Criminal Minds Fic-A Hinge in the Air, Chapter 8

[mingsmommy]

Title: A Hinge in the Air, Chapter 8
Author: mingsmommy
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Spoilers: Everything through Season 5
Rating: FRT/PG13
Author's Notes: This fic is the wonderful wojelah's help_haiti fic. Her prompt was "good old fashioned falling in love plus h/c." The title comes from Billy Collin's poem, Japan.

smacky30 and smittywing are wonderful betas and amazing women. They have been cheerleaders and betas when they both had so many more important things happening in their lives. I can not ever thank them enough for everything they've done for me.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7



Emily gently suggests a nap on the way, but she knows he won't be able to sleep; she wouldn't be able to either. He's quiet, but it's not his usual quiet; it's heavy and sad. Of course it is, it couldn't be anything else, but it's still hard for her to see him in so much pain. In her time with the Bureau, particularly since joining the BAU, Emily has felt helpless plenty of times, but she's never been as overwhelmed by it as she is right now. So, when Dave starts talking she gives him as much attention as the road allows.

"My father died when I was just coming into adulthood. Well, I already had one marriage and divorce behind me and I had just mustered out of the Marines, but I was still just a kid." He's looking down at his hands. "Pancreatic cancer. It was a hard way to watch someone you love go." Twisting the heavy FBI ring on his finger, he bites the corner of his lip. "Mama sat with him the whole time; she only left him to go to church."

Half-smiling he shakes his head. "Towards the end she bullied one of the priests into coming to the house every day so she wouldn't have to leave his side. When things were getting bad they put Pop in a hospital bed; all the bedrooms were upstairs, so they moved the sofa out and put the hospital bed in the living room. Since there wasn't a sofa to sleep on, she slept on the floor." He shrugs. "We didn't figure it out until I got up early one morning and found her. We went out and bought her a cot."

There's a brief pause before he continues. "She wouldn't let any of us sit with him so she could go sleep; we were welcome...any of us, all of us, were welcome to sit with him, sometimes it was standing room only, but we weren't just sitting with Pop, we were sitting with both of them." His chest heaves with a short, sad laugh.

He's quiet for a bit, then continues slowly. "He died there, in that hospital bed with her on the cot beside him. It was the middle of the night, closer to dawn than midnight and she laid him out. She washed his body and combed his hair and covered him up before she called any of us. Me and Gabriella and Teresa were all upstairs, Rosalie and Francesca were five minutes away, Sophia, ten. We would have helped her, we would have done anything she wanted but she did it all herself."

"When we saw, we asked her why and she said--" He swallows hard, chest and stomach moving along with his throat. "She said she was with him before any of us and it was her right to see him through to the end." His voice is rough with the tears he's fighting and she wonders why he just won't let go and cry. "The funeral home came to get him and she walked out of the house beside the stretcher; she watched them load him into the hearse and drive away then she went and sat in Rose's car. She never set foot back in that house; she said if he wasn't coming back there, neither was she."

He smoothes a hand over his trembling mouth and swallows again. "She used to say she didn't know who she was going to be more excited to see when her time came: Pop or Jesus. Then she'd say, 'I guess Jesus since I never had to mend His holey underwear.'"

Emily, half on the verge of tears herself, gasps out a laugh at the unexpected pun and Rossi gives her a feeble smile. "Mama wasn't afraid of a joke." His voice is proud and sad when he says, "She wasn't afraid of anything."

The traffic has picked up, the farther north they travel. Most of it is big rigs trying to eat up the miles without the annoyance of too many cars on a relatively quiet Sunday morning. In the middle of changing lanes, surrounded by large tractor-trailers, Emily doesn't dare take her eyes off the road. Blindly, she reaches out a hand, grateful when he grasps it, the squeeze of his fingers squeezing her heart.

***

It's mid-morning when they reach the outskirts of Philadelphia. Dave sits up a little straighter and gives her directions to the affluent suburban subdivision where Rosalie lives. It's a newer neighborhood, easily developed within the last ten years and Emily is mildly surprised; she had thought Rosalie's family would live in an older home, in an older neighborhood with old fences and older trees.

Dave directs Emily to park on the street in front of the walkway and they grab their go bags from the back. There are a couple of cars in the driveway but the brick two-story has an oddly quiet feel to it. Dave doesn't bother knocking; he simply turns the knob on the front door and pushes it open.

Emily is watching him carefully, looking for signs of breakdown, but he just looks tired as he stands in the two-story foyer. "Hello?" he calls. "Anybody home?"

Immediately there's the sound of movement from upstairs, then Cheryl comes into view, flying down the stairs. Emily catches sight of a red nose and smeared mascara before the teenager throws her arms around Dave's neck.

Their embrace is wordless, but fierce, and for just a second Emily feels a little like she did the first time she'd seen these two hug, as if she doesn't really belong, as though she’s an intruder. Then Cheryl reaches an arm out and looks at her. Emily takes a hesitant step forward and finds herself enfolded in the embrace between the teenager and Dave. It should be awkward, but oddly, it's not. One of her arms goes around Cheryl, the other across Dave's back and his arm and Cheryl's touch across her own back. It feels as though she is being welcomed into a communion of comfort, asked to give and receive as part of a shared grief.

The shared hug lasts only a moment before Cheryl steps back; she wipes shaking fingers under her eyes then places a kiss on Dave's cheek and one on Emily's. "Nonna and the aunts went to Mass. She said to tell you she wanted to tell Father Frank in person but they wouldn't make any plans without you." She reaches into the pocket of her jeans for a crumpled tissue and swipes at her nose. "Come on upstairs." They climb the stairs slowly with Cheryl in the lead. "Poppy, Uncle Tony and Uncle John went shopping. Nonna told everybody else to go to Mass and pray for Nonna Angela instead of coming over." The girl gives a little laugh. "She said she didn't want to be overrun by the hordes until after you got here."

Pushing open the second door in the hallway she reveals a room with a neatly made queen-sized four-post bed with a white eyelet duvet, sky blue walls and crisp white curtains. "You're in here. There're clean towels in the bathroom." She points to a door on the far side of the room. "You have to share a bathroom with me; just thank God you don't have to share one with Michael."

She slides her hands into her back pockets. "Nonna said you'd both been up all night and I should let you rest. But if you need anything I'm right next door." Giving a small jerky nod, she quits the room leaving Dave and Emily alone.

"Emily, I'm sorry." He sounds pained. "When Rosalie gets home I'll explain...I can take the sofa downstairs."

The inner debate is so short as to be almost non-existent. "Dave, don't be silly." She shakes her head and drops her bag. "We're adults; we've even shared a bed before." Sitting on the end of the bed she kicks off her shoes. "Your family has a lot more important things to think about than what in the Hell is going on with us. And you don't need to worry about having to explain."

His shoulders relax slightly. "You're really okay with that?" First, he moves his head from side to side and she winces at the sound his neck makes. Then he circles each shoulder and she sees him grimace.

"Yeah, I am." Scooting back until she's resting against the headboard, she tilts her head. "There is a condition, though."

"Oh?" He sounds wary as he hangs his jacket in the closet.

Looking at the dark circles under his eyes, she softens her voice. "I want you to try to rest until your sisters get back."

"Prentiss," he starts then softens. "Emily. I won't be able to sleep."

She shrugs and slides down against the pillows. "I said rest, I didn't say sleep."

He frowns at her but toes off his shoes anyway and climbs on the bed without further discussion.

"Turn around," she says lightly.

"What?" He sounds gruff and puzzled.

"Turn onto your side." She uses the tone of voice she's learned from him, the one that always seems to have an unspoken dumbass at the end of it.

"Emily." His tone is little more than a warning growl.

"Quit being uncooperative," she warns, "or I will tell all five of your sisters that you have not only been up all night one night, you have been up all night two nights."

The look he gives her is just shy of murderous but she just gives him a soft smile and he turns onto his side. Even over his shirt she feels the muscles of his shoulders tense as she touches him. "Relax," she admonishes as she sets her hands to kneading the muscles. He hisses then groans as she presses into the knots.

"God, Emily. Where did you learn that?" His voice is low, practically a moan.

She hums as she sets to work on a muscle so tense it's bulging. "My neighbor in Chicago taught massage therapy and I took one of her classes." Smiling as she feels the knot diminish she continues conversationally, keeping her voice even and soft. "I didn't travel nearly as much then. Boring desk job. I was always looking for classes and things to do with my free time."

"What other classes did you take?" His voice is slow and deep; when she pushes slightly he rolls to his stomach easily.

"Hmmm." She bends over him, working her hands over his shoulders and upper back. "Pottery, upholstery, photography, couple of cooking classes."

"What'd you learn to cook?" His voice is slightly muffled by the pillow.

"Everything from boiled water to gourmet, Asian, French." Her fingers press into the muscles, "Bread; I took a baking class."

He raises his head from the pillow. "Why haven't you ever cooked for me?"

Pushing his head back down, she smiles. "You've been too busy asking me what I want to eat to ever let me cook."

"You could have volunteered," he grouses.

She just hums again and keeps kneading his muscles. He doesn't speak again and she keeps working on his muscles, concentrating on making even, soothing motions. When his breath evens out and she feels him relax under her hands she pauses a moment and rests her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Dave," she whispers against his shirt.

The only answer is a soft snore and she curls up beside him, careful not to touch, and closes her eyes.

***

The sound of a door slamming and distant voices downstairs brings her back to consciousness; when she opens her eyes it's to find Dave looking at her sleepily, a slightly confused look on his face.

"Hey," she says softly. "How're you doing?"

She sees the fog clear and memory return; the look on his face makes her want to cry.

He presses his fingers against his eyelids and rubs. "All things considered, I suppose I'm okay." Sliding up to a sitting position she passes a hand through her hair and watches as he checks his watch and grunts. "We slept about three hours." He swings his legs off the bed and sits for a minute with his back to her, perfectly still.

She waits until she can't wait any more, waits until the silence becomes palpable, bordering on painful, before she speaks. "Dave?"

He shakes his head. "I'm a writer; even though I write about real people and real events it still requires a certain amount of creativity." Turning his head over his shoulder he offers her a bleak look. "You'd think I could come up with something less clichéd than I was hoping it was a bad dream."

"I'm so sorry, Dave." Emily is so sick of those words already; she wants something better, grander, more meaningful to say. But there is nothing better or grander, nothing with any real meaning, leaving only "sorry" to express how much she aches for him, how awful she feels for his loss, how she'd do anything to stop him from hurting if only it were in her power. "Is there anything I can do?"

Shaking his head, he reaches across the mattress and places his large hand over hers. "Just being here with me..." He stops, seems to search for a way to continue the thought, but after a few seconds he just shakes his head again and squeezes her hand. "Thank you, Emily."

There's an image in her mind, a picture so clear resting right between her eyes, where she knee-walks across the mattress and wraps herself around him, her front to his back, folding her arms across his chest, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and holding him until he feels better simply through the sheer force of her love for him. Instead, she settles for turning her hand and twining her fingers with his. She can't help the roughness of her voice when she responds, "Thank you for letting me be here."

It would be nice to hole up in this bedroom holding hands, but they both know the world moves on and they're here to face the inevitability of that. Emily uses the bathroom and runs a brush through her hair, then sits on the edge of the bed and puts on her shoes while she waits for Dave to do the same. When they're both presentable, he hesitates for a minute then gives her a sad smile and motions for her to precede him out the door.

As they descend the stairs, the voices and varying conversations grow louder. The Rossi sisters are settled in Rosalie's living room; not surprisingly, they all have red eyes and red noses, but none of them are crying at the moment. From the tail end of the conversation, Emily gathers they are reminiscing about a childhood Christmas with their paternal grandmother visiting. Their mother wanted to create the perfect holiday, and each of them, in their own way, managed to accidentally wreak havoc with her plans. "Well," Francesca says, "except Dave. He was such a terror the rest of the time, how did he manage to be such an angel that week?"

"Self-preservation and a sense of priorities," the terror in question provides. "She had me convinced Santa would bring me a new bike if I managed to not show Nonna Rossi my true nature."

"There you are," Rosalie says, opening her arms. He bends, kisses her cheek and holds her in a hug for a few moments as they rock each other. When their embrace breaks, he moves to Teresa in the next chair and Rosalie holds her arms out to Emily, offering her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for coming, Emily."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Emily says into Rosalie's ear.

Rosalie draws back and lays a gentle hand on Emily's cheek. "Thank you, sweetie." She gives a sweet smile. "We can't help but be sad because we are just going to miss her so much, but really, she had a long and amazing life. We're really going to try to remember that instead of what we've lost."

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Emily replies just as gently. When she turns to track Dave's progress, she finds he's moved to Gabriella on the other side of Teresa and Sister Teresa is holding her arms out for Emily's embrace.

Emily follows Dave around the room, receiving hugs and offering condolences in return. All of his sisters are welcoming and none seem to question her presence with Dave; she feels like a terrible fraud.

"Ah, there's the missing member of Team In-Law." Rosalie's husband, Joe, appears in the doorway with several glasses and a couple of bottles of wine on a tray. He's a large man with steel gray hair and a rich voice; she had been introduced to Rosalie, Francesca, Sophia and Gabriella's husbands at the wedding but their contact had been brief.

"No," Dave says, shaking his head. "Letting her sit with my sisters is one thing, but putting her with you four? Hell no."

Joe sets the tray down and studiously ignores Dave as he starts pouring wine. "We've managed to fend off the other generations for today, Emily. We sent Cheryl and Michael out with their uncle and the obligatory grief casseroles haven't started arriving yet." He glances up and gives her a wink. "It'll just be Angela's six kids and us hangers on. We're making dinner for our lovely wives and thought you might want to join us in the kitchen if you want some real dirt on little Davey Rossi here."

Again Rossi barks, "Hell no!" just as Emily answers Joe with, "That sounds good."

The sisters are laughing at Dave's dark look as Emily rises to follow Joe out of the room.

"Hey, Joey," Rosalie calls.

"Yeah?" He turns to look back at his wife.

"We like this one; she's a keeper." She raises her eyebrows at her husband in a look so reminiscent of Dave, Emily has to smile. "Don't do nothin' to scare her off."

Joe tucks the tray under his arm, clicks his heels together and gives a sharp salute. "Yes, ma'am."

The sound of Angela Rossi's children laughing together follows them into the kitchen.

It's a spacious room with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances and every surface gleams. The other three men are seated at the kitchen table, well-worn cookbooks and loose recipes scrawled by hand on stained and sticky notebook paper spread out between them.

Joe slides the tray onto the counter by the sink and smiles gently at Emily. "Thanks for playing along. They need to make plans and, well, I just think they need to be together."

She answers with a smile of her own. "I think you're right."

He motions her to the table. "Hey, fellas, you remember Emily?"

If she had to rely solely on her memory from the wedding Emily would probably not have remembered any of their names, but she's participated in enough Rossi family conversations between Dave, his mother, his sister and his niece that she feels fairly confident that she knows which man belongs to which sister. John is married to Sophia; Tony is Francesca's husband and Theo's wife is Gabriella. All three greet her warmly and Joe holds out a chair for her at the table. "You want a glass of wine?"

Theo has a beer at his elbow, there's a Diet Coke beside Tony and there are wine glasses in front of John and the empty place she assumes is Joe's. She considers for a minute but three hours of sleep will not see her through until dark if she has a glass of wine. "I think I'll wait until dinner." She points to the soda. "If you've got another one of those, though, that would be wonderful."

"It's a done deal." Joe goes to the refrigerator. "Ice?"

"No thanks. The bottle will be fine," she says, looking with interest at the recipes covering the table top.

Theo notes her gaze. "We're trying to decide on our meal. What's your dish?"

She tilts her head. "My dish?"

John nods. "Everybody's got a special dish they make; what's yours?"

Despite telling Dave about the cooking classes she took when she worked in Chicago, Emily doesn't use what she learned that often. It's not that she doesn't enjoy it, she does. But it's much more fun to cook when she's cooking for more than just herself. She can't even remember the last time her refrigerator had more than take-out or dust in it. But she's still confident in her abilities and her special dish is something she learned long before Chicago. "Baked ziti."

Joe purses his lips as he hands her the open bottle of soda while Theo and John smile.

Tony looks amused. "No offense Emily, but you look like maybe you've got a relative or two that might have come over on the Mayflower and you're going to make baked ziti for a bunch of Italians?"

"Hey!" Theo and John both say at once.

Waving a hand at them, Tony takes a sip of his drink. "Please, your Greek and Scotch-Irish asses have been in this family long enough you've been assimilated." He points at John. "Last time we went out to dinner you bitched about the meatballs, so don't tell me thirty years hasn't converted your palate." He turns back to Emily, clearly teasing. "I'm sure we can find you some white bread and some mayonnaise."

Emily cocks an eyebrow in challenge and says, "Your mother never told you not to judge a book by its cover?" Only she says it in Italian.

John and Theo both laugh and Joe claps Tony on the shoulder. "Hey, pisan, maybe you should tell Emily the only Italian you know is 'Ferrari' and about half a dozen curse words."

Flushed and grinning, Tony protests. "I know more than that; I know 'lasagna' and 'canoli' and 'penne'." He aims a wink in Emily's direction. "I even know 'ziti'."

"What time is dinner?" Emily checks her watch, wondering if she has enough time to make her own sauce or if she'll have to settle for something out of a jar.

"Eight? Eight-thirty?" Joe supplies. "We're not on a schedule; as long as we put out something for them to nibble on before then we're good."

Emily nods. "That's totally doable." The sauce is better the longer it rests; it will be good tonight but amazing tomorrow.

After the abortion, Emily withdrew from the few friends she'd had. Looking back on it now, Emily realizes she was manifesting all the signs of depression. The ambassador simply chalked it up to teenage angst when Emily stopped going out except to go to school. Elizabeth rousted her from her room on a regular basis or had the household staff chase Emily from hiding there, so she'd taken to haunting the kitchens. Giovanna, the chef, started giving her little jobs, slowly drawing out the fifteen-year-old Emily. The chef declared cooking the cure for all sadness and painstakingly taught Emily many of Giovanna's family recipes, including an incredible marinara and an amazing baked ziti.

Joe shows her the pantry along with the pots and pans. Though Joe swears he spent his retirement fund at Costco that morning, Tony and John are going to make a grocery store run for a few odds and ends they need for their various dishes. Emily gives them specific instructions about sausage and Tony gives her more good-natured grief. "See, you don't even know what goes in ziti. Who puts sausage in ziti?"

"Evidently, Emily does," Joe says from in front of the mixer where he's unwrapping several packages of cream cheese for a cheesecake. "Rose says we want to keep Emily around, so you better be nice to her, Tony."

"Hey, I'll be nice." Tony looks indignant. "I am nice. Anything else you want, Emily?"

Using a purple elastic band she finds in her pocket, Emily pulls her hair up into a ponytail in preparations for cooking. "No, but be sure to get that white bread and mayonnaise for yourself, amico."

An hour and a half later, Emily's sauce is simmering, Joe's cheesecake is in the oven and they're helping Theo knead bread dough while he tells Emily the story of Angela Rossi and how he came to be a part of the Rossi clan. "Gab's pop had just died when my pop found out I was gettin' ready to propose; you'd have thought it was the end of the world. It was okay we'd been dating for almost three years but when it gets down to it, my folks start throwing a fit because I need to marry a nice Greek girl." He flips his round of dough and sprinkles some flour over the top.

"I'm still determined to marry her, but I'm torn to Hell 'cause my pop says I'm no son of theirs if I don't marry a Greek girl." Pushing firmly on the disk of dough under his hands, he smiles. "I'm packing my stuff, getting ready to move out, figuring that's it, this is the last I'll see my family and Mama Angela shows up."

He pauses his kneading for a moment, eyes distant with memory, his expression fond and amused. "She marched up to the door, Davey was following her, yellin' at her the whole time to calm down, be reasonable, but she was spittin’ fire. My pop, he was a mountain of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, he filled up the doorway."

Theo shakes his head. "Mama Angela just reached up and grabbed his ear and it was all over. She told him he might be fresh off the boat, but this was America, not Greece, and his son and her daughter could marry anyone they wanted. And who did he think he was and she hoped he didn't consider himself a Christian thinking he was going to disown his own son just for being in love and wanting to get married. Then she says she sure as Hell didn't want to share any grandchildren with him and she'd make sure they were raised 100% Italian."

His fingers dent the dough as he resumes kneading, folding it over itself and turning it. "Then she let go of his ear, turned around and stomped back to the car." He barks out a short, sharp laugh. "Pop was standing in the doorway rubbing his ear, I was standing in the hall with my mouth open and Davey was standing in the yard staring and all three of us were just...stunned. Then Angela honks the horn and tells Davey to get in the car and drive her home."

Emily tries to picture the sweet, diminutive Angela Rossi the way her son-in-law has just described and fails, utterly. "What happened?" She punches down her own mound of dough, pressing, folding and turning, the dough elastic under her flour-dusted fingers.

Joe grins and Theo laughs again. "Pop tells me to put on my best suit and he puts on his. It's Sunday and the whole neighborhood knows the Rossis have dinner at Rosalie's house on Sundays. We show up..."

"I have never seen so many flowers." Joe shakes his head as he smoothes his dough into a loaf shape.

Theo nods. "He was friends with Mr. Katrotis, the florist; he got him to open up special so Pop could buy flowers...that was before the grocery stores started carrying flowers." His loaf is forming under his hands. "So, we show up with bouquets for every one of the Rossi women, two for Mama Angela. Then, right there in front of her whole family, Pop proposes to Gabriella for me; gives me his own mother's rings for her to wear."

He gives Emily a smile, nodding approvingly at the oblong dough shape she's made. "She's still wearing them. But my pop was halfway torn between admiration and absolute terror for Mama Angela the rest of his life. He always told me I was lucky to have her for a mother-in-law but I better never cross her."

"That seems like really good advice," Emily says, somewhat dryly.

"Oh, it was good advice." Joe nods. "The only reason the four of us lasted so long married to the Rossi sisters, we learned early not to cross Mama Angela."

"I'll take your word for it." Emily washes her hands, trying to reconcile the tiny old woman she knew as Dave's mother with this fierce lioness her sons-in-law are describing.

Joe hands her a paper towel. "Oh, see, she took one look at you and decided Dave had finally gotten it right; she was only gonna let you see her sweet side so she didn't scare you off. Trust me, the three before you? They did not just see the sweet side."

Emily flushes hotly, the feeling of being a fraud returning in spades. It's one thing not to shatter his family's illusion that she and Dave are more than just friends, but quite another to know they're thinking of her in more permanent terms.

Theo smacks the side of Joe's head lightly. "You're embarrassing Emily."

Instead of apologizing, Joe just snorts. "She's going to be around this family for the next few days, she's going to have to get used to it."

"Next few days." Theo moves the loaves to a baking sheet. "Next few decades. To-may-toe, to-mah-toe, you still shouldn't embarrass her."

Joe opens the oven and studies his cheesecake. "I was just saying Angela wasn't always nice to Davey's other wives; what's to be embarrassed about?" Evidently deciding it wasn't ready, Joe shuts the oven door.

"Probably the bit with the three other wives," Theo says, tossing a clean dishtowel over the dough. "She probably doesn't need the reminder."

"She's also right here." Emily stirs her sauce, feeling slightly, helplessly humiliated. She knows they're being kind, playing with her and teasing her, accepting her into their group, trying to make her feel welcome. It's not even the guilt at deceiving them that's weighing so heavily on her at the moment, it's her own willingness to play along, to be accepted, teased, loved. She's not sure if it's wishful thinking or hope that Rossi, too, will fall into the illusion.

Her self-profiling is interrupted as Tony and John come through the back door laden with grocery bags. Tony takes one look at Emily's face and shakes his head. "Why's she blushing? Have you two found a problem with Dave's May-December romance?"

John frowns. "Hey, now. Dave's ten years younger than I am." He begins pulling cans of tomatoes and a jar of olives from his grocery bag. "I'm not really willing to call this a May-December romance." His eyes flick over Emily. "Let's go May-late August. Mid-September, at the latest."

Joe looks at her and smiles gently. "She's not blushing. It's the heat from the stove." He directs a wink at Emily then looks at Tony. "If you ever pulled your weight in the kitchen you'd know the difference."

Tony makes a completely indignant noise. "Not pull my weight?" His voice rises. "Not pull my weight? Who kept you in Italian beef and sausage and peppers every time your wife had a baby or one of your kids was sick?" He hands Emily the box of ziti from his grocery bag.

"Tony," Joe says as he pulls out a large pot for the pasta, "what have you done for me lately?"

"All these years," Tony sighs dramatically, "and this is the thanks I get?" He moves a little closer to the stove as he pauses in his put-upon act and inhales deeply. "Yo, White Bread, that smells pretty good. Let an old man have a taste?"

Emily laughs. "Be my guest."

"Get a clean spoon," Theo says, "and no double dipping."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony says, pulling two spoons out of the drawer and handing one to John. When the bit of sauce settles on his tongue his eyes widen and he turns to Emily, his look nothing less than shocked. "Holy Mother. That is amazing."

"Let me," John says, helping himself to a generous portion with his spoon. He doesn't look surprised so much as he looks gleeful. "Emily. Please tell me you're Scotch-Irish."

Smiling, she shakes her head. "Descended almost completely from the British with a few French thrown in; I'm sorry."

Sadly, John shakes his head. "That's worse than Italian."

"We're going to make her an honorary Italian," Joe says.

"Bringing another one to ruination?" Rosalie questions, coming through the door with the empty wine bottles; her eyes and nose are redder than they were before and it's quite obvious she's been crying since they saw her last. Joe doesn't comment, he simply draws her close and folds her against his chest.

Tony nods towards the door and John and Theo follow. Emily wavers for just a moment, knowing they're going to their wives and not sure what comfort she could or should offer Dave, but she can't stay in the kitchen disturbing this private moment between Rosalie and her husband. Slowly she follows the men out of the kitchen, leaving Rosalie and Joe to their sad and tender moment.

On the sofa, Theo has Gabriella's hand and John is behind Sophia's chair, with a hand on her shoulder. Tony is hovering over Francesca, who is huddled against Dave's shoulder on the love seat. Teresa is nowhere in sight and Tony catches Dave's eye, inclining his head and somehow between them they shift Francesca to Tony's broader shoulder.

As Tony pulls his wife close, Dave stands and walks over to Emily. She has a moment of panic not knowing what to do; this situation is intensely personal. What she wants to do is reach out and hug him. With everyone assuming she and Dave are more than they are, it would be easy to fall into it and offer more than is appropriate, more than Dave wants, even if it's what she wants. But then she looks at his face; he looks tired, pained and a little lost so that all of her panic and uncertainty fades as she slips her arm around his waist. "How are you doing?" she asks quietly.

He pulls her in, pulls her tight against him and presses his face against her hair. "I've had better days."

"I know," she says gently and feels him squeeze just before he releases her.

He guides her out of the living room towards the back of the house. "How about some fresh air?" he asks, indicating the French doors in the den.

"That would be good," she agrees, stepping through as he opens one of the doors.

The patio is obviously a favorite place with pretty but comfortable-looking furniture and a plethora of potted plants as well as a trellis with some sort of climbing vine winding its way up. All of it looks out on a fenced backyard with stepping stones dotted between numerous flowerbeds and decorative plantings. Dave and Emily sit on a cedar bench swing mounted to a matching a frame with a cheerful canopy that matches the cushions.

He's silent for a bit, but it's not uncomfortable, so Emily just sits next to him absorbing the everything around them. It's warm but not overbearingly hot and the sun is starting to set so the air is just beginning to cool. Someone close has recently mowed their lawn, the smell of fresh cut grass hangs in the air and the sound of small children playing a game drifts over the fence from somewhere in the neighborhood.

Dave reaches out a hand and rubs the shiny leaf of a nearby plant between his thumb and forefinger. When he starts speaking, his voice is steady but distant with memory. "Rosalie and Joe used to live in this house that was over a hundred years old; it had all these little old fashioned touches, things we don't even think about now...glass door knobs, claw-footed tubs , plaster walls with picture molding. The house had this unbelievable garden. There wasn't a square inch of turf in the backyard, it was all flowerbeds and paths and benches under big old trees."

He lets go of the leaf and sets the swing into gentle motion with a slight kick of his foot. "Mama loved that garden; she spent most of her time out there, three-quarters of the year. She did it all: planting, weeding, mulching, digging. 'Playing in the dirt' she used to call it. But after Donna died, Joe and Rose started talking about moving so the kids could go to better schools. Rose was so upset about about it, she loved the house but mainly she didn't want to take Mama away from the garden. Mama didn't bat an eye; she just took a few cuttings from her favorite plants and left all the rest behind. She told Rose she was like her plants, she could thrive anywhere, but those kids needed the best place to put down roots."

Smiling slightly, he shakes his head. "She was eighty-two the day they moved here; the next day she was out here with a shovel and a turning fork."

Emily smiles wistfully, and looks at the yard with fresh eyes. There are beds of blooming flowers encircling trees and more trellises against the back fence. There are bird feeders on shepherd's hooks in several places around the yard. It looks as though at least a few of the stepping stones that wind through the backyard are handmade, some decorated with little hand prints and others with brightly colored glass stones. "It's beautiful, Dave."

He looks out at the yard, still for a moment before he nods. "Yeah, it is. She hasn't been able to do a lot of the heavier stuff the last few years, but the kids have helped. It was good for them to spend time with her."

"She sounds like an extraordinary woman, Dave." She finds herself wishing she had known Angela Rossi better than the one meeting and a few computer calls had allowed.

"I'm a lucky man to have so many extraordinary women in my life." Dave squeezes her hand where it rests between them and Emily feels her heart jump before he continues. "Teresa has gone to pick up Father Frank; he's going to join us for dinner. Mama's...the service is going to be Tuesday afternoon."

Emily nods, her heart breaking just a little at the sadness in his voice.

"You know," he says, leaning his head back, the gesture both weary and anguished, "I understand what Rose was saying about wanting to celebrate Mama's life instead of mourning her death, but when it gets right down to the heart of the matter, I'm a selfish bastard and I can't help...this is a loss, it's not unexpected, but it's a terrible, painful loss."

Her throat is thick and burning from unshed tears so she can barely answer him. "I know."

He moves his head forward to look into her eyes, looking for something, but she has no idea what. Whatever he's looking for must be there, because he squeezes her hand again and sighs. "Will you stay?"

She's confused for a minute. "What?"

"I'll probably go back sometime Wednesday." He's leaned his head back again, but he looks less troubled. "Will you stay here with me?"

"Dave." Now she really does want to cry but for entirely different reasons. Whatever else that may be going on, they are friends first. There is no way to guard her heart or her pride in the face of that simple fact; she will do whatever he asks, give whatever he wants, be whatever he needs. "Of course, I'll stay."

"Thank you," he sighs, and she's almost certain she feels some of the tension leave his body just in the way his hand rests over hers.

"I told Hotch I'd let him know about the arrangements," she reminds him quietly.

"After while. I mean, that'd be good, if you could do that," he says, his voice gone quiet and peaceful. "But not yet; just stay here for a bit."

"Okay." She leans her head back against the swing, mirroring his pose.

They stay like that, side by side, breathing to the soft rhythm of the swing, his hand never leaving hers until Sophia comes to tell them Father Frank has arrived.

Emily goes with Dave to meet the priest; she is expecting someone elderly, probably of Italian descent. Instead she finds a rather large African-American man her age or possibly younger. He shakes her hand and embraces Dave, and when she returns to the kitchen she learns from Joe that Father Frank and Angela had been particularly close since they had moved to this parish when Father Frank was first ordained.

"Father Frank took to Mama Angela right away. The pair of them managed to cause more trouble than a couple of delinquent teenagers." Joe shakes his head fondly. "I just found out a year or so ago Father Frank never knew his own mother; she died when he was a baby. I don't know how Mama spotted it, but she started mothering him almost from the minute she met him." He adds a generous portion of salt to the pot of water Emily is heating to boil the ziti. Then he looks at Emily, smiling a little. "Maybe profiling is a genetic trait."

She shrugs as she drains the sausage in preparation of adding it to the sauce. "Part of it is natural and intuitive and part of it is a learned skill."

Joe leans against the counter next to the stove, wiping his thick fingers on a dishtowel. "I wouldn't want to know what everybody around me was thinking all the time."

Emily scrapes the meat from the skillet into the pot with the sauce. "Heh. I wouldn't want to either. And some days I wish it was that easy."

Theo, currently on dish duty, removes the skillet from her hand. "At least you never have to wonder what Davey's thinking."

Emily can't help but feel a little wistful at that, because Theo is right. If Dave has an opinion on something he's not shy about sharing it. But she does wish she knew what he was thinking about her, wishes she knew how he felt, if this shift in their relationship means something. If it were any other man she would definitely think so, but it's the very forthrightness Theo is referring to that makes her wonder if the shift is only in her imagination. True, they're spending more time together and they have gotten more tactile with each other, hugs and hand-holding. But they've also been through a few harrowing things together and all of it could simply be a deepening of their friendship.

She lets out a shaky breath, feeling a wash of sadness. Then she mentally shakes herself. Even if she loves him and continues to want impossible things, she will take a deeper friendship over a safe heart any day.

"Earth to White Bread, come in White Bread," Tony says from beside her. "You totally zoned out there. Dreaming of mayonnaise?"

Emily shakes her head as if to clear it then gives him a grin. "Sorry, hot air always makes me a little sleepy."

There's a chorus of "Oh!"s and even Tony holds up his hand, laughing. "Ouch." He shakes his head and repeats, "Ouch. I just wanted to know if you were ready for a glass of wine."

She looks at the clock and decides she isn't likely to fall face down in her dinner plate and nods as she dumps the pasta into the boiling water. "Thanks, yeah, that'd be good."

A glass is in her hand in less than a minute and she leans against the counter beside Joe while the ziti cooks. There's a brief debate about what to send to the other room for an appetizer but John's artichoke dip wins over Theo's suggestion of cheese and crackers just before the timer goes off on the pasta. While John puts together the dip, Emily assembles the baked ziti and leaves it atop the stove for Theo to slide into the oven when he pulls his bread out.

The kitchen smells heavenly, the tangy smell of garlic intermingling with the aroma of the baking bread. She takes over dish duty long enough to wash the sauce and pasta pots, then she, Tony and John put the leaf in the already large dining room table and begin setting out plates and flatware. She feels surprisingly comfortable and, thankfully, useful as she watches Tony and John squabble over whether to use linen or paper napkins. John huffs off to get the linen napkins and Tony nods at her wine glass. "You ready for a refill?"

"Not just yet." She watches as he nods and takes another drink from his Diet Coke bottle. "You're not having any?"

"Nah." Tony smiles at her. "I'm a friend of Bill W. Sober twenty-seven years last month." His voice is sincere, absent the bluster and bravado he'd been using to tease her and his in-laws all afternoon. "Though that's a family story you should hear." He pulls out a drawer in the china hutch revealing rows of silverware.

Emily walks over and begins counting out pieces with him. "Mama Angela?" she questions. As many unexpected stories of the fearless matriarch as she's heard today she wouldn't be a bit surprised.

"Nope." He grins. "Davey. Well, Davey and his service weapon."

Emily knows she's gaping but can't quite stop even when Tony laughs gently. "It's not quite as bad as I made that sound." He holds a butter knife up to the light, then uses the edge of the dishtowel slung over his shoulder to polish it. "I'd been a drunk off and on since I was fifteen. It wasn't always obvious to the people around me; Fran actually hadn't figured it out until we'd been married a while. After Thomas, our oldest, was born I went on a bender the likes of which are legend at AA meetings and she locked me out the house. Long story short, Dave found me in whatever dive I was killing my brain cells in, rented a hotel room, stayed with me while I slept it off. When I finally woke up he tells me to go get a shower. When I come out there are two cups of coffee and a gun on the table."

"Oh, dear God," she breathes.

Tony laughs. "It was, pardon the pun, sobering." He hands her a fistful of salad forks. "He never said anything about the gun, just asked me what I was gonna do, was I gonna get sober or go ahead and get out of Francesca's life? Cause he'd make sure she got taken care of, he'd make sure Thomas had everything he needed. He was so calm, pleasant even, and that gun sat there the whole time, right between our coffee cups."

She counts out twelve salad forks and shakes her head.

"So, I told him I thought maybe it was time for me to get sober." He matches dinner forks to her salad forks. "He just nods at me, sort of sympathetic and hands me a list of AA meetings and puts the gun back in his holster. And then he took me to three AA meetings that day. And three the next day. And three the next. For a week we didn't do nothing but drink bad coffee and hang out in church basements."

Emily takes the knives Tony's already counted out and puts one with each set of forks; she's almost afraid to speak. She sees Dave in her mind's eye, younger, yes, but no less confident and perfectly pleasant with a gun in easy reach.

"He went back to DC at the end of the week, told me it was up to me whether I stayed sober or not and he'd paid for the hotel for another two weeks...that was long before his first book got published and I know it wasn't like he could afford paying for a hotel for three weeks, but he did it. Anyway, he says the room is paid up for another two weeks, after that it was up to me, but he was pretty sure Fran would take me back if I stayed sober."

He leans a hip against the table. "But the whole time he's saying these things, he's standing there with his hands on his hips and his gun is right there." Tony laughs. "That's probably not the only time someone has been urged to sobriety with a gun but, let me tell you, it was memorable. Even then, as messed up as I was, I remember a part of me being really grateful to Davey and his damned service weapon."

John laughs as he reenters the room. "You told her the sobriety at gunpoint story?" He circles the table placing a napkin at each place and Emily follows with the forks.

Tony grabs the knives and spoons. "It's a good story."

"Better than any of my stories," John concedes. He turns to look at Emily. "You need to know it's okay to not have drama, Emily. They'll still let you hang out."

"Yeah, the Drama-less Duo...you two can be like super heroes." Tony nods to Emily. "You can be Super White Bread." Then to John. "You can be her sidekick, Boy Wonder Bread."

She listens to John and Tony tease each other as they round the table with dinner and salad plates. When the table is complete they rejoin Theo and Joe in the kitchen and beneath the chaos of final preparations for dinner for twelve, Emily realizes she's comfortable. These men have folded her into their group, accepted her and claimed her as one of them. It's a bittersweet feeling, but here in this moment, as Joe hands her four serving spoons and a pair of salad tongs to carry to the table, Emily allows herself to savor the sweet.

Dinner is a boisterous affair once grace has been said. Emily's presence gives the family a reason for telling stories of Angela Rossi and Emily's grateful to know more about Dave's mother and to provide the family with an audience. A small comfort, she knows, but a comfort nonetheless.

It's almost eleven when Emily's phone beeps with a text from Hotch: How are things? She excuses herself to make a call. Though Rossi's listening to Father Frank tell a tale of calling on the sick at a home for the aged accompanied by the Rossi family matriarch, a case of mistaken identity and a very indignant Mama Rossi, Emily feels his eyes follow her out of the room. She smiles at him over her shoulder and he smiles in return; she doesn't miss Rosalie’s tiny grin - quickly covered by her wineglass - as she watches the silent exchange.

Emily makes her way back to the patio where the only noise is the steady buzz and chirp of night insects. There are dozens of small pathway lights dotting the edges of the flowerbeds and several solar lanterns at the corners of the patio giving the backyard a soft glow against the dark. Seeing strings of tiny unlit lights interwoven amongst the vines climbing the trellis, she takes a moment to imagine a summer party, a happy night with laughing voices and twinkling lights and she finds herself a little bit seduced by the idea of home being more than someplace she stays between cases.

Sighing, she sits in a chair beside the swing and dials Hotch.

“Hotchner.”

It’s less than five minutes since she received his text but innate politeness makes her ask anyway. “I hope it’s not too late to call.”

“No, we just got in.” He sounds tired and she finds herself grateful for the nap she’d had earlier in the day.

“Did everything wrap up all right?” She rests the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulls the elastic from her hair, combing her fingers through it as she listens to his answer.

“After your observation about the mention of his mother, Garcia did some digging. Ryan’s mother was married three times, all of them were doctors, including Ryan’s father. The second husband is still in the area and was more than willing to talk to us about how he felt Ryan and his mother were a little too close.” On the other end of the line, she hears the clink of something, possibly ice into a glass. “When we started talking to Ryan about incest, he cracked. We have a full confession and Reid was right, it was more than we thought. A lot more.”

She nods even though she knows he can’t see her. “Is his mother still alive?”

“She died eighteen months ago. We’re pretty sure that’s the stressor.” There’s a pause and Emily knows he’s trying to transition from Ryan’s completely inappropriate relationship with his mother to Dave and the loss of his mother. But then he just bridges the gap from professional to personal with a softening of his voice. “How’s Dave?”

Emily thinks about that for a minute; all in all she hasn’t spent too much time alone with him other than the time they’d been out here on the patio together. “All things considered, I think he’s doing okay.” She stretches her foot out and touches the edge of the swing with the tip of her shoe causing a ghost of movement. “His family…well, like you said this morning, he’s very close to them and they’re all propping each other up.”

“It helps, I’m sure.” Hotch sighs and Emily wonders if he’s thinking of the future and Jack or his own losses. “Have the arrangements been settled?”

“Yes, sorry, I just haven’t had an opportunity to call.” She leans her head against the back of the chair. “Tuesday afternoon at two, St. Gabriel’s Catholic Church; I don’t have an address.” She knows Garcia will be able to find it with no problem; well, anyone with an internet connection and the ability to type should be able to find it with no problem.

“All right. Thanks.” She notices he’s careful not to commit to being there; the job shows no consideration for any event if they’re in rotation. And while he’d said this morning they were due for step-down, that, too, is unpredictable and he wouldn’t know until he’s had a chance to speak with Strauss. “Please let Dave know we’re all thinking about him.”

“I will; I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Emily hesitates; she’s doing what she can but it feels like pitifully little. Hotch has known Dave almost twenty years and they’re close. She wants to ask for help in helping Dave, but she also doesn’t want to embarrass anyone or herself by making it obvious how she feels.

Thankfully, Hotch is either more intuitive than she thinks or she’s already shown her hand because his voice is gentle when he speaks. “When Haley died everyone kept asking me if there was anything they could do and I thanked them all and I did appreciate the thought, but there wasn’t anything anybody could do. There was just…she was gone, and nothing was going to ease that pain.” He takes a shaky breath. “Dave asked the same question and he got the same answer as everyone else, but he didn’t nod at the thank you and walk away; he was here every day. He played with Jack, he helped Jessica with travel arrangements for Haley’s relatives, he washed dishes, he went to the cleaners. And when all the errands were run and all of the arrangements were made and there was nothing left to do, he was still here. He stayed and it made all the difference.”

Emily can hear the emotion in Hotch’s voice and, for what feels like the thousandth time that day, she finds herself fighting tears.

Hotch clears his throat and continues, “I wish I could repay the favor but I can’t. But if you’re looking for something to do for him, I can tell you that just being there is the most powerful thing you can do, Emily.” He pauses and she hears him exhale. “I don’t feel so bad about not being able to be there knowing you’re there for him.”

Apparently that’s all it takes because Emily feels herself lose the fight against crying as she feels a tear roll down her cheek. “Hotch…”

“Just be there, Emily.” Hotch’s voice is full of reassurance.

“Okay.” She nods, blotting the tears with the heel of her hand. “Yeah.”

There’s the sound of water running and the clank of glass against porcelain. “Call if either of you need anything.”

“Yeah.” She’s trying not to sniff; she doesn’t want him to know she’s crying. “Thanks, Hotch. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Emily.”

She ends the call and closes her eyes, breathing in the night air, breathing through the tightness in her chest, the burning in her throat, not sure whether she’s crying for Dave and his sisters or Hotch and Jack or herself or all of them. It doesn’t really matter, maybe she’s just crying to remind herself she’s alive and though there’s pain in life, there’s also love and that’s everything.

The smell of the grass from earlier has faded and in its place is the smell of something floral and sweet. The air has cooled considerably with the setting of the sun and it is easy and peaceful to be in this place for a few minutes with her eyes closed, letting the sounds and smells of the night wash over her.

A quiet footstep alerts her to another presence and when she opens her eyes, Dave is standing in front of her chair, frowning down at her. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” She nods and gives him a soft smile. “Hotch wanted to ask how you were doing and see about the arrangements.”

He’s still frowning and she wonders how much her tears are showing. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Dave.” She tries for a tone somewhere between teasing and exasperated as she stands. “I didn’t mean to flake out. I was just enjoying the night air.”

His eyes search her face but he doesn’t press and she’s grateful when he shifts his look to take in the yard and the sky. “Yeah, it’s a nice one.” Looking back at her he gives her a smile. “Your fan club sent me to find you.”

Emily isn’t sure if he means his sisters or his brothers-in-law and she decides it doesn’t really matter. They are all extraordinarily kind and wonderfully welcoming, folding her into their family as if they’ve all known her for years. “Your family is wonderful.”

“Yeah,” he concedes, dragging the word out. “If they like you; if they don’t, you’re pretty well screwed.”

She gives a little laugh because she can fully believe that and the thought of how difficult it could be is daunting. “I’m grateful they like me, then.”

Dave gives a derisive snort. “Like you? When this is all over I think they’re gonna kick me out and keep you.”

Even knowing he means it as a joke it’s still a reminder that this is make believe and when Angela’s funeral is over and they go back to DC, this illusion of belonging will be over. There’s a pinch in the middle of her chest at the thought, but then Dave has his arm around her waist and is walking her back into the house.

You have right now, a small, hopeful voice says. Enjoy what you have now.

All twelve of them clear the dining room and help clean the kitchen. It goes quickly even if there’s a lot of bumping elbows and running into each other. When the kitchen and dining room have been restored to their former sparkling states, the sisters begin taking their leave and Emily finds herself hugged and kissed by everyone except Father Frank who just shakes her hand again.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, White Bread.” Tony’s hug is warm and he winks at her when he draws back. “Don’t let Davey eat all the leftovers; that was the best ziti I ever had.”

Emily’s grin is natural and wide. “If you’re nice I’ll give you the recipe.”

He grins back at her. “If you’re nice how about you just keep makin’ it for me?”

Francesca makes an affectionately exasperated face at him. “How about you quit talking and drive me home?”

After everyone is gone, Rosalie and Dave slip into Angela Rossi’s room together. Not wanting to intrude on such a private moment between sister and brother, Emily bids Joe goodnight as he walks around the downstairs, locking doors and turning out lights.

There are towels laid out in the bathroom as Cheryl promised, but Emily has always preferred to shower in the morning. She puts on a camisole and pajama pants, then washes her face and brushes her teeth before climbing into bed, taking the same side that she had for their afternoon nap. Curling on her side with her back to the door, she decides the courteous thing to do is to leave the light on. Sighing slightly, she puts her mind toward going to sleep. Her body is craving rest and it has the least potential for awkward if she would just fall asleep right away, so, of course, as soon as her head touches the pillow her eyes are wide open and sleep seems far away.

Dave comes quietly into the room some fifteen minutes later and she hears him rustling in his go bag, the lamp clicks off and the bathroom door closes, revealing only a thin ribbon of light beneath. After a minute the shower starts and Emily listens to the water run; she doesn't imagine him naked or indulge in a fantasy of finding a reason to join him, but she does think about him standing under the hot water, how it must feel against his skin. When she's especially tired or things have been particularly rough she will zone out in the shower, just stand and let the water rain down on her, let it wash away her exhaustion, her pain, her sins. Since joining the BAU, there have been too many times to count when the hot water has begun to fade and she'd hurriedly washed in rapidly cooling water.

Rossi either doesn't get the same comfort from it she does or his mind is too active to enjoy it because the water cuts off in less than ten minutes. Less than five minutes after that, the bathroom light flicks out and the door opens, releasing a small cloud of steamy heat into the bedroom. The mattress dips as Dave gets in the bed; the green glow from the bedside clock reveals only a basic outline of his face and body but she can feel the tension radiating off him.

Maybe it's today or the days to come or he's changed his mind about sharing a bed with her, but he's practically vibrating he's so tense. She doesn't have anything figured out but she knows he needs sleep, so she speaks softly into the darkness. "Hey."

He turns his head towards her, the sound of the movement clear in the hush of the room. "I thought you were asleep." His voice is quiet, pitched low, just above a whisper; it feels more intimate than the fact that they're sharing a bed.

"No, not asleep yet." She shifts a little, trying to see his face in the dark. "Are you okay?" Then she feels foolish for asking; of course he's not okay.

He turns onto his side, facing her. "I guess I'm as okay as I can be."

There's pain there, but there's also acceptance and it wrings her heart a little. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?" She thinks about Hotch's words earlier and the futility of that question; but she also knows she can't not ask, just in case there's something.

"Would..." He swallows heavily. "I don't want to overstep any boundaries here."

Emily wants to laugh. He knows all of her secrets, they're teammates, partners more often than not, this is the third time they've shared a bed and she's really sort of hopelessly in love with him. As far as she's concerned, there just aren't a lot of boundaries left. "What, Dave?" She tries to make her voice as gentle as possible. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark and she can see his face but accurately reading his expression is not possible. "What do you need?"

He doesn't answer right away, but his hand comes up and touches her hair, pushing it back from her cheek then lingering. "I don't want to sound needy or demanding, but would you mind..."

He leaves his unfinished request lingering in the air between them and she feels him struggling with what he wants to ask.

"Dave." She makes her voice soft, accepting. "What do you need? Anything. Just name it."

He sighs a little and she can't name the mix of emotion in his tone when he speaks. "Could you hold me?"

The sound she makes is a little bit of heartbreak, but is quickly covered under the rustle of cotton and covers as she moves to wrap her arms around him and she feels his arms go around her. He's warm and solid against her and she pulls him close, hugs him tight. She's no Spencer Reid but she knows enough about the bio-chemical benefits of touch to understand this need isn't personal, that any friend or loved one could offer the same lessening of anxiety. But she is grateful it's her here beside him, grateful for the press of his head against her neck, the clutch of his arms around her body.

When she feels the moist touch of a tear against her skin she wants to weep with him. Instead, she pushes closer against him, making soothing noises. Gently, she runs her fingers through the soft hairs at the back of his neck, holding him close, letting him cry against her, willing him to be comforted.

After awhile he quiets and his grip eases, though he does keep her close, arms still wrapped around her. It's not long before she hears his breath deepen and even out and she knows he's asleep. Taking stock, she finds one of her legs tangled between his and her chest pressed firmly against his and she suddenly remembers she's wearing a fairly thin camisole that provides very little coverage for her breasts. Attempting to ease away from him only meets with a tightening of his arms and a muffled and sleepy protest, so she subsides, giving a mental shrug. It's not like she's trying to seduce him, and they're bound to shift position during the night anyway. And if she's honest, she'd awakened several times since Charleston longing for the sensation of sleeping in his arms again. While this is not the way she fantasized about it happening, they're here and he's strong and warm and smells really good, so she relaxes against him, letting sleep take her down.

TBC...

Chapter9