Your support and ongoing feedback is, of course, appreciated.
This one is a fair bit longer than any of my previous chapters, just so you know. And fair warning: there's some strong language in it.
Happy reading =)
"Spiteful words can hurt your feelings but silence breaks your heart." – C.S. Lewis
I let out a long exhale after throwing the car into park and turning off the ignition. I close my eyes and rub them in a futile effort to banish the haunting images from the case. Every case seems to be the same – innocent lives taken for reasons passing understanding, and unsubs stretching our levels of patience ever further. With another sigh I grab my ready-bag and head toward the house, making sure to lock the car. I unlock the front door, step into the house and kick off my shoes, closing and locking the door behind me.
I climb the stairs and drop my ready-bag just inside the laundry room, then make my way to our bedroom at the back of the house. I smile as I see her curled up on the bed, her nose in a book and an expression of deep concentration on her face. I hold back a chuckle when I realize she hasn't noticed my presence. Typical Emily.
"Hey you," I say, leaning in to press a quick kiss to her forehead. Finally her concentration breaks as she glances up from her book and smiles before pulling me in for a deep kiss, conveying just how much she missed me this past week.
"Hi," she whispers after reluctantly ending the kiss.
"Miss me?" I tease, a small smirk appearing on my face.
"Shut up, you," she says and smacks my arm lightly with her book before grabbing my shirt and pulling me closer for another kiss.
"Well I missed you," I say after we break apart again.
"Mm. I missed you too," she replies, setting her book down on the bedside table. "How was the case?"
I grimace slightly.
"That bad?"
I rub my hand on the back of my neck and nod my head slightly. "Did you see the file?"
She shakes her head quickly. "No, I was consulting with Cooper's team - they had a case with ties to Ukraine and Russia and needed someone familiar with the languages to watch the interviews. And then I had to give exams in two of my classes."
"He was-"
"Shh, it's okay. We don't have to talk about it. Come here," she says, interrupting my explanation and patting the space next to her on the bed. With a half-hearted smile I stretch out beside her and lean back onto the soft pillows. She immediately curls up next to me and rests her head on my chest, allowing me to benefit from the affection and intimacy that was once such a foreign concept to her. I wrap my arms around her tightly and take comfort in her very presence, letting the nightmares of the last week slip away bit by bit.
"Thanks. I needed this," I say finally, giving her a quick kiss.
"I know. Now go shower. You smell like airplane," she says while wrinkling her nose and giving me a shove off the bed.
I shake my head and laugh as I make my way into the bathroom. "Yes ma'am."
A couple hours later, after showering and eating some leftovers, we're happily ensconced together on the couch, some soft jazz playing in the background as we each sip a glass of red wine. I hear a deep sigh of contentment and glance down to find her eyes closed and a relaxed expression on her face as she leans back against my chest. I'm struck by how beautiful she looks and feel a surge of pride that I'm partially the cause of her happiness and relaxation.
As much as I'd like to claim that her happiness is solely a result of our relationship, I know that her departure from the BAU was probably a more significant factor. As tough a decision as it had been for her, now more than ever I'm certain she made the right one. It's been about a year and a half since she transferred out, and while the first little while after had been hard for her and for the team, ultimately she's much happier as a result of her change in occupation.
She must feel my gaze on her, because her eyes open slowly and she frowns slightly as she tilts her head up to meet my gaze. "What?"
"Nothin'," I reply with a small shake of my head and a smile.
"No, you're looking at me funny. What is it?"
"Just thinkin' how lucky I am to have somehow convinced you to marry me and spend the rest of your life with me."
"You're sweet," she says with a smile. "Full of shit, but sweet."
I frown at her words.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. That's not what you were thinking and you know it."
"And so do you, apparently," I mutter.
"C'mon, what had you looking at me funny?"
"I was just noticing how relaxed you were."
"Oh," she says softly. "Why didn't you just say so?"
"Because I can't pass up an opportunity to tell you how unbelievably happy I am you agreed to marry me?" I say light-heartedly as I play with the wedding band that has now been on her finger for almost four months.
She groans. "Do you ever turn off the charm?"
"It's just a part of the Derek Morgan experience," I say with a grin.
"Shut up now. Please. You're ruining the moment," she says, closing her eyes once more and leaning back onto my chest.
We settle into a comfortable silence, letting the melodies of the soft jazz fill the room. A thought that has been rattling around my brain these past few weeks comes again to the front. "We should have kids," I say, breaking the silence.
Her eyes fly open revealing slight panic. "What?"
"We should have kids," I repeat, my tone somewhat apprehensive now given her reaction. You'd think I would have learned not to spook her after all the years I've known her, and yet...
"Where the hell did that come from?" she asks, putting down her glass on the table and sitting up straight.
"I just- I've been thinking about it and I just thought that maybe we could consider it."
She stays silent but her gaze is piercing.
"You don't think we should?" I say finally, responding to her silence.
She stands up and crosses her arms as she takes a few steps away from me. I frown at her actions – it doesn't take a profiler to see she's far from comfortable with the idea.
"We never talked about it for real," she finally says, turning around to face me again.
"That's not an answer."
"I mean it. We've never talked about it seriously."
"We have so talked about it," I say, recalling a conversation shortly after Henry was born.
"Not when we were a couple, and definitely not seriously."
"So let's talk about it now. Do you want kids?" I ask bluntly.
"That's not fair."
"What isn't?"
"Springing this on me. You've had all the time in the world to think about it. I haven't had that time to process it."
"Bullshit. We've talked about it before so I know you've thought about it," I reply quickly, my voice becoming low.
"And I told you then it wasn't something I had to do to feel I'd led a complete life."
"And yet you just about melted into a puddle when you first held Henry as a baby. Not to mention you absolutely love him and Jack to bits. I see your expression when they hug you, or scramble to their feet to see their Auntie Em. They absolutely adore you, and you'd do anything for them."
"Doesn't mean I should have one of my own."
I exhale in annoyance. She's skirting around giving a definitive answer, but I'll make the assumption anyway. "Why don't you want kids?" I ask, with a hint of exasperation.
"Don't do that," she says, frustration seeping into her tone.
"Do what?"
"Make me the bad guy."
"I'm not," I say defensively as I rise to my feet.
"You're doing it right now. You're talking to me as though I need to be fixed, or need to be convinced of some truth."
"I am not!" I say, raising my voice. I hear Clooney whine from the chair across the room where he's curled up. He's always hated confrontation.
She fixes me with an angry glare before grabbing her glass and walking toward the kitchen quickly. I turn quickly to follow and grab her arm to stop her. "Emily, don't walk aw-"
"Let go of me," she says forcefully, pulling her arm out of my grasp and continuing toward the kitchen.
"Em, come on. You're just scared," I say, following her closely.
She whirls around at my words, a fire in her eyes and her body assuming a defensive stance. "You're damn right I'm scared. Look at what we do for a living. Think about all the creeps and killers we've chased over the years, and all the ones that got away."
"You're going to let the job stop you from living your life?"
"I am living my life, Derek, in case you hadn't noticed. No one ever said having children was the be all and end all to living life."
"I didn't say it was-"
"I would beg to differ there," she interrupts. "You just about said as much."
"You're putting words in my mouth."
She sighs and rubs her temple with her free hand before turning and walking into the kitchen. I hear the faucet turn on and I move to follow her. I find her at the sink, washing the last drops of wine from her glass. She dries the glass and places it back in the cupboard before turning around to face me.
"Derek, do you really think it's fair to bring a child into our world given everything in our pasts?"
"Are you saying I wouldn't make a good father?" I accuse quickly, my temper jumping ahead of my rationality.
"Talk about putting words in someone's mouth. God, Derek. Do you honestly think that little of me?"
"No, Em I-"
"I can't believe that you would even think that I'd consider that. I know you're a good guy, and I've told you many times that you'd make a great father."
"Just not for your baby," I say bitterly.
"FUCK, DEREK! IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU!" she yells in frustration, slamming her fists onto the countertop of the island between us. I hear Clooney whimper again from the other room.
At her words realization washes over me. "Doyle's dead, Emily," I say evenly while fixing her with a meaningful stare.
"You think I don't know that, Derek? I was there when he died. He bled out right in front of me. I cleaned his blood off of Declan," she spits back before walking briskly back toward the couch.
I turn and follow her with my eyes. "Then what's the issue? He's dead. He can't hurt you, or me, or any child we might have."
"It's not that simple," she says with an exhale, grabbing my wine glass that had been long forgotten thanks to our argument.
"I really think it is," I argue, shooting her a pointed glare.
"Doyle's not the only thing in my past," she says firmly, her eyes meeting my gaze for a moment before she returns to the kitchen and begins washing my glass.
My eyes widen. I'd thought we were past all the secrets and lying. Memories of the overwhelming hurt and confusion that followed her return from her supposed death begin to surface. "What the hell does that mean?" I ask angrily, my voice raising. I see Clooney jump up and run toward the back door, scurrying through the doggy door and fleeing from the tension in the room.
For a fraction of a second I see sadness and guilt in her eyes, but it is replaced quickly with the calm mask she slips on. "It means that Doyle wasn't the only terrorist my old team dealt with."
"And you couldn't have told me this before we got married?!" I ask my eyes still wide, and my tone still accusing.
"I thought you knew," she says quietly, a stark contrast to her previous loud and angry tone. "I figured when you found out about my past with Doyle, you'd have dug into the rest of my past as well." I watch as her mask slips momentarily and I see hurt flash through her eyes quickly. She finishes drying the glass and places it in the cupboard. "Would it have changed your mind?" she asks softly, turning around to face me. Her eyes are full of questions and apprehension.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. Instead I'm left standing there in a painful silence. With every second of silence that passes, I can see the hurt build in her eyes, and I can almost feel her heart breaking. When I don't respond she presses her lips together tightly and closes her eyes to stem the flow of tears I can see threatening to fall.
"I- I'm gonna take Clooney for a walk," I finally manage to say. With one last look at her broken expression I turn and walk toward the backyard where Clooney had fled from the yelling and arguing. In the back of my mind, buried beneath layers upon layers of hot-headed reactions and my flaring temper, there is a niggling thought that will not completely quiet. It takes the form of my father's voice, and in the gentle tone that was reserved for the moments when he was disappointed, I hear him suggest that in my entire life I've never been such a coward.
A little while later, I return to the house with a very tired Clooney. Just a few steps inside the house he collapses, clearly unwilling to exert any more effort. "Clooney, c'mon buddy, grab some water," I say, gesturing to the kitchen where his water dish is. I sigh and shake my head when he makes no effort to move. At all. Admittedly, bulldogs aren't exactly built for long, slightly furiously-paced walks and so in a moment of pity for him, I walk to the kitchen and grab his water dish, return to his collapsed form and place it beside him. I lock the front door, hang up his leash and give him a quick scratch behind the ears. I glance at my watch and check the time. 12:07am. Shit. I hadn't realized just how long I was gone.
I grab a blanket and settle onto the couch – my bed for the night because I'm pretty sure Emily doesn't want to see me. As soon as I'm comfortable – or at least as comfortable as I could be on the couch – I hear a low growl from Clooney. "Clooney, man. Shut it. I'm trying to sleep."
He growls again as he gets up and slowly walks toward me. It's funny how he had collapsed in exhaustion when we got home but now all of a sudden he's a regular ball of energy. When he reaches the couch he grabs a corner of the blanket hanging off the couch and pulls.
"What the hell, Clooney?! Quit it," I say, sitting up and pulling back on the blanket. But Clooney's strong jaw wins out in the end and he pulls the blanket right off of me and drops it on the floor. He moves toward me and forcefully nudges my leg. "What?" I ask, exasperated by his erratic behaviour.
He looks pointedly at me, and then walks purposefully to the stairs and sits at the bottom, splitting his gaze between me and the top of the stairs.
"No, Clooney, I'm sleeping down here tonight," I try to explain, briefly thinking how fruitless my efforts at explanation are – he is a dog, after all.
He whines loudly this time, looking pointedly up the stairs.
"Well go on then," I say, frustrated with his antics. "Go on upstairs."
He trots over to me and sits down, nudges my leg once more and barks loudly.
"Clooney, c'mon man. Quiet."
He begins to whine and cry miserably, once again looking back and forth between me and the stairs. I sigh loudly and get up, gesturing for him to follow as I make my way up the stairs. When we reach the top, he begins nudging my leg again, this time directing me toward the master bedroom. My frustration with him fades as I realize his intentions.
"Okay buddy. I get it," I say softly, squatting down to scratch him behind the ears. "I'm gonna try to fix this." He seems to accept my answer and flops down in front of our door, fixing me with a startlingly piercing look that seems to say "don't screw this up".
I gently push the door open and see her curled up on my side of the bed, her arms wrapped around one of my pillows and her head resting on it. I can tell she's awake from the soft, intermittent sniffles that I hear.
"Hey," I say in a soft voice, cringing as her body tenses slightly at my voice. I walk slowly over to the bed and make my way around it. As I round the corner, her face comes into view and I feel my heart drop into my stomach. I did this to her. I made her feel this way. My father's words echo in my head, and I can't help but feel that I've let him down again. At this thought I hear his voice again, this time scolding me that I've let Emily down far more than him.
"Em, I'm so sorry," I say reaching toward her. She simultaneously shifts away from my hand and releases her hold on my pillow before sliding over to her own side of the bed.
"Em, c'mon. I'm sorry. Please, let's fix this," I plead.
She mumbles something that I can't quite make out. "What?" I ask.
"You walked away," she repeats as she sits up.
"I didn't wanna-"
"No," she says forcefully, interrupting my weak attempt at an excuse. "You fucking walked away, Derek. What am I supposed to think of that?"
"That I'm an idiot," I say plainly. I watch as a half-hearted chuckle quickly turns to choked back sobs and she brings her hands to cover first just her mouth and then her whole face. "Oh god, Em. Please don't cry. Not over me. I'm not worth it," I say quickly, watching as she furiously wipes away her tears.
"Do you trust me?" she asks after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper, and her eyes red from her tears. And it's those tears which are uncharacteristic for her, even if her tough exterior had softened significantly, that let me know I really screwed up this time.
"Of course I do," I say softly as I make my way back around to the other side of the bed.
She pauses for a moment, her dark brown eyes scanning my face. "Do you love me?" she asks in a quiet voice. It still boggles my mind that she can't wrap her head around the fact that I'm madly in love with her and always will be. Even after almost a year and a half together she seems to hold onto this sliver of "maybe he'll come to his senses and up and leave" rather than accepting that I'm in it for the long haul.
"More than anything," I reply without hesitation, reaching out a hand to gently brush a stray tear away. Sensing where her line of questioning was going I pre-emptively answer her next question. "And it wouldn't have changed my mind. I'd still have married you. I love you so much, Emily."
I sit down beside her and wrap my arm around her, pulling her to me tightly.
"You can't just walk away, Derek," she says pointedly.
"I know, Em. It was stupid. I just really didn't want to say anything else I was gonna regret. I don't want to lose you."
"But you want kids."
"Yeah, but not more than I want you," I say sincerely, pressing a kiss to her forehead. I take a chance that my profiling earlier wasn't wrong and add another thought, "Besides, I'm still not convinced that you don't want kids."
She stays silent as she stares at the wall, her eyes flashing with regret and guilt. I frown and try to work out what it is she'd feel guilty over. The most obvious would be Declan, but she gave him his life back and her relationship with him since Doyle's death has been nothing short of wonderful and rewarding for them both. I don't think it's about the kids we saw on our cases at the BAU – she wouldn't hold it so close to her chest if it was. It might be about her own childhood and not wanting to turn into her mother, but she's been steadily mending that relationship, and they've reached a level of understanding about it all.
I pull my arm away and gently turn her head so her gaze meets mine. "What is it, Em?" I ask softly, completely at a loss as to what it was causing her guilt.
"I..." she begins as she drops her gaze to her hands in her lap, but falters as she tries to find the words – or maybe the courage – to explain. "I don't think I deserve to have kids."
First my eyes widen, and then my brow furrows in confusion. This can't be another manifestation of her insecurities about being loved, can it? "Why?"
She hesitates to answer, instead biting her lip lightly. "Em..." I gently prompt, stroking her cheek with my thumb.
"I had an abortion when I was 15," she reveals. Suddenly all her apprehension and guilt makes sense. My gaze softens and I swipe away a lone tear. "I just don't see how I can justify one life over another," she continues. "How is it fair to have ended that child's life, and yet want to have another one now?"
I pause for a moment while considering how to respond. Questions swirl in my mind begging to be asked, but I know the last thing she needs right now is to be interrogated about her past. Instead, my mind reasons she needs to reassured that she's loved, and is capable of giving love. "Emily, believe me when I tell you that not only do you deserve to have kids, but those kids deserve to have you as their mother," I say sincerely.
She glances up at me, her eyes impossibly wide and swimming with emotion. "But Derek, I-"
"Emily, you were 15. You did what you thought was right, and that's all you can do," I say, echoing the words she'd told me while I was dealing with my own guilt after she'd been shot a few months before her transfer out of the BAU. "Do you hear me?"
After a minute she gives a small nod as her eyes close and her hand comes to rest on top of mine. I'm not foolish enough to think she's changed her mind and let go of her guilt entirely, but I'm optimistic that she's let enough of my words sink in to help her begin to let go.
"Hey," I say softly, prompting her to open her eyes. When she does, I smile, bring her hand to my lips, and give it a quick a kiss. "I love you."
"I love you too," she replies quietly with a small smile of her own.
"I'm sorry I was a complete asshole earlier."
"I'm sorry you were too," she says with a small grin and a weak chuckle. Her expression turns serious once more after a moment. "I'm sorry I overreacted."
"No, I shouldn't have blindsided you with it. And I definitely shouldn't have walked away."
"Just...don't ever do that again, okay?"
"I will never walk away again, Em. I swear to you."
"Good," she says with a small smile.
We fall into a brief silence of acceptance and understanding, and I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. It was our first significant fight as a married couple – we'd been living in something of a semi-permanent honeymoon state since we'd been married, maybe even before then. Still, despite the safe silence we'd fallen into, I can't stop myself from bringing up the topic one last time with one last attempt to convince her.
"I know it seemed like it earlier, but I honestly don't want to pressure you into this. It's your body and you're the one who would have to share it with another person, so it's totally up to you. I just wanted us to have a discussion about it."
"That's fair," she concedes. "I can't promise I'll give you the answer you want, but I'm willing to talk about it."
"That's all I ask," I say with a smile, pulling her close to kiss her passionately. When the kiss ends, she leans her forehead on mine and closes her eyes for a moment before pulling away slightly. "Clooney!" I call out, knowing he's still at his post outside the door, no doubt hoping for reconciliation between his humans. I watch as the door is pushed open and he saunters in. "You were right, buddy. And I fixed it."
Emily pulls back and looks at me questioningly.
"He was rather insistent I come up here and talk to you," I say with a shrug, watching as Clooney sits by Emily's feet. She reaches down and scratches him behind the ears, earning a noise of content from the bulldog.
"That's because he's on my side," she quips.
"He's my dog, though."
"Only when he's done something terrible. The rest of the time he's mine," she says with a smile.
"Okay Casanova, to your bed," I say, meeting his gaze and pointing to the corner where his dog bed is. He makes no move to leave his current spot and instead leans into Emily's hand.
"Time for bed, Clooney," Emily says softly with a final pat to the top of his head. He then walks slowly over to his corner and lies down.
"Unbelievable. You'd never know he was my dog for years before you came around."
"That's because, like you, he's ensnared by my charm."
"You've got that right!"
"Hey Derek?" she says after a moment of silence.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Coming back."
"Always," I reply without hesitation.
Believe me when I say I would love to hear your thoughts on this one. I fought with it for a long while before finally deciding to just post it. A bit of angst, conflict, fluff, humour and honesty all rolled into one.
Just a friendly reminder - this year's Profiler Choice Awards final ballot is up... You should take a gander at some of the wonderful stories that have been nominated, and of course vote for the ones that tickled your fancy.