoured me, patiently going through each of them, performing each action flawlessly.
"Okay. Let's step it up a little. A bit of hand-to-hand, best two outta three."
Her eyes twinkle. "What's the winner get?"
I laugh as we fall into our old competitive routines and for a moment it feels like everything with Doyle never happened. "Winner picks the next activity?"
She nods in confirmation and offers a mischievous smile. I return her smile with a quick grin and beckon her forward with my hand. We circle each other for a few moments, each of us sizing up the other. Even if she'd been gone for seven months, I hadn't forgotten her habits, tricks, and quirks, and by the way she was carefully moving and avoiding my advances, she'd clearly not forgotten mine either.
15 minutes later the match is, as is typical for us, level at one win for each of us.
"Next one wins. You ready for this princess?" I taunt, once again falling easily into our old banter and feeling very much like she'd never left.
She opens her mouth to respond but before she can utter a syllable, out of the corner of my eye I see her bag fall from the bench and land on the ground with a loud thud. The next few moments pass in slow motion. I watch as her eyes widen in utter terror and panic crosses her face. She jumps back quickly and whips her head around, clearing the room. Her breathing rate increases significantly, and I can see the adrenaline pumping through her as her hands begin to tremble.
She pulls on a neutral mask quickly, and steps back up to where she was before, readying herself to begin the fight for the final point. She's playing it as if nothing happened. As if I hadn't just seen her react to her bag falling as though Doyle had burst through the door. But knowing how private a person she is, I shrug it off and ready myself for the final point.
Each move is carefully calculated, and also easily countered. We continue for a short while before her concentration slips for just a moment as I hear the faint sounds of a phone vibrating in her bag, and I take my chance.
The next thing I know, she's on the ground, doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach. I watch as her face contorts in pain, and she drops onto her side, curling her body into the fetal position.
"Oh god. Prentiss. What is it? Are you okay?" I ask rapidly, the words tumbling out of my mouth as I kneel down beside her.
"Just… give me… a minute," she gasps out between grunts of pain.
Shit. It didn't even occur to me that she might not have recovered fully from her injuries. I curse inwardly and feel a strong urge to smack myself upside the head. Of course she hasn't recovered fully – she basically said as much yesterday with her comments about the doctor. I regard her with what surely must be a completely panic-stricken expression. I'm once again rendered helpless as she lies on the ground in pain. The memories of those moments in the warehouse flash brightly in my mind's eye. I feel my breathing speed up, and my chest tighten as I try desperately to convince myself she's here, and not living her last moments.
Eventually her breathing slows and she tentatively uncurls her body. At a loss for what to do, I offer a hand to help her sit up, and unsurprisingly she swats it away, electing to get up of her own volition.
"I guess this means you win," she says wryly, hints of breathlessness still evident in her speech.
"I am so sorry, Emily. I honestly didn't think-"
"Don't," she says forcefully.
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"Don't make excuses for me. I'm an FBI agent, this sort of thing is exactly what might happen in the field." She's right – and yet for some reason, it doesn't bother me or worry me at all.
"But I should have-"
"Should have nothing, Morgan. Now help me up and we'll tackle the next activity, which you get to choose, as per our agreement."
"We can do it another-"
"Morgan," she warns, her tone leaving no room for any argument.
"Okay, okay," I say, throwing my hands up in surrender. "Let's hit the park for a run."
"Ugh. Okay. Let's go. You drive."
We'd chosen one of our old routes for our run and had started just as we used to. We fell into a comfortable step beside each other, her legs rushing a bit to keep pace with my longer strides, just as it had always been. She fell a bit behind eventually, and I thought little of it – she'd fallen behind before and had caught up quickly with a short burst of acceleration. But suddenly I realize her footsteps aren't echoing mine anymore and I stop, my heart leaping into my throat. I whip my head around and call out her name, hoping she had just fallen a bit behind, but I hear nothing in response. My heart speeds up as an all too familiar panic sets in. It's the same panic that had consumed me when I turned that corner and saw her on the ground in that warehouse. It's the same panic that woke me up from my dreams and nightmares in a cold sweat, with my breathing far from normal. It's the same panic that had set in when she had collapsed earlier in the gym.
"PRENTISS!" I yell loudly as I run back in the direction that I'd come from. Still nothing. "EMILY? EMILY!"
Just when the beginnings of despair start to set in I hear her quiet voice in the distance. "Over here."
I sprint in the direction of her voice, finding her sitting on a tree stump a little ways from the trail, one hand on her knee, the other at her stomach. I breathe a sigh of relief and step beside her, putting my hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"
"Fine," she says quickly. I know she's not. I sit down on a fallen tree beside her and grab a small stone, turning it over in my hands several times before launching it into the air. We both watch as it lands with a small splash in the small body of water in front of us. I'm momentarily captivated by the ripples shooting outward on the otherwise calm surface.
"I'm sorry," she says after a little while. I'm honestly not sure whether she's talking about the run or something bigger.
"For what?" I ask softly, picking up another stone and rubbing its smooth surface with my thumb.
"For not telling you I wasn't okay." Again, I'm not sure if she's talking about today and now, or those days and weeks leading up to her fight with Doyle.
I launch the stone toward the water and watch as it breaks the surface, sending another batch of ripples outward. Neither of us can seem to find any words, and so we settle into another silence.
"How much of that night do you remember?" I ask suddenly, my head turning to face her.
I see her eyes shut momentarily as she breathes in deeply. "Not everything. Some parts are fuzzy, but others I remember clearly," she replies slowly and opens her eyes. "It's bits and pieces, you know?" She keeps her eyes forward, refusing to meet my gaze. She picks up a stone and rubs the mud off of it, focusing all her attention on her new task. When she finishes, she throws it toward the water, both our gazes fixed on it as it skips several times before sinking beneath the surface.
"Why?" she asks tentatively, as though she's afraid of what she might hear. Her tone is apologetic, and I wonder if she knows what I'm getting at.
I shrug. "Just wondering, I guess," I say lamely. We both know curiosity wasn't what prompted that question. She shoots me a questioning glance, and our gazes finally meet.
"Can I ask you something?" I ask, despite that I'd just finished asking her a question. I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands together. Our gazes lock once more as she nods. "Why did you ask me to let you go?"
Her gaze immediately swings to her hands which are busy picking at her fingernails as she shakes her head. "Derek, I-" she stops abruptly, clearly unsure of what to say. She finally settles on, "I'm sorry."
I place a hand on her knee and squeeze gently. Her head turns quickly at the pressure and focuses on my hand. "I know you are, Em. But I gotta know why." My tone gives away how much it matters to me. I absently wonder if she's ever thought about why she asked that of me.
"I-" she begins, but falters again and drops her gaze to her hands once more. She takes a few breaths and looks out over the water before attempting to explain. "I was ready to die."
I try desperately to keep the shock from registering on my face, but my efforts are in vain as I feel it creep onto my features. My eyes widen and my throat constricts as the realization washes over me. I'd known it was bad, but when she walked back into our lives I assumed she'd fought like hell the whole time, in typical Emily Prentiss fashion. I'd assumed that dying, in her books, was just something she wasn't willing to accept.
If she notices my expression, she doesn't react or comment. "And honestly? I wanted to," she continues with a thoughtful but sad expression on her face.
A gasp catches in my throat. If her words before had shocked me, these ones terrified me. How had she been so willing to accept death? Why was it something she wanted? And I think that question's answer is what scares me the most. Things had been so bad for her that ceasing to exist, even for the perpetually stubborn Emily Prentiss, seemed like the best option.
Even as she'd realized we were there – that I was there – she still felt that dying was her best option. It scared me that in that moment we weren't enough for her – that I wasn't enough for her. She'd said before that we were her family, and that she was closer to us than anyone else in her life. So the fact that she was willing to let go of it all means she must have been in a whole other world of pain.
"I felt like I was floating in and out of reality, and I was sure that I was dead. I didn't believe it when I heard you say my name. I thought it was my mind fabricating something comforting for me in my last moments. And then you started talking to me, and you squeezed my hand and I realized you were real, and that I'd been given a chance to make you understand. I asked you to let me go because I couldn't fight anymore. I didn't want you to hold onto me anymore."
Anger and frustration flare inside of me. How could she be so willing to ask me to let go of her when I'd fought so hard to hold on? How could she ask me to fall short of what I'd promised to do?
She must have seen the anger in my eyes because her body recoils and she shudders as she inhales and exhales while she tries to explain. "I had given up, and I needed you to let me do that. I needed you to understand that I wanted to let go."
"How could you think I'd let you go, Emily? You were my partner and my friend for five years. I put my life in your hands; I trusted you. You couldn't honestly have thought that I'd be willing to just ignore all of that and let you go."
"Derek I-" she starts, her tone still sad and apologetic.
"No, Emily. You don't understand what those words did to me," I spit back a little more harshly than I intended.
The pain and guilt in her eyes sends daggers straight to my heart. I see a lone tear make its way down her face. She swipes it away quickly and stands, moving toward the edge of the water, wrapping her arms around herself.
My gaze softens as I realize how deeply this affected her. Of course I knew all of it had impacted her, but to some extent and on some level I was completely focused on how it all made me feel. I can almost feel the stinging sensation on the back of my head from the smack my mother would've no doubt given me if she'd known that's how I was thinking.
"I couldn't- I just can't understand how you could ask that of me. How could you ask me to fail you?"
"Derek, I-" she begins, but chokes on a sob and brings her hands to her face. "I was so tired. I couldn't do it anymore. I felt like I was slipping away, and I wanted to make sure that you wouldn't try to hold me here when all I wanted to do was disappear into that darkness. And I didn't want you to feel guilty because I was weak."
"Emily, you're the strongest person I've ever met," I reply in disbelief.
She shakes her head fervently.
"Yes, you are," I insist, standing up and stepping behind her. I spin her around quickly, wrap my arms around her, and hold her tightly. She struggles against my hold, trying to push me away, but I hold on and refuse to let go.
I glance down to find silent tears running down her face and am shocked by the emotion she's showing. I'd seen a glimpse of the swirling emotions on that night in my office a week or so ago, but this is uncharacteristic. It doesn't fit with the image of Emily Prentiss that I have. She's strong, and independent, and compartmentalizes everything, never showing an ounce of excess emotion. And yet here I stand, with her trying desperately to hold back sobs, hot tears falling from her eyes, and her body feeling decidedly shattered.
It occurs to me though – she spent seven months hiding from a very dangerous criminal, with no access to the only people she cares about. Her nerves must be completely fried, and all that time alone must have allowed her countless hours to swim in her regret and guilt. She lost everything that night – her family, her life, her hopes, her dreams. Hell, she lost herself. It's no wonder this emotion is spilling out. It's been building steadily for seven months, with no outlet for escape.
"Emily, you gotta know how much you mean to me. I… I couldn't just let you go. Not when there was still something to fight for."
"I'm sorry." I squeeze her that much tighter, hoping to convey my support. "But I held on for you," she adds quietly.
"What?" I ask in surprise, pulling slightly out of the embrace to meet her gaze.
"You asked me to stay with you, and to squeeze your hand. Even if I wanted to let go, something in your voice told me I shouldn't, so I fought like hell to stay with you and squeeze your hand, even if it was next to impossible. And when you acknowledged that you could feel me squeezing your hand, I knew I was still real. I knew that I could still hold on, and that I had to hold on."
"You did good Princess," I say, as though I were comforting a child. I pull her close once more and rub her back in an effort to bring her some comfort.
"In that moment I knew I didn't want to slip away anymore. I knew I wanted to hold on and stay here. With you."
"I know, Em. I know."
I hold her for a few minutes more before we break apart finally. When we break the embrace I see just how exhausted she is. Combined with the physical workout that morning, this emotional discussion has drained her completely.
"C'mon, Em. I'll take you home," I say, guessing that she wants time to recover, and wanting to give her some relief.
She smiles and wipes away the last few tears from her face. "Thank you," she says with a serious look on her face. "For forcing me to hold on, and for not letting go of me. For keeping me here."
"Always," I reply without missing a beat.
If you've the opportunity, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your reviews always bring a smile to my face! And of course, suggestions are always welcomed for future conversations.