Billions and billions of excerpts
Here is the rest of the excerpts. Close My Eyes helps if you read this excerpt first. Father's Joy is based on a kink meme prompt of Morgan and Reid asking Emily to be their baby momma. See How Deep the Bullet Lies probably won't make much sense whatever I say.
Emily stared at Reid's desk from her position against the kitchenette counter. He and JJ were staring at each other, as though each trying to discern some hidden secret hidden in their micro-expressions.
They were side on, so it was difficult to tell exactly what their micro-expressions were saying, but JJ said something, and Reid picked up the small stack of cards lying face down between them.
Grabbing a couple of packets of Splenda, Emily returned to her desk, just in time to see Morgan join them, his own coffee in hand. For a few moments, they watched, as JJ and Reid continued their game.
'You realize that he's cheating don't you, JJ?' Morgan asked.
'Actually, they both are,' Emily pointed out. 'You'd think that a guy who grew up in Vegas, and a woman who used to bluff reporters for a living wouldn't need to cheat to win.'
'Says the woman that lied about her secret past for five years,' Morgan ribbed gently. Emily rolled her eyes. Morgan seemed to have adjusted remarkably well from her return, but that didn't stop him from making jokes about it, as if trying to ensure that the situation never got too tense.
'Talking about my "secret past" is a little rich coming from the guy that secretly listens to Bad Romance while he's working out, isn't it?'
'Hey, man. Don't knock the Gaga. Her songs are catchy.'
'Is that why you sing along?'
'Is this how today is gonna go, huh? Constantly trying to one-up each other? Girl, you do not want to mess with me.'
'Um, guys?' JJ said. She gave them a look over the top of her cards. 'We're actually playing Cheat, so cheating is the whole point. And it usually works best when you don't actually tell the other player that you're cheating.'
There was a beat of silence.
'Oh.' Emily gave a weak smile. 'Sorry.'
'Don't be,' JJ said. Her smile had something of a malevolent glint to it. 'I'm winning.'
'It's one game where your ability to lie without noticeably changing your facial expressions actually works in your favor,' Reid commented nonchalantly. It took him several seconds to realize that the tone of the conversation had shifted dramatically.
'Hey there, crime-fighters.' Garcia's voice broke the awkward silence, as she entered the bullpen, tablet in one hand. 'We have a Defcon One in the briefing room.' Her voice sounded urgent, but it wasn't the same kind of urgency that Emily usually associated with brutal killings, or serial rapists.
'Defcon One?' Reid asked, as the four of them collected their gear and started to head up to the briefing room.
'Possible future terrorist attack,' Garcia explained, which was enough to get all of them moving just a little bit faster.
Morgan moved towards Rossi as he fell, but it was Hotch that managed to catch the other man before he hit the ground.
The local police had continued the chase, but realistically, there was nothing they could do, save waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Morgan tried to pull away the driver's side door, half worried that the impact would have jammed it. It didn't budge, but the window had smashed, so he snaked his arm across broken glass, finding Emily's wrist, and checking for a pulse. A little soft, but it was there.
The front of the SUV looked like it had taken a hit from a wrecking ball. On Emily's side, it had all but caved in. She was lucky she wasn't flattened.
His stomach roiled.
'How does it look?' Hotch asked, without letting go of Rossi. Morgan didn't answer.
'Prentiss. Emily, can you hear me?' Her face was covered in blood, and her body was limp. 'Emily?' he tried again, squeezing her hand.
'Morgan?' Her voice was so damned soft, and she groaned as her head rolled over to look at him.
'Hey, girl. Stay tight, okay. The ambulance is on its way. Can you squeeze my hand?'
'No,' she sobbed, her breath starting to come in short, fast gulps.
'Can you move your legs?'
'No.' Another sob. Even if she could move them, though, it probably wasn't a good idea. There was no point in trying to exacerbate the damage. She passed out again, and part of him felt that it was probably for the best. Panicking would only make her situation worse.
Still, he didn't let go of her hand.
Two ambulances arrived in record time, and it was with a heavy heart that he let go, stepping back to watch with Hotch as they cut her from the wreck.
Rossi, still unconscious, was pronounced as having nothing more than a mild concussion. 'Probably passed out from the shock,' the paramedic added, which wasn't exactly much consolation.
'I'm going to ride with him,' Hotch announced, the look on his face unreadable. 'If he wakes up, I don't want him to be alone.' Morgan didn't bother pointing out the fact that he'd already called JJ and Reid, both of whom were on their way to the closest hospital. There was a mother hen instinct in Hotch that seemed to apply to even Rossi.
'Okay,' Morgan agreed. 'I'll…' His words trailed off as he looked back towards the EMTs who were still trying to cut Emily out of the SUV. He wanted to be there, holding her hand, even if she couldn't feel it.
Minutes passed in agonizing slowness. In all his time as a law enforcement officer, Morgan had seen his fair share of car accidents, some just fender-benders, some that had patrol officers emptying their stomachs in nearby bushes.
In his memory, it didn't normally take this long. It was as though time had stretched out, like some kind of cruel torture.
His heart was racing when they finally managed to pull her onto the backboard. Somehow, it didn't seem quite as bad as he'd imagined - he'd imagined the prospect of amputation, or of horrific cuts all down her legs…
There was blood, of course, but it seemed to be isolated to the side of her head. The fact that she had been cognizant was a good sign, but he was willing to wait until an MRI told him otherwise before he stopped panicking.
'I've worked out a schedule,' Reid told her, as he diced carrots with almost preternatural speed, 'Based on your menstrual cycle and other factors that increase the chances of conception.'
'I'm not entirely sure I want to know how you've figured out my cycle without asking.'
'Well, in addition to mood-related factors, the onset of your menses is most often accompanied by increased frequency in urination-'
'Reid.' She gave him a look.
'Sorry,' he said, sounding amused, but apologetic. He turned his attention back towards the chart. 'These six days are probably the most important ones.' Reid pointed to the dates of the calendar highlighted in green. The rest of the chart was either yellow or red, the meaning of which Emily could figure out for herself. 'I've also drawn up a nutritional plan. You should probably start increasing your folic acid intake immediately. Increased protein is also recommended.' He gestured towards the other counter, where several pieces of fish were waiting to be grilled.
Emily almost laughed. She wasn't surprised - this was about what she had expected from Reid - but the amount of enthusiasm he had regarding the situation was almost overwhelming. She'd already had a Doctor's appointment to ensure that she was in the best state to conceive, but apparently Reid was going to take that to the next level.
'Do you have a position chart as well?' she joked, half sure that the answer was going to be "yes."
'Realistically speaking, the best positions are the ones that involve the sperm reaching the cervix,' he offered. 'Missionary sex and doggie-style sex both allow gravity to do the work, so to speak. Though,' he added, almost thoughtfully, 'Studies have shown that better sex increases the chances of conception. The muscular contractions of orgasm retain more sperm than in those women that don't achieve climax.'
Emily bit her lip. She wondered how long it would take for Reid to notice the pressing problem in his pants. 'So, um…when did Morgan say he'd be home?'
'He didn't. But based on his usual pattern, he should be home sometime between 6:30 and 7:00. Why do you ask?' She looked at her watch quickly. It was 6:15.
'Because I don't think you're gonna last that long.'
'Actually, I have impeccable stamina,' Reid said, as casually as if he were talking about dinner, or the weather. His posture took on a little bit of awkwardness as he added, 'But I would prefer that Morgan be here for it.'
'Oh.'
Yeah, that was definitely awkward.
Emily had known that there was going to be some weirdness surrounding the fact that she was essentially disrupting the lives of a committed couple, but she'd at least hoped it would have started after they'd had sex for the first time.
'Not because I don't find you sexually attractive,' he said quickly, apparently noticing the turn the conversation had taken. 'Because I've never had sex with a woman before and I don't want to screw it up.'
Emily smiled inwardly. Something that she'd noticed increasingly over the last few months, was that Reid and Morgan were adopting each other's mannerisms. Morgan's words often took on a more intellectual tone, while Reid had started using more colloquialisms. It was ridiculously endearing.
'I'm not sure you're actually capable of screwing something like that up,' she commented.
'I've read a lot about it,' he admitted. 'But there are discrepancies between theory and practice.'
'Well apart from the obvious physiological differences, sex is the same, no matter the gender of who you're screwing,' she offered. 'It's the same feeling, the same buzz…providing there is that attraction in the first place.'
Reid tilted his head slightly, as if trying to discern some deeper meaning behind her words. That was something she wasn't quite willing to get into yet.
'Perhaps I should get back to making dinner,' he said quickly. Apropos of nothing, he held up a rhizome of ginger. 'Increases blood-flow to the genitals, resulting in greater sensitivity.'
Emily stared at him, wondering exactly how many things on this nutritional plan of his were aphrodisiacs. Yeah, they'd probably have to have a lot of sex anyway (even though she knew so damn well that one time was all it took), but she didn't want to start getting horny at work, or on a case.
This could get really complicated.
You're alive.
That was the second thought that ran through Emily Prentiss' mind after she regained consciousness. The first was a blurred what the fuck is going on? which was assuaged only after opening her eyes and blinking several times.
Emily was no stranger to hospital rooms - to anyone that was counting, this was the fourth time she'd ended up in one during her tenure at the BAU. Technically speaking, the last three times had been brief stays involving MRIs and doctors making sure she wasn't about to pass out, but it still counted. There wasn't much need for any of the team to be around those times.
This time, though…
She'd hoped that she would have at least been worth someone sitting beside her bed, waiting to pass on the news.
Instead, she had an empty chair, and the slow, steady beat of the heart-rate monitor.
That's what happens when you betray the people you love.
She closed her eyes, trying to trap the tears that were threatening to escape. The memory of her last few minutes of consciousness was vague. Doyle, the stake, the pain, the blood.
A hand, gripping hers so damned tightly.
Begging her to stay alive.
After that, nothing but the cold and dark; her death.
If this was what they thought of her, then maybe she would have been better off staying dead. At least in mourning they might have had something nice to say about her.
Collecting herself, Emily took in the details of her surroundings. Private room, needle stuck in the back of her wrist, drip stand by the bed, oxygen mask covering her face, throat as coarse as sandpaper. Everything else was just plain, white and stark.
Not exactly a place that motivated convalescence.
Pain shot through Emily's abdomen as she tried to pull herself up. White spots assaulted her vision, and her hand clutched the bedrail in agony.
After a few moments of searching, her fingers found the call button on the bed remote, and pressed it frantically. Her breaths came in short fast gulps, and her heart was jackhammering. Emily knew that she was panicking, but she couldn't do a damn thing about it. It was as though she was an unwilling passenger on a journey that somebody else was driving.
She could feel her mind dropping back into the throes of unconsciousness, vaguely noticing a male nurse in light blue scrubs enter the room - maybe he spoke, but his words came out blurry and distorted.
At first, the darkness was some kind of solitary haven. It was absurd, really - the team obviously didn't want anything to do with her in real life, why should it be any different in her head?
It felt like only seconds had passed, but she knew that that was only a confabulation of her mind. Between sleep and wake, hours went by almost instantaneously. An abyss of emptiness, occupied only by dreams caught on the wind of memory.
Wow, those must have been some strong drugs.
As she tried to clear the fog from her eyes, she caught sight of the male figure sitting by her bedside. Strong, solid figure. Blonde. Not anyone from her team. At least, not her current team.
Clyde.
Through blurred vision, she saw his eyes lock onto hers. There was no point in trying to pretend to lose consciousness again. He was too smart for that.
'I'll get a doctor,' he said, moving to rise from his seat. With surprising speed, Emily found her hand reaching out to stop him.
'No, wait.' The words came out garbled through the oxygen mask, but he seemed to understand what she wanted without her even having to ask.
'You're alive,' he told her, in what was apparently supposed to be a comforting voice. 'So is Doyle.'
And there it was.
As muddled as her mind was, the enormity of the statement hit her hard.
They think you're dead.
Clyde, to his credit, was understanding of her sudden silence. He sat by her bed, unwavering, for the rest of the afternoon. Though neither of them mentioned he, Emily was sure that he was acting as some kind of surrogate for the people she really wanted to see, and that, she was grateful for.
'Who knows?' she asked, sometime later. She wasn't sure what time it was - judging by the dark atmosphere that had overcome them, it was nighttime, but Clyde had not made any signs of leaving.
'Agent Jareau and Agent Hotchner,' he told her. There was a slight pause. 'We also read your mother in.'
'Of course,' Emily laughed, wincing at the pain in her abdomen. Ambassador Prentiss' security clearance was as high as Emily's, but more than that, she figured that if her mother knew, then at the very least, all of her stuff might not get thrown out.
It was small comfort, especially considering the fact that she didn't know if she'd ever be coming back anyway.
If there was one thing Ian Doyle was good at, it was surviving.
The problem with Spectres was that they attracted attention. Especially human Spectres. It didn't help, of course, that Commander Shepard had perpetuated the idea of going around the galaxy head-butting everything that got in her way.
Not that they'd ever offered Emily Prentiss a position as a Spectre. In spite of what a lot of people thought, having a parent in politics wasn't a free-ride scenario. She worked for her promotions just like every other Alliance marine. At least she had before she'd been transferred into Spec Ops. In any case, she didn't particularly want to be a Spectre anyway: being "above the law" wasn't exactly a status that she approved of.
Some things required a little more finesse.
Of course, in this case, finesse meant "three years deep cover on Omega," which was about as appealing as taking a bullet in the kneecap. Out of all the mercenary hotspots in the universe, they sent her to the biggest scumhole in the Terminus Systems. At least on Illium you weren't likely to get jumped by Batarians just because they don't like they way you're eying them.
But no. Illium was one of the few places in the galaxy where Red Sand was actually legal - going undercover to stop a smuggling ring would have been next to useless.
So here she was.
Three years in, and she'd somehow managed to talk her way into being the right-hand woman of Ian Doyle, leader of Valhalla, as his merc group was known. Of course, she'd done more than just talking.
Valhalla weren't as bloodthirsty as the Blood Pack, or the Blue Suns, but they were bad enough. Smuggling drugs and weapons into human colonies was definitely one way to get Alliance Special Ops involved. As long as it didn't affect the Citadel, the old Council didn't seem to give a crap.
But things had changed, while she was undercover. The original Council was dead. Killed in the destruction of the Ascension during the Battle of the Citadel. And then a new Council had risen to power - a council with a human member.
As much as Emily might have disliked Shepard, she did have a way of getting things done. At least she had, before she'd been blown out of the sky. It just went to show that no matter how much of an icon someone was, they were just as mortal as everyone else.
Even though it had been almost two years since the Battle of the Citadel, the the paperwork on Operation Valhalla would probably take ten years for them to sort through. The only way the Council would find out was if they were told.
And maybe they had been.
Emily first realized that something was wrong at the sound of gunfire. Doyle was off-world, dealing with some kind of supplier issue. Normally, she would have accompanied him, but today she didn't.
Emily wasn't really sure if she believed in fate, but it was one hell of a day for Doyle to be busy elsewhere.
She ran into the control room, bringing up the security feed of the warehouse's entrance.
One guy with a shotgun.
No kidding.
She frowned at the sight of a patch on his shoulder. Shit. Spectre. Maybe the Council were paying more attention than she'd realized. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. A really shitty coincidence.
She couldn't very well let the death of a Spectre sit on her conscience, even if he kind of was asking for it by just waltzing in with a freaking shotgun.
Emily brought up her omni-tool and activated her cloak. Whoever the hell this Spectre was, he'd better have a damn good reason for screwing up her mission.
Emily stared at Reid's desk from her position against the kitchenette counter. He and JJ were staring at each other, as though each trying to discern some hidden secret hidden in their micro-expressions.
They were side on, so it was difficult to tell exactly what their micro-expressions were saying, but JJ said something, and Reid picked up the small stack of cards lying face down between them.
Grabbing a couple of packets of Splenda, Emily returned to her desk, just in time to see Morgan join them, his own coffee in hand. For a few moments, they watched, as JJ and Reid continued their game.
'You realize that he's cheating don't you, JJ?' Morgan asked.
'Actually, they both are,' Emily pointed out. 'You'd think that a guy who grew up in Vegas, and a woman who used to bluff reporters for a living wouldn't need to cheat to win.'
'Says the woman that lied about her secret past for five years,' Morgan ribbed gently. Emily rolled her eyes. Morgan seemed to have adjusted remarkably well from her return, but that didn't stop him from making jokes about it, as if trying to ensure that the situation never got too tense.
'Talking about my "secret past" is a little rich coming from the guy that secretly listens to Bad Romance while he's working out, isn't it?'
'Hey, man. Don't knock the Gaga. Her songs are catchy.'
'Is that why you sing along?'
'Is this how today is gonna go, huh? Constantly trying to one-up each other? Girl, you do not want to mess with me.'
'Um, guys?' JJ said. She gave them a look over the top of her cards. 'We're actually playing Cheat, so cheating is the whole point. And it usually works best when you don't actually tell the other player that you're cheating.'
There was a beat of silence.
'Oh.' Emily gave a weak smile. 'Sorry.'
'Don't be,' JJ said. Her smile had something of a malevolent glint to it. 'I'm winning.'
'It's one game where your ability to lie without noticeably changing your facial expressions actually works in your favor,' Reid commented nonchalantly. It took him several seconds to realize that the tone of the conversation had shifted dramatically.
'Hey there, crime-fighters.' Garcia's voice broke the awkward silence, as she entered the bullpen, tablet in one hand. 'We have a Defcon One in the briefing room.' Her voice sounded urgent, but it wasn't the same kind of urgency that Emily usually associated with brutal killings, or serial rapists.
'Defcon One?' Reid asked, as the four of them collected their gear and started to head up to the briefing room.
'Possible future terrorist attack,' Garcia explained, which was enough to get all of them moving just a little bit faster.
Morgan moved towards Rossi as he fell, but it was Hotch that managed to catch the other man before he hit the ground.
The local police had continued the chase, but realistically, there was nothing they could do, save waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Morgan tried to pull away the driver's side door, half worried that the impact would have jammed it. It didn't budge, but the window had smashed, so he snaked his arm across broken glass, finding Emily's wrist, and checking for a pulse. A little soft, but it was there.
The front of the SUV looked like it had taken a hit from a wrecking ball. On Emily's side, it had all but caved in. She was lucky she wasn't flattened.
His stomach roiled.
'How does it look?' Hotch asked, without letting go of Rossi. Morgan didn't answer.
'Prentiss. Emily, can you hear me?' Her face was covered in blood, and her body was limp. 'Emily?' he tried again, squeezing her hand.
'Morgan?' Her voice was so damned soft, and she groaned as her head rolled over to look at him.
'Hey, girl. Stay tight, okay. The ambulance is on its way. Can you squeeze my hand?'
'No,' she sobbed, her breath starting to come in short, fast gulps.
'Can you move your legs?'
'No.' Another sob. Even if she could move them, though, it probably wasn't a good idea. There was no point in trying to exacerbate the damage. She passed out again, and part of him felt that it was probably for the best. Panicking would only make her situation worse.
Still, he didn't let go of her hand.
Two ambulances arrived in record time, and it was with a heavy heart that he let go, stepping back to watch with Hotch as they cut her from the wreck.
Rossi, still unconscious, was pronounced as having nothing more than a mild concussion. 'Probably passed out from the shock,' the paramedic added, which wasn't exactly much consolation.
'I'm going to ride with him,' Hotch announced, the look on his face unreadable. 'If he wakes up, I don't want him to be alone.' Morgan didn't bother pointing out the fact that he'd already called JJ and Reid, both of whom were on their way to the closest hospital. There was a mother hen instinct in Hotch that seemed to apply to even Rossi.
'Okay,' Morgan agreed. 'I'll…' His words trailed off as he looked back towards the EMTs who were still trying to cut Emily out of the SUV. He wanted to be there, holding her hand, even if she couldn't feel it.
Minutes passed in agonizing slowness. In all his time as a law enforcement officer, Morgan had seen his fair share of car accidents, some just fender-benders, some that had patrol officers emptying their stomachs in nearby bushes.
In his memory, it didn't normally take this long. It was as though time had stretched out, like some kind of cruel torture.
His heart was racing when they finally managed to pull her onto the backboard. Somehow, it didn't seem quite as bad as he'd imagined - he'd imagined the prospect of amputation, or of horrific cuts all down her legs…
There was blood, of course, but it seemed to be isolated to the side of her head. The fact that she had been cognizant was a good sign, but he was willing to wait until an MRI told him otherwise before he stopped panicking.
'I've worked out a schedule,' Reid told her, as he diced carrots with almost preternatural speed, 'Based on your menstrual cycle and other factors that increase the chances of conception.'
'I'm not entirely sure I want to know how you've figured out my cycle without asking.'
'Well, in addition to mood-related factors, the onset of your menses is most often accompanied by increased frequency in urination-'
'Reid.' She gave him a look.
'Sorry,' he said, sounding amused, but apologetic. He turned his attention back towards the chart. 'These six days are probably the most important ones.' Reid pointed to the dates of the calendar highlighted in green. The rest of the chart was either yellow or red, the meaning of which Emily could figure out for herself. 'I've also drawn up a nutritional plan. You should probably start increasing your folic acid intake immediately. Increased protein is also recommended.' He gestured towards the other counter, where several pieces of fish were waiting to be grilled.
Emily almost laughed. She wasn't surprised - this was about what she had expected from Reid - but the amount of enthusiasm he had regarding the situation was almost overwhelming. She'd already had a Doctor's appointment to ensure that she was in the best state to conceive, but apparently Reid was going to take that to the next level.
'Do you have a position chart as well?' she joked, half sure that the answer was going to be "yes."
'Realistically speaking, the best positions are the ones that involve the sperm reaching the cervix,' he offered. 'Missionary sex and doggie-style sex both allow gravity to do the work, so to speak. Though,' he added, almost thoughtfully, 'Studies have shown that better sex increases the chances of conception. The muscular contractions of orgasm retain more sperm than in those women that don't achieve climax.'
Emily bit her lip. She wondered how long it would take for Reid to notice the pressing problem in his pants. 'So, um…when did Morgan say he'd be home?'
'He didn't. But based on his usual pattern, he should be home sometime between 6:30 and 7:00. Why do you ask?' She looked at her watch quickly. It was 6:15.
'Because I don't think you're gonna last that long.'
'Actually, I have impeccable stamina,' Reid said, as casually as if he were talking about dinner, or the weather. His posture took on a little bit of awkwardness as he added, 'But I would prefer that Morgan be here for it.'
'Oh.'
Yeah, that was definitely awkward.
Emily had known that there was going to be some weirdness surrounding the fact that she was essentially disrupting the lives of a committed couple, but she'd at least hoped it would have started after they'd had sex for the first time.
'Not because I don't find you sexually attractive,' he said quickly, apparently noticing the turn the conversation had taken. 'Because I've never had sex with a woman before and I don't want to screw it up.'
Emily smiled inwardly. Something that she'd noticed increasingly over the last few months, was that Reid and Morgan were adopting each other's mannerisms. Morgan's words often took on a more intellectual tone, while Reid had started using more colloquialisms. It was ridiculously endearing.
'I'm not sure you're actually capable of screwing something like that up,' she commented.
'I've read a lot about it,' he admitted. 'But there are discrepancies between theory and practice.'
'Well apart from the obvious physiological differences, sex is the same, no matter the gender of who you're screwing,' she offered. 'It's the same feeling, the same buzz…providing there is that attraction in the first place.'
Reid tilted his head slightly, as if trying to discern some deeper meaning behind her words. That was something she wasn't quite willing to get into yet.
'Perhaps I should get back to making dinner,' he said quickly. Apropos of nothing, he held up a rhizome of ginger. 'Increases blood-flow to the genitals, resulting in greater sensitivity.'
Emily stared at him, wondering exactly how many things on this nutritional plan of his were aphrodisiacs. Yeah, they'd probably have to have a lot of sex anyway (even though she knew so damn well that one time was all it took), but she didn't want to start getting horny at work, or on a case.
This could get really complicated.
You're alive.
That was the second thought that ran through Emily Prentiss' mind after she regained consciousness. The first was a blurred what the fuck is going on? which was assuaged only after opening her eyes and blinking several times.
Emily was no stranger to hospital rooms - to anyone that was counting, this was the fourth time she'd ended up in one during her tenure at the BAU. Technically speaking, the last three times had been brief stays involving MRIs and doctors making sure she wasn't about to pass out, but it still counted. There wasn't much need for any of the team to be around those times.
This time, though…
She'd hoped that she would have at least been worth someone sitting beside her bed, waiting to pass on the news.
Instead, she had an empty chair, and the slow, steady beat of the heart-rate monitor.
That's what happens when you betray the people you love.
She closed her eyes, trying to trap the tears that were threatening to escape. The memory of her last few minutes of consciousness was vague. Doyle, the stake, the pain, the blood.
A hand, gripping hers so damned tightly.
Begging her to stay alive.
After that, nothing but the cold and dark; her death.
If this was what they thought of her, then maybe she would have been better off staying dead. At least in mourning they might have had something nice to say about her.
Collecting herself, Emily took in the details of her surroundings. Private room, needle stuck in the back of her wrist, drip stand by the bed, oxygen mask covering her face, throat as coarse as sandpaper. Everything else was just plain, white and stark.
Not exactly a place that motivated convalescence.
Pain shot through Emily's abdomen as she tried to pull herself up. White spots assaulted her vision, and her hand clutched the bedrail in agony.
After a few moments of searching, her fingers found the call button on the bed remote, and pressed it frantically. Her breaths came in short fast gulps, and her heart was jackhammering. Emily knew that she was panicking, but she couldn't do a damn thing about it. It was as though she was an unwilling passenger on a journey that somebody else was driving.
She could feel her mind dropping back into the throes of unconsciousness, vaguely noticing a male nurse in light blue scrubs enter the room - maybe he spoke, but his words came out blurry and distorted.
At first, the darkness was some kind of solitary haven. It was absurd, really - the team obviously didn't want anything to do with her in real life, why should it be any different in her head?
It felt like only seconds had passed, but she knew that that was only a confabulation of her mind. Between sleep and wake, hours went by almost instantaneously. An abyss of emptiness, occupied only by dreams caught on the wind of memory.
Wow, those must have been some strong drugs.
As she tried to clear the fog from her eyes, she caught sight of the male figure sitting by her bedside. Strong, solid figure. Blonde. Not anyone from her team. At least, not her current team.
Clyde.
Through blurred vision, she saw his eyes lock onto hers. There was no point in trying to pretend to lose consciousness again. He was too smart for that.
'I'll get a doctor,' he said, moving to rise from his seat. With surprising speed, Emily found her hand reaching out to stop him.
'No, wait.' The words came out garbled through the oxygen mask, but he seemed to understand what she wanted without her even having to ask.
'You're alive,' he told her, in what was apparently supposed to be a comforting voice. 'So is Doyle.'
And there it was.
As muddled as her mind was, the enormity of the statement hit her hard.
They think you're dead.
Clyde, to his credit, was understanding of her sudden silence. He sat by her bed, unwavering, for the rest of the afternoon. Though neither of them mentioned he, Emily was sure that he was acting as some kind of surrogate for the people she really wanted to see, and that, she was grateful for.
'Who knows?' she asked, sometime later. She wasn't sure what time it was - judging by the dark atmosphere that had overcome them, it was nighttime, but Clyde had not made any signs of leaving.
'Agent Jareau and Agent Hotchner,' he told her. There was a slight pause. 'We also read your mother in.'
'Of course,' Emily laughed, wincing at the pain in her abdomen. Ambassador Prentiss' security clearance was as high as Emily's, but more than that, she figured that if her mother knew, then at the very least, all of her stuff might not get thrown out.
It was small comfort, especially considering the fact that she didn't know if she'd ever be coming back anyway.
If there was one thing Ian Doyle was good at, it was surviving.
The problem with Spectres was that they attracted attention. Especially human Spectres. It didn't help, of course, that Commander Shepard had perpetuated the idea of going around the galaxy head-butting everything that got in her way.
Not that they'd ever offered Emily Prentiss a position as a Spectre. In spite of what a lot of people thought, having a parent in politics wasn't a free-ride scenario. She worked for her promotions just like every other Alliance marine. At least she had before she'd been transferred into Spec Ops. In any case, she didn't particularly want to be a Spectre anyway: being "above the law" wasn't exactly a status that she approved of.
Some things required a little more finesse.
Of course, in this case, finesse meant "three years deep cover on Omega," which was about as appealing as taking a bullet in the kneecap. Out of all the mercenary hotspots in the universe, they sent her to the biggest scumhole in the Terminus Systems. At least on Illium you weren't likely to get jumped by Batarians just because they don't like they way you're eying them.
But no. Illium was one of the few places in the galaxy where Red Sand was actually legal - going undercover to stop a smuggling ring would have been next to useless.
So here she was.
Three years in, and she'd somehow managed to talk her way into being the right-hand woman of Ian Doyle, leader of Valhalla, as his merc group was known. Of course, she'd done more than just talking.
Valhalla weren't as bloodthirsty as the Blood Pack, or the Blue Suns, but they were bad enough. Smuggling drugs and weapons into human colonies was definitely one way to get Alliance Special Ops involved. As long as it didn't affect the Citadel, the old Council didn't seem to give a crap.
But things had changed, while she was undercover. The original Council was dead. Killed in the destruction of the Ascension during the Battle of the Citadel. And then a new Council had risen to power - a council with a human member.
As much as Emily might have disliked Shepard, she did have a way of getting things done. At least she had, before she'd been blown out of the sky. It just went to show that no matter how much of an icon someone was, they were just as mortal as everyone else.
Even though it had been almost two years since the Battle of the Citadel, the the paperwork on Operation Valhalla would probably take ten years for them to sort through. The only way the Council would find out was if they were told.
And maybe they had been.
Emily first realized that something was wrong at the sound of gunfire. Doyle was off-world, dealing with some kind of supplier issue. Normally, she would have accompanied him, but today she didn't.
Emily wasn't really sure if she believed in fate, but it was one hell of a day for Doyle to be busy elsewhere.
She ran into the control room, bringing up the security feed of the warehouse's entrance.
One guy with a shotgun.
No kidding.
She frowned at the sight of a patch on his shoulder. Shit. Spectre. Maybe the Council were paying more attention than she'd realized. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. A really shitty coincidence.
She couldn't very well let the death of a Spectre sit on her conscience, even if he kind of was asking for it by just waltzing in with a freaking shotgun.
Emily brought up her omni-tool and activated her cloak. Whoever the hell this Spectre was, he'd better have a damn good reason for screwing up her mission.