Many thanks for your continued patience with me as my updates grow more sporadic. I promise I haven't given up on this story!
This one is tagged to season 5's 'Retaliation' episode, which I (somehow) haven't yet covered. We're joining the illustrious David Rossi for it.

Happy reading =)

"If you are not prepared to use force to defend civilization, then be prepared to accept barbarism." –Thomas Sowell

I observe her carefully from across the jet, my eyes scanning her features and her body language. For a person who is generally very private and prefers to internalize her emotions, she's doing a very poor job of masking her guilt. In fact, it's plain as day that she's struggling with it. From her slumped shoulders, to how she's curled up and angling her body away from us all, it doesn't take a profiler to figure out something's bothering her.

I watch as she lets out a sigh, her gaze aimed out the window at the passing clouds. She's been like that since we boarded the jet for the short flight back to Quantico. On the one hand, it's not completely surprising. She's no Garcia when it comes to social interactions, but she's also not Hotch. She can keep up with the quick banter, no problem, generally enjoys teasing Reid about his hair or whatever topic Morgan has chosen for that day, and she's got a wicked sense of humour, throwing out the occasional one-liners practically dripping with sarcasm. No, Emily Prentiss is not generally a quiet person, and yet here she is, retreated into herself, not uttering a word. Yeah, I'd say it's pretty easy to tell that she's struggling with the guilt. And while I know she shouldn't be worrying about it – it wasn't her fault by any means – I can't say I really blame her. She did watch Bunting get killed, from mere inches away. I can guarantee any one of us would feel guilty being so close, but unable to stop a murder from happening.

But that's what it boils down to with a lot of law enforcement officers, and profilers in particular, I'd say. Control. Even if we're well aware of our lack of control in a situation, we still want to somehow believe that we could have influenced it in some way. It's ridiculous to everyone else, but to us, in those moments, we've failed. And that's where the guilt comes in.

I get up and grab a blanket, intent on making my way over to her and convincing her to drop that very guilt, that had so obviously taken root in her. I slide into the seat across from her, but she doesn't show any indication that she's noticed, so I throw the blanket at her, arching an eyebrow when she shoots me an unimpressed look on its impact.

"I don't know what it is, and if we asked Reid, he'd probably tell us it's all in my head, but whenever I have bruises, I almost always get cold more easily," I say evenly, opening with a neutral topic. In the years I've known Emily, I've learned that you have to be careful with her. It's a fine line with her most of the time – either you push too hard and she clams up, or you don't push hard enough and she just keeps internalizing everything.

She arches an eyebrow at me, knowing very well I haven't come over to chat about feeling drafts and catching a chill. "Can't say I've noticed that, but thank you for the blanket all the same. Now I don't have to dig out my sweater from my go-bag."

"What can I say? I'm a gentleman through and through, Emily."

Her brow furrows for a moment before she shakes her head. "You're ridiculous is what you are. And about as subtle as a hammer to the head."

"Italians are not known for their subtlety," I point out. "We're a passionate people, and like to express ourselves."

"Right," she says, turning her gaze back out the window as she wraps the blanket around herself.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine," she answers, her eyes meeting mine.

I arch an eyebrow, letting her know I don't believe for a second she's telling me the truth. But then she already knew I would know she was glossing over her real feelings.

She shrugs again, shaking her head gently. "Just thinking, you know?"

"Ruminating, I'd say, judging by the look on your face."

She offers a small smile. "I guess."

"What about?" I ask evenly. "If you don't mind me asking, that is," I add as an after-thought.

"Schrader," she admits after a few moments of uncomfortable shifting and silence.

I stay quiet, letting her sort out her thoughts. I know she's guilty, I'm just not sure about what. It could be over Bunting being killed in front of her, or having to shoot Schrader. He may have been a scumbag and a killer, but taking someone's life is always hard.

When she doesn't say anything for a minute, I decide to prompt her a little. "What's going on in that hard head of yours?" I say, a gentle teasing tone in my voice.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "I was just thinking about him killing Bunting."

"Feeling a little guilty?" I guess knowingly. So that's where the guilt's coming from.

"Hard not to."

"Emily," I say as I lean forward in my seat.

"I know what you're going to say, Dave," she interrupts.

"Then you know that beating yourself up over it is useless."

"He was right there," she argues, her tone soft.

"And you'd just been in a major car accident."

She shakes her head gently. "I should have-"

"Emily, stop."

"No, Dave, he was right there," she says, her eyes flashing with pain and sadness. Apparently this was hitting her hard than I thought.

"I know, bella, but you have to remember that you were pinned in the car. And he was one dedicated son of a bitch." She doesn't answer and instead turns her gaze back out the window. I can't say I'm entirely surprised. I never expected breaking her out of her funk to be that easy. Time to force her hand a little. "What would you have done?" I ask.

Her gaze swings back to me, an expression of confusion on her face. "What?"

"What do you think you could have done to stop him?"

Her eyes widen at my insistent tone. "I- Well… I could have pushed him off of Bunting."

"You were pinned," I point out.

"Well, I would have gotten that damn seat belt undone quicker."

"I have a hard time believing that." She frowns in reply. "I doubt you were just sitting there doing nothing. You got out of there as fast as you could, Emily."

"I should have been able to-" she protests.

"Stop," I say forcefully. "You did everything that you could. And without your insight, we wouldn't have been able to get Schrader at all."

"Rossi, he killed him. Right in front of me."

My expression shifts to one of sympathy. Between my career in the FBI and my stint in the army, I've been there more times than I'd like to remember. "I know," I say gently. "It's not fair that he was killed, but that's life. It doesn't always go according to plan. The bottom line is that we got the son of a bitch responsible for his death."

"But maybe if I-"

"If you what?" I ask rhetorically. "Got his attention off of Bunting and onto you? Then you'd be heading back to Quantico in a box," I answer immediately, not giving her a chance to respond.

Her eyes widen at my words. Clearly she hadn't been expecting such a blunt response, but really, she ought to know by now that I don't pull any punches.

I press on, hoping to make her see that her guilt and regret is misplaced. "Schrader was going to take out his frustration and anger on someone, Emily. Bunting just happened to be in the wrong spot at the wrong time."

Her eyes drift down to her hands, where she's tearing viciously at her fingernails.

"Emily, listen to me," I say, imploring her to meet my gaze. I wait until she looks up before continuing. "Sometimes situations are too far out of our control for us to have any impact. Sometimes we can't be a factor in them. Sometimes it's just out of our hands."

She stays quiet for a moment as her eyes drop down to her hands once more.

"Do you hear what I'm saying?"

It takes her another moment before she nods slowly, her expression softening. I give her a small, encouraging smile. I know from experience it's not easy to give up those feelings of guilt and regret.

"When we get back to Quantico, come to my office. We'll toast Bunting properly. Unless…you're not on any pain meds are you?" She shakes her head. "I didn't think so."

"I got a prescription, and Morgan made me get it filled before he brought me back to the precinct, but I haven't taken any."

"Worried it would affect your ability to think?" I guess.

She nods again. "Yeah."

"You profilers, you're all alike," I tease, hoping to elicit a smile from her. Thankfully I'm not disappointed.

"Thanks for this, Dave," she says, raising her glass in a gesture of thanks.

"Don't mention it," I say, waving off her thanks. "I keep this stuff here for special occasions, and pull it out when necessary."

"Can I trust you won't judge me as an alcoholic if I say I really needed this?"

I let out a chuckle. "Your secret is safe with me."

She smiles appreciatively and takes another sip from her glass.

"How's the old body holding up?" I ask, my eyes flitting over the vibrantly coloured bruises that adorn parts of her face, neck, and arms.

The corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile ever so briefly. "Old? You trying to tell me something there, vecchio," she teases, the Italian word rolling off her tongue easily.

"Watch it, young lady," I reply, arching an eyebrow as I counter her slight insult.

She just smiles and takes another sip of her drink.

"Really though, does it still hurt?"

"My body? Yes. All over. But this," she says, holding up her glass, "is helping that significantly."

"Good. But after today make sure you take some of those pills the good doctor gave you. There's absolutely no reason for you to be in pain when you could be blissfully flying high."

"You got it, Rossi."

We settle into an easy silence, each of us somewhat in our own heads as we sift through the events of the past few days. I glance at her and find that old familiar expression on her face – guilt. I'm pretty sure that I'd gotten through to her on the jet, so this must be a separate issue. Maybe she does feel a little guilty about shooting him… I decide to take a chance and preemptively answer her.

"You had to do it."

She turns and her expression is pure confusion as she meets my gaze. "Had to do what?"

"Shoot Schrader," I explain, watching her expression carefully. I see her expression fall ever so briefly at my words, but she tries to hide it by slipping on a neutral mask. That tells me that I hit the nail on the head.

"Yeah," she says, trying to keep her voice light and unburdened. Unfortunately for her, she's trying to fool an old profiler who knows all the tricks in the book.

"I talked to Morgan. Schrader had his gun pointed at his head, and was going to shoot him. You were protecting your partner."

"Yeah," she repeats, her tone still far from convincing.

"Emily, don't go there. It was a good shoot, and we got Muller's family back. Don't let Schrader get into your head."

"I'm not. I just…" she trails off, apparently unsure of how to explain it. "I hate having to shoot them."

"We all do. But it's the job sometimes. You and Morgan gave him fair warning and a chance to de-escalate the situation. Schrader made that choice, not you. You were following through on procedure and your training."

She lets out a slow breath before taking a long drink from her glass, finishing its contents. "I know. I really do. I still feel guilty though. He was still a person."

I nod in understanding. "Yeah. You know what though? I'd be concerned if you weren't feeling something about it. The minute we become apathetic to taking another person's life is the moment we need to step back and reassess what we're doing here."

"Maybe," she says thoughtfully. "I should head home though. I'm exhausted and sleeping in my own bed sounds absolutely wonderful right now."

I nod. "I bet. Make sure you take a few extra days, okay? We're not due in until Thursday, but take the week and come in fresh on Monday. Your body and mind could use the rest."

"I'll see you Thursday," she answers firmly. I shake my head. I should have known. There'll be no talking her out of it either.

"See you Thursday," I concede.

She smiles at my acceptance of her words and then heads out of my office and towards her desk to gather her things. I let out a sigh before finishing off the last bit of liquid in the glass. She'll be okay, I think. Her body will heal itself, and she'll come to terms with the shooting and Bunting's death eventually. Until then, she'll have all of us to support her, even if she insists she doesn't need us. That's just too damn bad, she's got us whether she likes it or not.

So...how did Emily's guilt come across? Did you like Dave's mixture of tough love and compassion? Let me know!