Synopsis: Emily Prentiss finds herself adrift after her harrowing undercover operation to take down Ian Doyle. Once a confident and capable agent, her sense of self now lies fractured in the wake of the traumatic ordeal she endured. Retreating into solitude, she has taken an extended leave from her job at Interpol, grappling with a deeply personal situation she desperately tries to conceal.
I realize this idea is overdone but this will be a muti-fic series that spans 12 seasons. Consider this story the prologue, a Lion King 1 1/2 if you will. This is my first story so any feedback would be very much appreciated.
2002
Emily Prentiss leaned against the railing of her Seattle apartment's balcony, the sound of the city's heartbeat rising from below. The Emerald City was draped in its signature cloak of mist and the distant lights of the Space Needle pierced the morning's foggy veil, a beacon amidst the chaos that no longer felt like it belonged to her world. She had chosen this nondescript building with its peeling paint and creaky elevators precisely for its anonymity—paid in cash, no questions asked. The worn-out furniture inside mirrored the erosion of her once steadfast confidence.
In her hand, she held a cigarette, its orange ember glowing in the hazy daybreak. She watched it burn down to the filter, the acrid smoke curling into the damp air, a phantom of indulgence. Emily wanted badly to inhale, to let the nicotine fill her lungs and carry away the turmoil churning inside her, if only for a moment. But she couldn't—not now, not in her condition. Instead, she flicked the dead stub onto the pavement below, the tiny spark extinguishing without protest.
With a trembling hand, she struck another match, the flame momentarily casting sharp relief on her dark hair and the deep lines of concentration on her brow. Her eyes, shadowed and pensive, followed the dance of fire as it consumed the tip of a new cigarette. The smell was enough to evoke the memories, to serve as a bridge to the life she could barely recognize as her own.
"Lauren wouldn't have hesitated," she murmured to the uncaring wind, the name tasting foreign on her lips. It was a persona crafted from lies and necessity, yet, at times, it seemed more real than the fractured woman who now grappled with her reflection each morning before retreating to the balcony.
The recognition of her longing sent a cold shiver through her, and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself. How could she, even in the smallest part of her being, miss Ian Doyle? The man whose love had been a meticulously constructed trap—a snare that had cost her so much. Yet the truth gnawed at her insides: Lauren had loved him, and somewhere in the twisted wreckage of her psyche, that love lingered like the ghost of a cigarette's smoke.
"Damn you, Ian," she whispered, her voice laced with a cocktail of bitterness and sorrow. "And damn me for still caring."
She let the second cigarette burn out, watching as the ember faded to black. With each dying light, Emily felt a piece of herself slip further into the abyss, the gap between agent and lover, hunter and prey, widening until she wasn't sure which side she stood on anymore. She had escaped with her life, but at what cost?
As the Seattle skyline blurred before her tear-brimmed eyes, Emily felt the full weight of her solitude. She was alone, adrift in a city of millions, clinging to the remnants of identities that had both saved and shattered her. And in the shadowed darkness of her balcony refuge, she faced the harrowing truth that there was no easy escape from the labyrinth within.
The sharp rap at the door reverberated through the spartan living room, slicing through the haze of Emily Prentiss's brooding thoughts. Reluctant to part from her solace on the balcony, she drew a deep breath and shuffled towards the peephole, the hem of the large white housecoat whispering against the cold floorboards.
Peering through the distorted fish-eye lens, her heart sank. Clyde Easter stood on the other side, his shaggy blond hair unkempt, concern etching his rugged features. The sight of him, stoic and expectant, elicited a groan from deep within her. "How the hell'd he find me?" she muttered, her voice laced with fatigue.
"Emily, open the door," Clyde's voice filtered through, even and calm.
"Go away, Clyde," she shot back, her words sharp as flint. The housecoat hung loosely on her frame, a barrier between her and the world she no longer felt equipped to face.
"Emily, I'm worried about you," he persisted, his concern seeping through the wood that separated them. "You've been radio silent since Doyle's arrest. We need to talk."
Her fingers curled into fists, the fabric of the housecoat wrinkling under her grasp. "There's nothing to discuss," she retorted, but her voice wavered, betraying the turmoil churning beneath her composed façade.
"Is that really what you believe, or is that just the exhaustion talking?" Clyde probed further. His words were a gentle nudge against the ramparts she had erected around herself.
"Please, Em, this isn't about the case. It's been months. I just want to make sure you're alright." Clyde's tone was insistent yet gentle, the timbre of a friend treading into the sanctum of her self-imposed exile.
"Your concern is noted. Now leave," Emily said, her curt response final as she retreated from the door. But Clyde was persistent, his voice threading through the wood with a resonance that echoed memories of shared camaraderie and former battles fought side by side.
"Come on, Em. Just let me in. We can talk, or not talk. I'll just sit here until you're ready." His plea hung in the air, a testament to his unwavering loyalty, but she wasn't ready to dismantle her defenses—not for Clyde Easter, not for anyone.
"Talking won't change anything," she snapped, her voice a whip-crack in the silence that followed. The discord within her raged—a tempest of despair and defiance—as she waged war against the compassion she could ill afford.
"Em, please." The softness in Clyde's appeal struck a chord she'd thought long severed, the melody of concern disarming in its sincerity.
Yet Emily stood firm, the sentinel unswayed, her heart encased in a carapace of scars and shadows. She would not yield; she could not risk the exposure of her fractured soul to even the most well-intentioned of invasions.
"Alright," Clyde finally conceded, though the weight of his hesitation suggested this wasn't over. "But I'll be back. You're not alone, Emily. Remember that."
As his footsteps receded, Emily sagged against the door, relief flooding her battered senses. She was alone again, yet the echo of his words lingered, stirring the embers of longing she'd thought long extinguished.
The hours had ticked by unnoticed, the sun now high in the sky, casting golden rays through the window. Emily remained motionless on the floor, her gaze fixed blankly on the state of her apartment, a reflection of the chaos in her own life. The scattered papers and overturned furniture mirrored the disarray within her mind.
But Clyde couldn't see her crumbling from the weight of it all. She was too afraid to let him see her vulnerable.
As footsteps approached her apartment door, Emily's heart quickened with anticipation. She watched as Clyde's shadow loomed through the peephole, his presence demanding and insistent even from behind closed doors. She could almost picture the determined set of his jaw, the unwavering determination in his piercing eyes - traits she knew well.
And yet, she couldn't bring herself to open the door. Fear held her in its grip, paralyzing any attempt to let him in.
"Emily," Clyde's voice filtered through the wood, a calm yet urgent tide against the shore of her resolve. "We've been through more than our fair share of hell and back. I'm not about to walk away now when you need me the most."
A pang of something—was it nostalgia?—fluttered in her chest, but she quashed it mercilessly. This was not a time for weakness; this was survival.
"Remember Malta?" he continued, undeterred by her silence. "Or that time in Prague when you saved my neck from that mess with the arms dealer?"
Memories unfurled like dark blossoms in her mind, images of gunfire and narrow escapes, but always a constant—a partnership built on trust. It was an unwelcome intrusion, one she couldn't afford. Her fingers tensed further around the fabric of her housecoat, the white threads stark against her skin.
"Dammit, Em. Open the door," Clyde insisted, his words laced with an earnestness that gnawed at her fortifications.
The seconds stretched taut between them, each tick a hammer strike against the walls she erected. Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of her fractured world, Emily unlatched the door.
Clyde stepped into the dimly lit space, his eyes quickly scanning the disarray before settling on her. He took in her haggard appearance, the way she clutched the housecoat like a lifeline, and his mouth set in a grim line.
Without a word, he began picking up strewn papers, tidying the chaos that mirrored the tumult within her. Emily watched him warily, every muscle coiled tight, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. The scent of coffee grounds and rain-soaked streets wafted in from the open window, mingling with the sterile air of neglect.
"Stop," she whispered, her voice brittle as glass. "Just...stop."
But Clyde only paused to look at her, his blue eyes a lighthouse beam cutting through the fog of her desolation.
"Let me do this for you," he said softly, resuming his work with careful, deliberate movements.
Emily's breath hitched at the kindness, at the genuine concern etched in every line of his face. She wanted to scream, to unleash the storm inside her, but the energy required for such an outburst eluded her grasp. Instead, she remained frozen, an ice sculpture in the midst of thawing, as Clyde Easter, her steadfast friend, began piecing together the fragments of her life.
Clyde's fingers gripped the edge of the curtains, drawing them back with a decisive motion that flooded the dimly lit room with the hesitant morning light. A sliver of Seattle's skyline peeked through the cloud cover, its steel and glass bones a stark contrast to the apartment's disheveled interior.
"Better to let some light in, don't you think?" Clyde ventured, his voice laced with an optimism that felt foreign in the cramped space.
Emily's response was a noncommittal hum, her eyes tracking his every movement with growing irritation. She perched on the edge of the sofa, the white housecoat still clung to her like a shroud. As he righted a fallen vase and swept up broken shards, his attempts at sprucing up the place grated against her frayed nerves.
"Remember that safe house in Krakow?" Clyde quipped, trying to pierce the silence with a shared memory. "You wouldn't rest until we found curtains that could actually block out the sun."
"Things change," Emily snapped, her voice sharp as shattered glass. The past was not a sanctuary but a minefield, each recollection another step closer to detonation.
Emily's lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze following Clyde's movements as he continued his impromptu cleaning service. She watched him straighten a pile of magazines, aligning their edges with meticulous care. The sight grated on her nerves—this domestic normalcy was a stark contrast to the chaos that had become her life.
"Have you considered a new career in housekeeping?" she remarked dryly, her voice devoid of humor.
"Ah," Clyde chuckled, ignoring the barb, "just keeping my skills sharp, love. Never know when they'll come in handy."
Each sweep of his arm, each tidied corner, felt like an indictment of her current state. Emily's defenses, already frayed, began to splinter under the weight of these simple acts of kindness.
"Stop it, Clyde," she snapped, her voice rising with an edge of desperation. "I don't need your pity or your cleaning. Just...leave."
He halted, his back to her as he processed her demand. Slowly, he turned, his blue eyes searching hers for a sign of the formidable agent he knew. Instead, he found a haunted reflection—a wounded soul peering out from behind barricaded walls.
"Emily," he began, his tone earnest, "you're not alone in this. I won't pretend everything's alright, but I'm not going anywhere."
"Great," she muttered, her sarcasm a flimsy veil for her vulnerability, "because what I really need right now is a babysitter."
Ignoring her sarcasm, Clyde moved to the kitchen, his hands opening cupboards only to find them as barren as the refrigerator—a haunting emptiness that mirrored the void in Emily's life. He sighed, closing the cabinet door with a soft thud.
"Look, let me order us some takeout," he suggested, reaching for his phone. "What are you in the mood for? Chinese? Pizza?"
"Nothing," she said, turning away, her arms hugging herself tighter. "I'm not hungry."
"Emily, please." The plea in Clyde's voice was gentle, yet insistent. "A shower, maybe? Freshen up whilst I go fetch us something to eat?"
Her shoulders dropped, the fight seeping out of her as she realized the futility of resistance. Clyde wasn't leaving—not without ensuring she had at least one proper meal. And perhaps, deep down, beneath layers of pride and pain, she was grateful for his stubbornness.
"Fine," she conceded, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I want Indian. Spicy."
"Spicy it is." A small smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, recognizing this as a small victory—a crack in the armor she had so carefully constructed.
As he stepped out into the brisk Seattle air, the door closing with a soft click behind him, Clyde's thoughts lingered on Emily. He would bring back more than just food; he'd bring back a lifeline to the friend he refused to abandon.
The click of the latch resonated through the sparsely furnished apartment like an echo in a cavern, leaving Emily enveloped in a sudden and profound stillness. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders slumping as the last vestige of Clyde's presence dissipated into the Seattle air. Solitude wrapped around her, a familiar yet oppressive shroud that both comforted and constricted.
Dragging herself away from the door, Emily's movements were lethargic, each step towards the bathroom weighed down by the burden of her own fractured psyche. The worn carpet fibers scraped softly underfoot, the mundane sound a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts storming through her mind.
Once inside the bathroom, she faced the mirror, its cold surface reflecting a stranger back at her. Dark hair hung limply around hollowed cheeks, eyes once sharp with cunning now dulled by a sorrow they couldn't conceal. Her lips parted as if to speak to the woman in the glass, but no words came—there was nothing left to say that could bridge the chasm between who Emily Prentiss was and who she had become.
Her hands, trembling with trepidation, worked mechanically to shed the cocoon of clothing that felt more like a shroud than a comfort. Fabric pooled around her feet, exposing skin marred by the shadows of her recent ordeals. As her gaze inevitably drifted downward, a visceral sense of alienation gripped her.
There, gently curving beneath her ribs, was the undeniable swell of her pregnancy—a tangible reminder of Ian Doyle, of Lauren Reynolds, of a life that was as much a part of her as it was a foreign entity invading her body. Her fingers brushed against the gentle protuberance, the contact sending an electric jolt of reality surging through her.
A sob clawed its way up from the depths of her throat, raw and unrestrained, tearing through the silence with the ferocity of a tempest. Emily sank to the shower floor, the cool tiles a harsh juxtaposition to the heat of her tears. She curled inward, arms wrapping protectively around the burgeoning life within her, as if her embrace could shield them both from the world's cruelty.
"Who are you?" she whispered to her reflection, the question more an accusation than an inquiry. It hung there, unanswered, in the steam-filled air, the weight of her solitude pressing down upon her chest until breathing felt like an insurmountable task.
In the seclusion of her apartment, with only the distant hum of the city as company, Emily Prentiss grappled with the duality of her existence—caught between the resilient agent she once was and the vulnerable woman she had yet to accept she might become. The tears flowed unabated, each one a silent testament to her struggle, to the painful metamorphosis that had only just begun.
Thanks for the read! Comment, share and subscribe or whatever