Thank you, kind readers, for your reads and reviews on the last chapter. Always wonderful to read your thoughts.
I owe Shadpup another shout out for putting the inspiration for this scene into my head many, many weeks ago. It's tagged to the sixth season's "25 to Life" episode, and addressing that burning question...why was there so much focus on Emily wiping her hands clean?!
Happy reading =)
"Sometimes it's not the strength but gentleness that cracks the hardest shells." – Richard Paul Evans, Lost December
I watch for just a moment as the reunited father and son share a moment. Their wide smiles, arms gripping each other tightly, and eyes squeezed shut with emotion help to make the long hours and up and downs of this case a little less heavy on my back. For just this moment, for just these precious few seconds, I allow myself to let go of the weight I'd been carrying around since I'd interviewed Don Sanderson in his cell. I let myself enjoy the reunion between father and son, and take solace in the fact that the team had helped it to happen. That we'd helped create something positive. With one last look at the pair, a feeling of peace begins to spread throughout my body, and I slowly make my way over to the car, still lost in my thoughts.
"The weather today is absolutely gorgeous," I hear a familiar voice remark casually.
"What?" I say in confusion as my gaze lifts from the ground and my eyebrows rise in surprise.
"I said, the weather today is absolutely gorgeous. Almost makes me want to waste the rest of the day away in a park somewhere." I shake my head in reply, partly because of the ridiculousness of her statement, and partly because of her presence.
"Prentiss, what are you doing here?" I ask, my eyes taking in my partner's relaxed form. Though she's dressed in her typical work attire and looks every bit the epitome of a professional, there is a playfulness in her eyes as she leans back against the driver side door, her arms crossed casually across her chest.
"Someone had to drive Joshua here," she says with a smile.
"Rossi assigned that task to Anderson…."
She shrugs. "I wanted to brush up on my driving skills, since you never let me drive on cases, so I offered to drive him."
I arch an eyebrow knowingly. "You checking up on me?"
"Yes," she admits. "And before you argue with me, we both know you'd be doing the exact same thing if our roles were reversed."
I narrow my gaze, but in my mind know she's right. "I guess."
"They seem happy," she says, looking past me to the father and son now sitting next to each other on the bench.
"Yeah," I say offhandedly.
"We did good today. We don't always get to say that, but we did good."
"Yeah," I repeat, this time with a shrug.
"Well now that we've got that established, get your ass in the car. I'm taking you out for lunch."
I open my mouth to protest but upon seeing the warning in her eyes I decide against arguing with her and instead fall back into our playful banter. "Oh, a date with the one and only Emily Prentiss. I'm a lucky man."
"The luckiest, Agent Morgan. Now get in the damn car before I put you in the car," she says, opening up the driver door and stepping into the car.
"Yes, ma'am," I say, shooting her a mock salute which earns a groan from her.
"Remind me why I put up with you…" she says as I close the door and move to buckle my seatbelt.
"Because being my partner means you get gorgeous eye candy all day long." She just stares back at me, her expression conveying just how unimpressed she is with my comment. "Or it could be because breaking in a new partner is a pain in the ass," I offer.
"Ah, that's right! Getting rid of you isn't worth the aggravation of having to deal with a new partner," she says with a grin.
"I'm touched you think so highly of me," I quip. She rolls her eyes in response and starts the car. "So where we headed?"
"I told you, I'm taking you out for lunch."
"Burgers?"
"Where else would we be going?"
"You really have a thing for this place, don't you?"
"Hey!" she says quickly in protest. "You like the food here too."
"True, and the service here is impeccable," I say, shooting a wink to our regular waitress who had just appeared by our table.
"What'll it be today, dears?"
"Small chocolate milkshake, junior bacon cheeseburger, no onions, added mushrooms, please," Prentiss rattles off quickly.
"Fries or cut veggies?"
"I'll take the veggies, please."
"You got it. And for you, handsome?" the waitress asks, turning her attention to me.
"Uh, I'll get the angus burger, with extra tomatoes please."
"And on the side?"
I glance up at Prentiss and feel a smirk forming on my face as I recall the countless times we've eaten at burger joints and she's stolen half my fries for herself. "The veggies sound good," I say slowly, watching in amusement as Emily's eyes widen and her mouth drops open.
"Anything to drink?"
"Just a coke, please."
"You got it, dears. Shouldn't be too long."
"Thanks," Prentiss and I say in unison.
"What the hell, Morgan!" she exclaims once the waitress has disappeared into the kitchen.
"What?" I ask innocently, knowing full well what she's pissed about.
"You know damn well what. We've got our routine here."
"We do?"
"Oh come on. We order the same thing every time we come here!"
"No we don't."
"Okay, maybe not exactly the same, but along the same lines…"
"Since when?"
"You're hopeless, you know that?"
"My mama's told me a time or two…" I reply casually.
"You're really gonna eat at a burger joint and not have fries on the side?" she asks exasperatingly.
"You're doing just that!" I point out.
"I'm a woman!"
"Oh, good. So you did pass biology," I remark sarcastically.
"Morgan," she warns. "Come on."
"What? You're saying you can't order fries because you're a woman? Because if you are, that's crazy and setting the feminist movement back just a bit."
"No, I'm saying it's a woman's prerogative to not order a side of fries with a burger."
"And all men have to order fries?" I ask, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
"When they're out to lunch with a woman, yes."
"But-" I begin to reply but stop abruptly. "You know what? I'm not even going to bother trying to understand that logic," I say with a shake of my head. I flag down our waitress and put in an order of fries, which earns me a smug smile from Emily.
"I don't know what you're so happy about, you're paying."
"And those fries will be worth every penny."
"I'm only going to ask you once, but give me the respect of answering honestly so I don't have to profile you, okay?" I nod. "How are you doing?" she asks, grabbing a piece of celery and crunching it loudly.
"I'm okay, Prentiss," I answer. "Honestly," I add after seeing her unconvinced expression.
"Really?" she asks, scrutinizing my every twitch and movement.
"Really," I reply, meeting her scrutinizing gaze while munching on some fries. "It worked out okay in the end, I'd say. Relatively, I mean."
"Okay," she says with a nod and reaching forward to grab some fries out of my hand. I watch in disgust as she dips them into her chocolate milkshake.
"What about you?" I ask, shaking my head at her behaviour.
"Me?" she replies in confusion. "What about me? Just another day at the office for me. You're the one who had the ups and downs on this case."
"You were channeling Lady Macbeth back at Mary Rutka's place."
"What?" she says, confusion still painted across her face.
"You were wiping the blood off your hands and talking to the Detective when I came back into the apartment."
"And...?"
"And I was half expecting you to start muttering, "out damned spot; out I say!" and zone out completely."
"Ha! Derek Morgan quoting Shakespeare. Now there's something I never thought I'd see happen," she says quickly, shooting me a wide grin.
"You're deflecting."
"There's nothing to deflect from, Morgan," she says with an irritated exhale. "I had blood on my hands from trying to save Mary Rutka, and I wiped it off after I was unsuccessful. Nothing out of the ordinary there."
"Prentiss, you kept wiping your hands for a good 15 minutes before we started searching the place," I explain, remembering clearly the way her eyes had begun to glaze over – maybe in memory, or maybe in emotion, or lack thereof.
"Morgan, I'm fine. I just don't like having blood on my hands," she says quickly, her eyes hardening. A thought crosses my mind briefly and has me wondering if she means it figuratively or in the literal sense.
"There wasn't any blood on your hands after the first few minutes. You kept going regardless," I counter. There was something off about her behaviour then, I just couldn't pinpoint exactly what.
"Morgan," she practically growls. "Drop it. There's nothing to tell. I'm fine."
"Em, what's going on with you?" I push, even though she's adamant I drop it. Her heavy resistance proves my concern is justified.
"What do you mean what's going on with me? I think you're avoiding facing your own lingering doubts and thoughts on this case and instead focusing all your attention on me unnecessarily."
"I've never seen you act like that before," I argue. "It's not normal behaviour, Emily."
"It is when you've got blood on your hands, Derek," she replies quickly, her voice low and emotion flashing across her face momentarily. "That's the difference here. Lady Macbeth imagined it; I didn't. There was blood on my hands. Do you like feeling another person's blood on your hands, Derek? I'm betting not, because it's really not a generally altogether pleasant sensation. So how about you drop the damn inquisition."
"Not until I find out what's going on with my partner," I say stubbornly.
"Whatever happened to no inter-team profiling?" she fires back.
"You know as well as I do that we all do it. It's not something we can just turn off."
"But you can choose to not comment on it."
"Ugh," I groan in frustration. "Fine. But the next time there's something going on with you, don't be surprised if no one comes running. You're frustrating as hell to deal with."
Her eyes widen ever so slightly at my outburst and I feel a wave of shame. Here was a woman who'd gone out of her way to not step on my toes or badger me about the case that had gone so wonky for me, and I was returning the favour with the things she detests above all others. Emily Prentiss has never responded well to interrogation, nor to stubborn efforts to retrieve answers that she is unwilling to give. And she's frustratingly good at dancing around the answers. It occurs to me she'd probably make a damn good covert agent.
"I- I'm sorry, Emily. I didn't mean that."
"You think you're easy to deal with? You're impetuous and blow up in your reactions to things, which makes getting an honest answer to a difficult question basically impossible." Guilt eats at me as I watch her spit the retaliatory words at me.
"Em," I say softly, hoping to convey my apology. "You know we'd be there for you. Don't ever think differently. Death threats to each and every one of us wouldn't keep us from helping you."
"It probably should," she says quietly. Almost so quietly I don't hear it.
"What?" I ask in shock.
"Nothing," she says quickly, offering me a small smile. But I can tell it's too late. She's retreated behind her thick walls and slotted her emotions into those famed compartmentalized. With a silent curse and a withheld grimace, I set about finding a way to fix this. A thought occurs to me as she pays the waitress, leaving a generous tip, as she always does.
"Hey, Prentiss – you feel like dessert?" She looks at me blankly in reply. "I know this great little place 10 minutes from here. Best cheesecake you'll ever have, I swear. My treat," I offer hopefully. I see the tiniest of movements tug at the corner of her mouth and I know she's back. She always did have a weakness for cheesecake.
"Sure. But you're buying me one to take home too," she bargains.
"You got it, princess," I say with a grin, catching the keys she throws at me. "Are we good?" I ask seriously, wondering if I'd stepped too far.
"Yeah," she says before she gets into the car. "We're good."
I breathe a sigh of relief. If my father had taught me nothing else, he'd taught me to respect women, take care of and protect those you care about, and to always make sure things are okay with the person you trust your life with. And that's exactly what I do every single day. I put my life in her hands, and she puts hers in mine. I never doubt that she'd stop at nothing to protect me. She's the best partner I've ever had, and I have no intention of losing her, especially not to some stupid argument or misunderstanding.
"And Morgan?" she says softly, an uncharacteristic gentleness taking over her tone as she turns to face me. I cease my actions to start the car and turn to face her, a questioning expression on my face. "Thank you," she says, and her eyes tell me she means every word.
"Always," I promise. She smiles and turns to look out the windshield once more. I keep my gaze locked on her for a moment, taking in her form. It occurs to me that for all of the stubbornness we each cling to, and how pushy I'd been to get answers, it was only through a softer approach that I'd gotten any real honesty from her. Granted it hadn't answered my initial question, but it had given me a glimpse into the usually hidden side of Emily Prentiss, and it's a side I think is worth seeing more often.
I'd love to hear your thoughts/impressions, if you've got the time to leave them in a review. Even a few words goes a long way to making me a very happy camper.
More conversations on the way, I promise. :)