Her eyes pop open. Beneath a black and white down comforter with geometric patterns she is drenched in a cold sweat, and not beneath a pile of dirt like her dreams might suggest. As she gasps her lungs struggle to suck in enough air to reassure her mind that there is no threat. Her chest rises, and falls, but her pulse races. Clad in an old grey t-shirt from a FBI softball tournament her bare feet lead her to the kitchen. Standing against the cold black porcelain tile she locates her phone on the obsidian black granite counter of her island with one corner pressed against to an empty bottle of wine. As she inhales, feeling starved for air the mobile device rings without prompting. She rubs her eyes, puzzled as a familiar face appears on her screen.
Her face softens. "Why are you calling?" She asks as she puts the cold glass screen brushes her ear.
"Em, my gut check was going off," the steady voice on the other end of the line, admits.
"It's the middle of the night," she points out.
"Last I checked three AM was your witching hour, Prentiss."
"Derek…" her oxygen starvation begins to dissipate, as she rifles through the kitchen drawers looking for a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.
"I saw the news. I figured you might be riding the struggle bus."
She comes up empty handed. "It's been so long since I've heard your voice, friend."
"Too long."
"I could use one of your trademark hugs right now," she admits as she leans against the counter across from the kitchen island.
"Open the door."
Her index finger taps the red circle on the screen, and ends the phone call. She gently slides the phone onto the counter. Her feet, adorned with dark blue toenail polish smack against the tile as she moves towards the door in her oversized cotton t-shirt that barely touches her hips. Part of her refuses to care if she's dreaming, or falling into the clutches of an unsub via some elaborate ruse. As the black door opens to let the light from the hall in she rubs her eyes, in disbelief as Derek stands on her doorstep, in the flesh.
"What are you doing here?"
He offers flashes his pearly whites at her, "I came for you."
"Oh."
She takes a step back, and allows him to join her in the entryway. Derek is wearing a grey cotton v-neck t-shirt, and a pair of grey gym shorts with white stitching at the hem.
The space between her brows puckers. "I can't believe that you're here. This is a dream, isn't it?"
He wraps his arms around her, and holds her close to him. "No. I'm really here."
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" The words tumble from her lips as she breathes in the scent of his freshly showered body.
"Nah. The house is empty, and my kid is with his mom for the weekend," He finally lets her out of his grasp.
"I'm not sure how much longer I can go on like this. I've been on mandatory leave for five days. I haven't gotten more than two hours of sleep a night. Hell, I was up for forty two hours before I finally crashed this time. Everyone has been trying to help, but it nothing works. I ran seven miles yesterday to wear myself out. I meditated, medicated, and it did nothing."
His eyes look past her, towards the counter. "How much wine did you drink last night?"
"Two bottles."
"On top of the sleeping medications?"
"They sure as hell don't work. Last night J.J. came over, and read to me like I was a child."
"And nothing?"
"That was how I finally got two hours."
"What did she read to you?"
"Charlotte's Web. She literally made me shower, and insisted I put on pajamas. Like a toddler, I took half of them off because I was too hot. Then she climbed into bed, and read to me. One night Dave brought a roll up keyboard, and played to me. Another night Penelope drew me a literal bath. Luke took me for some scenic drive. I feel like an invalid."
"You, and I have unfinished business," he reminds her.
"I'm not sure what you're talking about," she insists.
"Fifteen years ago, we were drunk in a bar."
"You're going to have to be more specific. We've been drunk in a bar together, many times," she recounts as she tucks her disheveled locks behind her ear.
"I had just broken up with whoever I was with at the time. You were feeling heart sorry about some jerk that you went on a date with."
"That sounds like nearly every time we have been drunk in a bar together. We've got long standing commitment issues," she points out.
"Everyone else had gone home," he reminds her.
"We drank them under the table."
He shakes his head, "You suckered them out of all of their money playing pool."
"What is your point?"
"We started drinking tequila."
"I always get philosophical when I drink tequila," her lips pucker as if the memory is tied to a sour sensation.
"And we vowed that if we were both single past fifty that we would throw in the towel, and find a place with a front porch and grow old together."
"I'm not sure that I'm ready for the rocking chair just yet. Although, full disclosure whatever I've been taking for these hot flashes hasn't been working."
"So here we both are, growing old, and single."
Emily laughs, "We could never make this work."
"Nah, probably not. At least I can still make you laugh, though. Is there anything that you haven't tried to get to sleep?"
She offers a sharp exhale, and a subtle nod. "There is one thing." Her pointer finger motions.
"I'll do anything for you."
"Except this one thing," she disagrees with as she rubs the nape of her neck.
"Emily, when I was so low about my marriage failing you came off a case, and showed up at my door with like a gallon of tequila. You did my laundry. You shaved my face. Then you practically dragged me to the gym, and the range. You dropped whatever you were doing, and kept me from going too deep into the depths of my despair. I told you, because I couldn't tell anyone else. I knew they would ask questions, and some of them would judge. You didn't. You just showed up, and you pulled me back from the brink."
"That is what friends are for, Derek."
"I'm all in, Em. Whatever you need."
"I don't think you mean that."
His tender lips kiss her forehead, "I do."
"It crosses every one of the lines. It's asking too much."
"I can be your hero, baby," he taunts with a glint in his eyes.
"Stop," she rolls her eyes.
"I can kiss away your pain," he continues, undeterred.
She giggles, "You are ridiculous."
"When was the last time you let someone love you?"
"Shit, Derek. Be serious."
"I am. You have just been through a traumatic event that had to reactivate all your previous traumas. When was the last time that you allowed yourself to feel safe enough to let someone love you?"
"If you start quoting, or singing Mario lyrics to me, I am going to have to get out my gun, and shoot you."
He smiles widely, "Oh. I was leaning more towards, baby all through the night."
"I don't know where my gun is, I think J.J. took it, but I do know where the kitchen knives are," she taunts.
"Love hurts," he sings, "love scars."
"You're terrible."
"I can go on for days. You know that my knowledge of lyrics that no one asked for is a well that will not run dry."
"Maybe I should just have my way with you to shut you up."
He shrugs, "Whatever works."
"You don't mean that."
"Try me."
As she inhales, she realizes how close he is to her as they stand less than a foot from the door. She brushes past him, and locks the door. He turns to face her. His hand grazes her elbow. Without another thought she allows herself to close the gap between them.