Chapter 2
The evening air was tinged with the briny scent of Puget Sound as Clyde Easter navigated the familiar streets of Seattle, the city's vibrant pulse thrumming against the soles of his shoes. Tucked under his arm, a paper bag crinkled, heavy with the warm promise of curry and naan—an offering of comfort he hoped would be well-received.
Clyde stepped into the apartment, instantly enveloped by the muffled silence that seemed to hang like a curtain around its confines. The ongoing patter of the shower reached his ears, a sign that Emily was still cocooned in her own sanctuary of steam and solitude.
"Emily," he called out, signalling his return, but only the echo of his own voice replied. A flicker of concern sparked within him as he set about preparing their meal, retrieving plates and cutlery with practiced efficiency. He wiped down the small dining table, erasing crumbs and smudges until the surface gleamed in the soft light of the kitchen.
Minutes dragged on, each one laden with an unease that settled in his stomach like lead. Fifteen had passed—surely too long for even the most indulgent shower—and Clyde found himself drawn towards the bathroom, motivated by a sense of urgency that quickened his pulse.
As he approached, a faint sound prickled at the edges of his awareness. It took a moment for his mind to piece together the disjointed sobs that breached the barrier of running water and tile. Clyde's hand hovered over the door, uncertainty etched into the lines of his face. The cries were a stark contrast to the stoic agent he knew Emily to be—a woman who faced adversity with unyielding fortitude.
With a gentle knock that felt almost intrusive, he leaned closer to the door. "Emily?" His voice was soft, infused with a warmth meant to soothe. "Are you alright in there?"
There was a beat of heart-wrenching silence before she answered—a thin veneer of composure barely masking the tremor in her words. "I'm fine."
He recognized the lie, heard the fractured reality beneath it. Yet, he knew better than to push. Emily Prentiss was a fortress unto herself, and any breach had to be navigated with care.
"Alright," Clyde conceded, though his tone carried the weight of his skepticism. "Just... let me know if you need anything."
Retreating from the door, he exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, the tension coiling tighter in his chest. Emily was in pain, her suffering a silent siren call that he could not ignore. But for now, he would wait, a sentinel standing guard over the fragile peace of their shared space.
The relentless cascade of the shower had become Emily's solace, a veil of white noise to drown out the cacophony of her thoughts. She was so ensconced in her own turbulent reverie that Clyde's return registered as nothing more than a distant echo, an inconsequential ripple against the shores of her consciousness.
A sudden knock pierced the veil, jarring her from her stupor. "Emily?" Clyde's voice filtered through the door, laden with concern.
Startled, her heart lurched against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat at the intrusion. "I'm fine," she called back, but her hoarse voice betrayed her, fracturing mid-denial, the words dissolving into the damp air.
She leaned heavily against the cool tile, closing her eyes as if to shut away the vulnerability that clung to her like the steam. Emily Prentiss, the agent who had navigated the labyrinthine corridors of espionage with precision, now felt adrift in the confines of a bathroom.
Forcing herself to move, Emily twisted the faucet, and the shower sputtered to a stop. The silence left in its wake seemed louder, oppressive. With a breath that trembled on exhaling, she wrapped herself in a towel and peeled back the curtain.
The mirror was fogged over, a blurred reflection that offered no judgment—a reprieve from the scrutiny she saw in her own gaze. She dressed hurriedly, pulling on a baggie sweater that hung from her frame like a veil and yoga pants that sat askew on her hips, a stark reminder of the changes her body had undergone already.
Stepping out into the cramped living space, Emily was met with the weight of Clyde's gaze—a silent witness to her fragmentation. She dodged his eyes, feigning nonchalance with a flick of her wrist, toweling her hair dry with jerky movements.
"Sorry, I..." Her voice faltered, devoid of the authority it once commanded. She didn't finish the thought, leaving it suspended in the air between them.
Clyde observed her dance of avoidance, his blue eyes shadowed with something akin to pain. His stance was solid yet unimposing in the muted light of the apartment, every line of his body exuding a quiet strength that seemed both an anchor and a remonstration.
"Emily," he began, his tone a tightrope walk between patience and urgency, "talk to me."
The plea hung, a testament to their history, to the undercurrents of trust forged in clandestine operations and unspoken promises. Yet, as much as she wanted to lean into that trust, the fortress of her resolve walled off her words, and she remained trapped behind her ramparts of silence.
"Can we just eat?" Her request was a deflection, another brick added to her defenses, even as the scent of the takeout turned her stomach, a visceral reminder of appetites lost to anxiety.
"Of course," Clyde acquiesced, though his accent couldn't cloak the disquiet that lingered in the syllables. He moved to the table, setting down plates with a deliberateness that felt like a countdown.
As they settled opposite each other, the air thrummed with the unsaid—the tension taut as a wire pulled to its breaking point. And beneath it all, the city of Seattle pulsed, indifferent to the fragile drama unfolding within its emerald embrace.
The fragrance of tikka masala, pungent and peppery, infiltrated the small dining area where Emily sat, her fingers trembling as they ladled the russet concoction onto her plate. The food—once a favorite indulgence—now repelled her. She tried to coax a bite toward her lips, but the scent assaulted her senses, transforming the rich blend of spices into an olfactory specter that churned her stomach.
"Emily," Clyde coaxed from across the table, his voice laced with concern, "you've barely touched your food."
She responded with a weak shrug, pushing the chicken around her plate like pieces on a chessboard, each move a strategy to evade the reality of consumption.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on," he implored, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table's edge, his eyes searching hers for a sliver of the woman he knew. The woman who faced demons head-on.
"I'm not sure what you mean." Her voice was sharp, the blade of her tone honing defensiveness into an art form. "There's nothing to say."
But there was a deluge waiting to breach the dam—memories of her time with Doyle, the persona of Lauren Reynolds that clung to her psyche, a ghostly second skin she couldn't shed.
"Come on," Clyde urged, studying Emily's pale complexion and quivering hands. "You don't look well."
"I'm fine," Emily insisted, brushing off his concern.
"C'mon, you're not fooling me." Clyde's voice was gentle but firm.
Emily's eyes flashed with defensiveness. "I'm working through some things, personal issues, okay? If you actually cared about me, you'd respect my privacy."
"It seems like this approach isn't working for you," Clyde pointed out, sincerity lacing his words. "I've seen fellow agents lose themselves in their covers before. It can be disorienting and isolating."
A flicker of fear crossed Emily's face before she quickly masked it with defiance.
"Disorienting?" Emily's laugh was bitter, hollow. "It's like I'm fading, Clyde. Lauren is all I can feel, all I can remember. She's..." Her voice cracked, betraying the fissures in her composure.
"Emily, listen to me," he said, reaching out, but she recoiled from his touch as if it were flame to tinder. "I know the darkness that comes with the job, the way it can suffocate—"
"Can you?" Emily's eyes flashed, her gaze piercing him with an intensity that felt physical. "Can you really understand living a lie so long it becomes your truth?"
"Maybe not entirely," Clyde conceded. His voice softened, a balm trying to soothe the jagged edges of her pain. "But I've seen the toll it takes. And I'm here, willing to stand by you as you fight through this."
"Fight..." The word lingered between them, heavy as the silence that followed.
As the tension escalated, the relentless pulse of Seattle life outside the window seemed incongruous with the turmoil within. The city lights flickered like distant stars, unreachable and cold, while the two figures at the table grappled with a tempest that threatened to engulf them both.
Clyde cleared his throat, the ambient clatter of cutlery a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension. "Maybe... maybe it's time you think about going back to work," he ventured cautiously. "The routine could help—you know, rediscover the parts of Emily Prentiss that got lost in the shadows of Lauren Reynolds."
Her hand stilled mid-push of the chicken across her plate, and the room seemed to contract with the sudden shift in energy. Emily's eyes snapped up, their dark depths flaring with an incandescent rage. "Work?" she spat out, her voice rising sharply. "Work is the malignant root of this entire mess! You think I need more of what broke me?"
"Em, I only meant—"
"Meant what, Clyde?" Emily interrupted, her words serrated, cutting through the air between them. "That I should just slip back into my old life? Pretend that I'm not caught between longing and disgust? You can't begin to know what this is like for me," She jabbed a finger at her chest, her breaths shallow and frantic. "You pushed me into this, remember? You were my handler!"
Clyde recoiled, silenced by the raw accusation. His jaw tightened, the muscles working as he absorbed the blow. A hint of guilt flickered in his eyes; he had indeed been a part of the decision that sent her deep undercover.
A knot twisted in Emily's gut, a gnarled mass of anxiety and bile that rose with each labored breath. The smell of the tikka masala, once mouthwatering, now clawed at her senses. Without another word, she lurched from her chair, sending it skidding across the floorboards with a screech.
In her haste, she barely registered her surroundings—the taupe walls of her apartment seemed to blur into streaks of colour as she bolted toward the sanctuary of the washroom. Her fingers fumbled with the doorknob, not bothering with the lock as she stumbled inside.
The retching came in violent waves, the contents of her unsettled stomach splashing harshly against porcelain. The acrid sting of bile burned her throat, mingling grotesquely with the tang of spices that had turned traitor to her senses.
"Emily?" Clyde's voice was soft but edged with alarm as he lingered in the doorway, his shadow spilling onto the tiled floor. He wanted to reach for her, to offer some semblance of comfort, but the invisible barrier of her anguish held him at bay.
She didn't respond, her body wracked with the aftermath of her purge. With trembling hands, she gripped the basin, the cool solidity grounding her as she rinsed her mouth, the water swirling pink as it washed away traces of her turmoil.
"Are you okay?" he asked again, the question almost rhetorical. He already knew the answer, but the habit of caring for her, even when she pushed him away, was hard to break.
Emily straightened slowly, her reflection in the mirror a ghostly apparition marred by distress. She met Clyde's gaze there, her eyes pools of unshed tears and silent pleas for understanding. But she offered no words, no acknowledgment of his presence. Instead, she turned the faucet off with a definitive twist, the sound echoing like the final note of a requiem for her fractured self.
Clyde's patience frayed as he leaned against the cool plaster of the hallway, his arms folded across his chest. The tension in the air was palpable, a tightrope strung between desperation and duty. He took a measured breath before speaking, his voice firm yet laced with an undercurrent of concern.
"I still think you should consider returning to London," he urged, watching her closely. "Work could be your anchor, something familiar to ground you and I'll be there to help you transition in whatever way I can."
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror wavered, a specter of the agent she once was. Emily's hands stilled on the towel, her knuckles whitening as she clutched the fabric. She shook her head, strands of damp hair clinging to her cheeks.
"I can't, Clyde," she whispered, the words barely audible over the persistent drip of the faucet.
"Why not?" he pressed, stepping closer. The intensity of his gaze sought answers in her haunted eyes.
"Are you're worried about repercussions for what you did in Boston to get those photos of the housekeeper and Doyle's son. I promise, no one will know you were involved." Clyde's voice trembles with concern as he speaks, his eyes pleading with Emily to confide in him. She shakes her head, refusing to meet his gaze as she rinses her mouth out fiercely, the sound of the water drowning out her inner turmoil.
"You think that's all it is? My guilt for Doyle's son?" Emily scoffs, her words dripping with bitterness.
Clyde steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch her arm in a comforting gesture. "I'm not saying it's the only reason, but I know it's a factor."
Emily turns to face him, her eyes flashing with anger and frustration. "You don't understand," she spits out, her voice trembling with suppressed emotions.
"Then make me understand," Clyde pleads, his own frustration bubbling beneath the surface. They stand at an impasse, their emotions raw and intense, both desperate for the other to break the barrier between them.
Her lips trembled, as if trying to hold back a tidal wave of emotion. It felt as though the revelation was clawing at her throat, suffocating her. She fought against it with all her might, finally expelling the words that had been festering inside her like a gaping wound. "I'm pregnant," she choked out through gritted teeth, each syllable feeling like razors scraping against her raw vocal cords. "With his baby." The weight of the truth crushed down on her, threatening to swallow her whole.
Disbelief flickered across Clyde's features, giving way to incredulity. "You're not serious," he said, the words sharp as flint.
But there was no mistaking the swell of her belly as she lifted the hem of her sweater—a silent testament to the life growing inside her.
"Christ, Emily..." Clyde's voice trailed off, anger surging like a tidal wave. "Of all the reckless—"
"Please don't," she interrupted, her voice cracking as she smoothed the fabric over her bump, protective and defiant all at once. "I shouldn't have said anything."
His fury battled with empathy as he surveyed the sadness etched into the lines of her face. The reality of his own role in this tangled web they wove tightened around his heart like a vice. "I..." His anger dissipated, his shoulders sagging under the weight of shared culpability. "I'm sorry, Em. I didn't realize."
The room was thick with the ache of revelations too heavy to bear alone. Emily's breath hitched, a sound that bore the burden of months spent in shadowy corners of her soul. Clyde's resolve crumbled, replaced by the raw need to bridge the chasm that suffering had carved between them.
Clyde watched the tumult of emotions play across Emily's features, each one like a blow to his conscience. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, and reached out to her with an almost reverent caution. "Emily," he began, his tone thick with unspoken apologies, "I should've been here for you."
His arms enveloped her in a sturdy embrace, an anchor amidst the storm raging within her. She resisted, just a fraction of a moment, the vestiges of her once impenetrable walls giving way to the need for solace. Then, her body wracked with sobs, she leaned into him, allowing herself to be engulfed by the warmth of his presence.
"God, Clyde," she gasped through tears, her voice muffled against his chest. "I messed up."
"Shhh," he soothed, rubbing circles on her back, a balm to the raw edges of her frayed spirit. "Everything will be okay. You're not alone in this." His words were a lifeline thrown into the dark waters of her despair.
She clung to him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality. Her breath came in jagged bursts, punctuating the heavy silence that filled the apartment, a stark contrast to the distant cacophony of Seattle night-life seeping through the windows.
"Let's get you to bed, yeah?" Clyde murmured, his voice steady despite the chaotic torrent of his own emotions. Carefully, he guided her towards the bedroom, supporting her trembling form with an arm firmly wrapped around her waist.
The bedroom was shrouded in shadows, the streetlights casting a muted glow through the blinds. He eased Emily onto the edge of the mattress, her body folding under the weight of exhaustion and grief. Her hair framed her face in disheveled strands, a testament to the turmoil that had seized her life.
"Try to rest, we'll sort everything out in the morning," he whispered, tucking the covers around her with a gentleness that belied his rugged exterior. His hands lingered, reluctant to sever the connection, to leave her isolated with the specter of her fears.
"Stay," she breathed out, her eyes beseeching him from the depths of vulnerability. "Please."
Clyde hesitated, a war waging within—the duty-bound agent versus the man whose heart ached to mend the fragments of a soul he cherished. Duty would have to wait; tonight, he was simply Clyde, the man who would protect Emily from the tempest, even if he couldn't calm it.
"Of course," he conceded, settling into the chair beside the bed, his vigilant gaze never straying from her. "I'm here, Emily. As long as you need."
Her eyelids fluttered closed, fatigue coaxing her into a fitful slumber. Clyde remained, a sentinel in the quiet room, pondering the complexities of their intertwined fates, his mind grappling with the gravity of the secret now shared between them.
Outside, the city thrummed with life, oblivious to the silent battles fought within its very heart. But in this small corner of Seattle, time stood still, holding its breath as Emily sought refuge in sleep, and Clyde watched over her, a steadfast guardian against the night.
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