CM--Strength, Part 2
Title: Strength, Part 2
Author: kosmickway
Rating: PG
Pairings: Prentiss/Rossi
Spoilers: Through “Lauren” in season 6, although this is rather more of an alternate ending-the BETTER ending ;)
Author's Notes: This is based on a scene I wrote about in my 5-part fic “Combustion.” Garcia tells Rossi she saw him talking to Emily in the hospital after she was attacked by (and saved from) Doyle and she could tell right at that moment that he loved Emily. So I took the scene and built this story around it. Reading “Combustion” isn’t necessary to understanding this but, hey, I would, cause it’s awesome! ;)
A/N 2: This isn’t holiday based at all. Sorry. But it’s the only thing I’ve been writing recently, so here it is. Hope you enjoy it anyway.
***
Emily fell asleep on the couch in the middle of their marathon of fantastically corny “Star Trek: The Original Series” episodes, so Dave took the opportunity to leave her napping and start cooking the dinner he’d planned.
Garcia had made good on promise to stock Emily’s kitchen with the items he’d requested the previous day. He’d even made her swear that she’d adhere to very specific brands and she hadn’t disappointed-all of the sauce, pasta, and cheese, and spices he needed for working magic were in the cupboards.
As he began grating fresh Parmesan, he let his eyes wander around the kitchen--his hands could do the familiar task easily enough. On the counter separating the kitchen work area with the breakfast nook was a spiral bound notebook with thick, tough covers that had several colored pencils sticking out from between the pages. Curiosity aroused-who knew Emily was an artist?-he wiped his fingers on a dishtowel, gave the sauce simmering on the stovetop a stir, and surreptitiously checked the living room. Emily was still sound asleep on the couch.
He nudged open the sketchbook to the page where the colored pencils lay and took in the drawing. It was an Irish claddagh, a symbol he’d learned about from Carolyn. Heart, hands, crown-love, friendship, loyalty. A sign of love and fidelity, Carolyn had explained that the claddagh was sometimes used as a wedding band. This claddagh, however, was on fire and melting down the page amidst a corona of bluish-purple flames. Written in a neat circle around the flaming claddagh were the words: “There are other people who understand shadows. The fire-born understand. The fire-born know where shadows come from and why they are. Only the fire-born can understand blue. ”
On the next page was another claddagh, this one exploding under the heat of flame, pieces disintegrating in a fireball. The words this time were from a song that had been popular earlier in the year-- Rossi remembered Morgan subjecting him to it on the way to a scene one day. “Just gonna stand here and watch me burn? It’s all right because I like the way it hurts. Just gonna stand there and hear me cry? It’s all right because I love the way you lie.”
The rest was the fairly standard sketchbook fare-landscapes, portraits, doodles. Rossi found his teammates in its pages several times and was both amused and strangely aroused by the fact that he found his own face and hands-his signet ring is a dead give-away-- there more often than the others.
“Your sauce is boiling over.” Emily’s sleepy voice came from behind him.
Rossi set the sketchbook back on the counter and turned back to the stove, trying to keep from blushing. “No harm done,” he said, stirring and adding in some garlic, not ready to look at her until he’d determined whether she was angry at his snooping.
“You always go looking through your friend’s belongings?” she asked, her voice amused.
“Only when they aren’t likely to catch me.” He turned the sauce down lower and pulled out a stock pot to boil water in for the pasta. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“Turned over and pulled my stitches,” she said matter-of-factly. “No feeling quite like that one for waking you up.”
Rossi winced. “You okay?”
“I’ll take some Advil and be fine.” She took the pills out of the cabinet closest to the sink and hunted in the fridge for a bottle of water.
“Sure you don’t want a Percocet?”
“Not if I want to have a coherent thought in my head for the rest of the night.” She swallowed the pills, chased them with water, and circled around the work area to one of the high ladder-backed chairs in the breakfast nook. Perching on the chair, she flipped through the sketchbook.
“A little too angst-ridden teenager, I’ll admit,” she said, picking up a blue pencil to fill in more of the flame on the first claddagh. “But sometimes life really is a cliché. You can’t tell me this whole adventure of mine hasn’t sounded like some really bad spy novel or TV soap opera.”
Rossi laughed. “It’s definitely had its moments, yes.”
“Sometimes I look at my life and I can’t believe that it’s mine, you know? We go through more in one month on this job than some people do in a life time. There’s no opportunity to live a quiet life, not when we’re out chasing unsubs and terrorists and being shot, stabbed, stalked, or bombed.” She gestured at the kitchen and the preparations for dinner. “This is one of the most normal evenings I can remember having… ever! What does that say about the life we lead? And what does it say about me that I can’t relax enough to enjoy it?”
Rossi studied her as he began browning Italian sausage. “It says you’re still dealing with the events of the last few months. Anyone would be. You’ve been on your guard for so long it’s hard to turn it off.”
“If it had been any other unsub stalking me, I could have handled it,” Emily said. “But because it was Ian, because I had a history with him, no matter how playacted and scripted that history was, I let my emotions get involved. And it almost got my killed.”
“So there WAS more to you going after Doyle than just trying to protect us?”
“Yes,” she admitted simply. She turned back to the page in the sketchbook with the melting claddagh and read the lyrics surrounding it aloud, “There are other people who understand shadows. The fire-born understand. The fire-born know where shadows come from and why they are.” She let the pages fall shut. “I understood him-- on some level, at least. And he understood me. And that’s what hurt the most, you know-that he’d use what he knew about me against me. And I’m sure it hurt him when I did the same. We’re fire-born. We understand each other.”
Rossi studied her. “He really got under your skin, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. With a 12 inch sharpened table leg,” she replied sardonically.
Rossi winced. “That was a really unfortunate turn of phrase. Sorry. What I meant was-“
“I know what you meant, Dave. And yes, he got to me. Of course he did. The same way there’s unsolved cases and unsubs that get to you.” She sighed. “Let’s hope that the ‘getting to you’ is never as literal as mine was.” She lightly rubbed her fingers over her abdomen, where Rossi could make out the shape of the large square of gauze bandaging covering the mostly healed wound and the neat stitches holding it together.
“If there was any way that it could have been me, Emily …”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. “Don’t say that. I wouldn’t want this for you. And you shouldn’t want it for yourself.” She met his eyes. “This will be a reminder of how stupid I was to go after him in the first place. Every time I look in the mirror, I’ll remember my mistake.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little too hard on yourself?” he chided gently. “You did what you thought was necessary at the time. And you did it to protect us. Give yourself a little credit for being willing to take one for the team, so to speak.”
He poured the cooked pasta into a colander to drain the water and tossed it with butter and crushed garlic. “You are an amazing woman, Emily Prentiss, for so many reasons. You’re courageous as hell, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re beautiful.” He jerked his head toward the sketchbook. “You’re one hell of a talented artist. Ease up on yourself a bit. Let it go-if not permanently then just for now. Have dinner with me-you’ll love this, I promise. Watch TV or a movie with me. Enjoy being out of the hospital.”
He crossed to the counter separating the kitchen from the breakfast nook and leaned across to cup Emily’s cheek. “Enjoy being with me as much as I enjoy being with you.”
He felt Emily’s face stretch into a smile under his palm. “You’re a smooth talker, Dave Rossi. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“I’ve been told it’s one of my more charming qualities.” He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone and then let his hand drop. “I’m a hell of a cook, too.”
“So I’ve heard.” Emily stood and made her way into the kitchen, slowly but surely. “Let me set the table and get out some wine so we can put it to the test.”
Dave watched her move around, pulling out silverware and plates, and felt a sense of contentment wash over him. “Emily?”
“Yeah?” She set the silverware onto the counter with a clatter and began hunting for matching napkins and placemats.
“Did I mention earlier that I think you’re sexy as hell?”
Emily turned to meet his gaze, a blush staining her cheeks. “No, you didn’t.”
“You are. And I do. You okay with that?”
Emily grinned. The blush on her cheeks made her look healthier and, to Dave’s mind, even more beautiful. “Yeah. I’m okay with that.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
Author: kosmickway
Rating: PG
Pairings: Prentiss/Rossi
Spoilers: Through “Lauren” in season 6, although this is rather more of an alternate ending-the BETTER ending ;)
Author's Notes: This is based on a scene I wrote about in my 5-part fic “Combustion.” Garcia tells Rossi she saw him talking to Emily in the hospital after she was attacked by (and saved from) Doyle and she could tell right at that moment that he loved Emily. So I took the scene and built this story around it. Reading “Combustion” isn’t necessary to understanding this but, hey, I would, cause it’s awesome! ;)
A/N 2: This isn’t holiday based at all. Sorry. But it’s the only thing I’ve been writing recently, so here it is. Hope you enjoy it anyway.
***
Emily fell asleep on the couch in the middle of their marathon of fantastically corny “Star Trek: The Original Series” episodes, so Dave took the opportunity to leave her napping and start cooking the dinner he’d planned.
Garcia had made good on promise to stock Emily’s kitchen with the items he’d requested the previous day. He’d even made her swear that she’d adhere to very specific brands and she hadn’t disappointed-all of the sauce, pasta, and cheese, and spices he needed for working magic were in the cupboards.
As he began grating fresh Parmesan, he let his eyes wander around the kitchen--his hands could do the familiar task easily enough. On the counter separating the kitchen work area with the breakfast nook was a spiral bound notebook with thick, tough covers that had several colored pencils sticking out from between the pages. Curiosity aroused-who knew Emily was an artist?-he wiped his fingers on a dishtowel, gave the sauce simmering on the stovetop a stir, and surreptitiously checked the living room. Emily was still sound asleep on the couch.
He nudged open the sketchbook to the page where the colored pencils lay and took in the drawing. It was an Irish claddagh, a symbol he’d learned about from Carolyn. Heart, hands, crown-love, friendship, loyalty. A sign of love and fidelity, Carolyn had explained that the claddagh was sometimes used as a wedding band. This claddagh, however, was on fire and melting down the page amidst a corona of bluish-purple flames. Written in a neat circle around the flaming claddagh were the words: “There are other people who understand shadows. The fire-born understand. The fire-born know where shadows come from and why they are. Only the fire-born can understand blue. ”
On the next page was another claddagh, this one exploding under the heat of flame, pieces disintegrating in a fireball. The words this time were from a song that had been popular earlier in the year-- Rossi remembered Morgan subjecting him to it on the way to a scene one day. “Just gonna stand here and watch me burn? It’s all right because I like the way it hurts. Just gonna stand there and hear me cry? It’s all right because I love the way you lie.”
The rest was the fairly standard sketchbook fare-landscapes, portraits, doodles. Rossi found his teammates in its pages several times and was both amused and strangely aroused by the fact that he found his own face and hands-his signet ring is a dead give-away-- there more often than the others.
“Your sauce is boiling over.” Emily’s sleepy voice came from behind him.
Rossi set the sketchbook back on the counter and turned back to the stove, trying to keep from blushing. “No harm done,” he said, stirring and adding in some garlic, not ready to look at her until he’d determined whether she was angry at his snooping.
“You always go looking through your friend’s belongings?” she asked, her voice amused.
“Only when they aren’t likely to catch me.” He turned the sauce down lower and pulled out a stock pot to boil water in for the pasta. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“Turned over and pulled my stitches,” she said matter-of-factly. “No feeling quite like that one for waking you up.”
Rossi winced. “You okay?”
“I’ll take some Advil and be fine.” She took the pills out of the cabinet closest to the sink and hunted in the fridge for a bottle of water.
“Sure you don’t want a Percocet?”
“Not if I want to have a coherent thought in my head for the rest of the night.” She swallowed the pills, chased them with water, and circled around the work area to one of the high ladder-backed chairs in the breakfast nook. Perching on the chair, she flipped through the sketchbook.
“A little too angst-ridden teenager, I’ll admit,” she said, picking up a blue pencil to fill in more of the flame on the first claddagh. “But sometimes life really is a cliché. You can’t tell me this whole adventure of mine hasn’t sounded like some really bad spy novel or TV soap opera.”
Rossi laughed. “It’s definitely had its moments, yes.”
“Sometimes I look at my life and I can’t believe that it’s mine, you know? We go through more in one month on this job than some people do in a life time. There’s no opportunity to live a quiet life, not when we’re out chasing unsubs and terrorists and being shot, stabbed, stalked, or bombed.” She gestured at the kitchen and the preparations for dinner. “This is one of the most normal evenings I can remember having… ever! What does that say about the life we lead? And what does it say about me that I can’t relax enough to enjoy it?”
Rossi studied her as he began browning Italian sausage. “It says you’re still dealing with the events of the last few months. Anyone would be. You’ve been on your guard for so long it’s hard to turn it off.”
“If it had been any other unsub stalking me, I could have handled it,” Emily said. “But because it was Ian, because I had a history with him, no matter how playacted and scripted that history was, I let my emotions get involved. And it almost got my killed.”
“So there WAS more to you going after Doyle than just trying to protect us?”
“Yes,” she admitted simply. She turned back to the page in the sketchbook with the melting claddagh and read the lyrics surrounding it aloud, “There are other people who understand shadows. The fire-born understand. The fire-born know where shadows come from and why they are.” She let the pages fall shut. “I understood him-- on some level, at least. And he understood me. And that’s what hurt the most, you know-that he’d use what he knew about me against me. And I’m sure it hurt him when I did the same. We’re fire-born. We understand each other.”
Rossi studied her. “He really got under your skin, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. With a 12 inch sharpened table leg,” she replied sardonically.
Rossi winced. “That was a really unfortunate turn of phrase. Sorry. What I meant was-“
“I know what you meant, Dave. And yes, he got to me. Of course he did. The same way there’s unsolved cases and unsubs that get to you.” She sighed. “Let’s hope that the ‘getting to you’ is never as literal as mine was.” She lightly rubbed her fingers over her abdomen, where Rossi could make out the shape of the large square of gauze bandaging covering the mostly healed wound and the neat stitches holding it together.
“If there was any way that it could have been me, Emily …”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. “Don’t say that. I wouldn’t want this for you. And you shouldn’t want it for yourself.” She met his eyes. “This will be a reminder of how stupid I was to go after him in the first place. Every time I look in the mirror, I’ll remember my mistake.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little too hard on yourself?” he chided gently. “You did what you thought was necessary at the time. And you did it to protect us. Give yourself a little credit for being willing to take one for the team, so to speak.”
He poured the cooked pasta into a colander to drain the water and tossed it with butter and crushed garlic. “You are an amazing woman, Emily Prentiss, for so many reasons. You’re courageous as hell, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re beautiful.” He jerked his head toward the sketchbook. “You’re one hell of a talented artist. Ease up on yourself a bit. Let it go-if not permanently then just for now. Have dinner with me-you’ll love this, I promise. Watch TV or a movie with me. Enjoy being out of the hospital.”
He crossed to the counter separating the kitchen from the breakfast nook and leaned across to cup Emily’s cheek. “Enjoy being with me as much as I enjoy being with you.”
He felt Emily’s face stretch into a smile under his palm. “You’re a smooth talker, Dave Rossi. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“I’ve been told it’s one of my more charming qualities.” He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone and then let his hand drop. “I’m a hell of a cook, too.”
“So I’ve heard.” Emily stood and made her way into the kitchen, slowly but surely. “Let me set the table and get out some wine so we can put it to the test.”
Dave watched her move around, pulling out silverware and plates, and felt a sense of contentment wash over him. “Emily?”
“Yeah?” She set the silverware onto the counter with a clatter and began hunting for matching napkins and placemats.
“Did I mention earlier that I think you’re sexy as hell?”
Emily turned to meet his gaze, a blush staining her cheeks. “No, you didn’t.”
“You are. And I do. You okay with that?”
Emily grinned. The blush on her cheeks made her look healthier and, to Dave’s mind, even more beautiful. “Yeah. I’m okay with that.”
TO BE CONTINUED.