Fic: Learning to Miss (Criminal Minds, Rossi/Prentiss, FRAO)
Title: Learning to Miss
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi, Criminal Minds
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Spoilers/Warnings: Through the end of S4. Could be thoroughly jossed come September.
Summary: "... shag Hotch, marry Rossi." It's not really a hard call, and she's pretty pleased with herself for dodging that bullet, until she realizes that it did not come out right at all - she'd meant to say marry Hotch, shag Rossi.
Notes: smittywing made this so much better. Which is the norm, but I am always grateful.
"There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss."
- Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Will and JJ split in the early spring. It's mutual, it's cordial, and Emily doesn't have to be a profiler to figure out that JJ's faking it when it comes to coping.
It's late summer when Emily finds herself in an SUV with Morgan, driving far too quickly down a far too poorly lit, far too winding road. She's painfully, blindingly aware that when it comes to David Rossi, she's not faking it at all - and that she's known it for months.
---
It's almost May, and she and JJ and Garcia are desperately in need of a therapeutic girl's night in.
"So," Garcia says and pauses to sip an extremely pink beverage out of one of the enormous daiquiri glasses she'd pulled out of her duffel bag of party paraphernalia. It has an umbrella, also pink. It also has more alcohol in it than Emily has ever put into a single drink in her life. Which could be why, she acknowledges with great solemnity as she takes a sip out of her own very large glass of very pink beverage - which could be why she, Emily, is feeling no pain. She is almost entirely certain that JJ and Garcia are right there with her. Certainly the little vertical furrow between JJ's eyebrows has gone away, at least temporarily.
"So," Garcia says again, and Emily realizes she has completely lost the thread of whatever conversation they're having, "Marry, shag, cliff."
Emily snorts and gets pink up her nose. Garcia smiles beneficently while she recovers. JJ's busy laughing at the two of them, which is sort of the point, Emily reasons, setting down her drink and mopping at her nose with a (pink) napkin. They're in her living room, shoes off, hair back, and feet on the table, with a bizarre mix of music on the speakers. Garcia's CD had been labeled "Girl Power" and Emily supposes the earlier Carole King and Fiona Apple tracks fit the pattern, but right now they're on some crazy trip through the 1950s and 1960s and "It's My Party" is the latest song permeating her apartment. It's the best girls' night Emily's ever had and JJ and Garcia seem right at home.
Once Emily stops choking, Garcia raises an eyebrow imperiously. "Well?"
Emily grins at JJ, who grins right back. "I'm in. But you go first."
Garcia cackles. "All right. Name 'em."
"Morgan, Reid, Hotch," JJ says promptly.
Garcia takes a long, slow, pink sip. "Oh, my darling. Like that's hard. Shag Morgan, marry Hotch, and cliff Reid, poor boy. Although he'd probably run when he saw me coming," she chuckles.
"I agree," Emily volunteers. "And if Morgan ever hears about this we are all dead women. We'll never live it down."
JJ purses her lips in thought, but her eyes are sparkling. "I don't know," she says. "Morgan might be cliffable on ego alone. Not," she adds, forestalling Garcia's instant protest, "that he wouldn't be extremely fun to shag."
There's a brief moment of silence in honor of the idea - and then they all crack up. Somewhere, Emily thinks affectionately, Morgan's ears are burning and he has no idea why.
"Fine, then," Emily goads. "What's your choice?"
JJ doesn't even stop to think. "Cliff Morgan, marry Reid, shag Hotch."
If it weren't for the fact that JJ's cheeks are just the littlest bit pink, Emily thinks, she'd have pulled that little statement off completely. Emily's been watching, though - purely out of friendly interest, she insists to herself - and that blush didn't show up till the end of the sentence.
She'd rag on JJ a little bit, but Garcia's gotten in ahead of her. "Marry Reid,?" she demands. "I don't buy it."
"That," JJ replies, gesturing with the little paper umbrella, "is a failure of imagination on your part." Emily snorts, and the umbrella shifts her direction. "Two words," JJ insists. "Totally. Trainable."
Garcia mock-frowns. "That's a little mercenary."
"She's not wrong," Emily allows, and immediately regrets it, because now two pairs of very interested eyes are focused on her.
"No?" Garcia asks brightly, and better women than Emily Prentiss have quailed in the face of that particular brand of mischief. "If that's so easy, let's shake it up, shall we?"
Emily groans. "Okay, okay," she starts to say, but then JJ cuts her off.
"Oh yes," JJ says, and levels her finger at Emily. "Marry, shag, cliff: Morgan, Hotch, and Rossi." Emily really regrets having given her that bye on shagging Hotch. The corner of Garcia's mouth is twitching.
"That's just not fair," Emily groans, and hopes to god they think it's because that's the most ungovernable trio of alpha males to ever walk the earth.
"Are you forfeiting?" JJ demands, and Emily is never, ever playing Truth or Dare with these women. Ever. Garcia is humming the theme to Jeopardy. Emily gulps her drink.
"Oh my god," she says finally, grinning despite herself. "Fine. Cliff Morgan, because JJ's not wrong, shag Hotch, marry Rossi." It's not really a hard call, and she's pretty pleased with herself for dodging that bullet, until she realizes that it did not come out right at all - she'd meant to say marry Hotch, shag Rossi.
JJ's raised an eyebrow. Garcia is looking far too alert and far too interested, which bodes entirely ill. Emily is thinking as fast as she can while trying to remain cool, calm, and collected, which is no mean feat given the amount of alcoholic pink beverage she's ingested.
"Oh, honey," Garcia drawls. "You really want to stand in line to be the fourth Mrs. Rossi?" Emily knows she's being baited, but that's okay - she's got an answer.
"Of course," she says, waving her glass expansively. "Think of the alimony."
It gets the desired laugh, and "These Boots Are Made for Walking" starts to play, prompting Garcia to gracefully stomp her way back to the drink pitcher. JJ stands and starts to join her, pausing next to Emily's chair. They look at each other for a moment, then JJ's mouth quirks and she plucks the glass out of Emily's hand. "I'll get you a refill," she says, and moves off, admonishing Garcia to save some for the rest of them.
Emily just sits there, feeling like she's been smacked in the head with a two-by-four. She's suddenly, blindingly aware of two things: one, that it's the alimony crack, not the drink, that's left a sour taste in her mouth and two, that she's pretty sure she actually just told the truth and she's only just realized it.
Oh god, she thinks a little wildly. Oh my god. What the hell just happened?
---
Oh god, she thinks a little wildly. Oh my god. What the hell just happened?
She's not talking about Morgan's driving, either. Emily wraps her hand around the door handle and squeezes, just to have something to hold on to. It's the middle of July, it's somewhere outside of Savannah, and it's so humid that the blast of the air conditioner turns her skin clammy, making her shiver.
Morgan doesn't miss it, sparing her a quick look before jerking his attention back to the road. "Hey," he says quietly. "Relax. We know Rossi's okay."
It's true, they do. Sort of. The EMTs had been there in record time, and he'd been wearing a vest. He'd been unconscious, but he'd been breathing, and Reid hadn't seen any blood.
"I know," she answers, leaning her head against the window and feeling queasy. "It's just - "
"Unexpected."
"Yeah," Emily says. Unexpected. Heart-stopping. Terrifying. "Something like that."
It's serial arson this time, and they'd narrowed the next target to one of two houses. She and Morgan had taken one; Hotch, Reid, and Rossi the other. Hotch and Reid had been on the other side of the house; Rossi had surprised the unsub in the bushes, casing the place. The bastard had fired before Rossi could draw, hitting him on the side, but well within the vest. The impact had cracked Dave's head against the side of the house's separate garage - a solid brick wall - knocking him out. Reid and Hotch had been there in seconds - in enough time for Hotch to give chase, draw, and wing the guy - a scratch, but they've got blood now, which means DNA.
Morgan's cell rings, and he digs it out of his pocket. Emily forces herself to let go of the door and folds her hands together, resting them in her lap. Her heart's still pounding; she focuses on breathing slow and steady, tells herself she's over-reacting. Because Hotch was such a near miss. Because they've all been on edge since he started back in the field. Because you're waiting for the next shoe to drop and terrified it's going to be Rossi, says a little voice in her head, loud and clear. Her throat tightens again.
When did this happen? she asks herself. It wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be more than friends with benefits. She'd be devastated if they lost anyone on their team - it's her team - but she wouldn't be feeling like this. She's not entirely sure she knows what this is, but it's defying her every attempt to lock it down.
"Prentiss." Morgan's voice is low, but it cuts through her internal monologue. Emily looks at him - she hadn't realized the call had ended. "You're gonna break a finger," he says, "if you squeeze any harder."
Emily looks down at her hands, fingers wrapped around each other so hard they're turning white, and hisses as she lets go. "Sorry," she offers, clearing her throat a little when her voice catches. "Just worried, I guess." No reason to be, she reminds herself again. The EMTs figured Dave would be bandaged and medicated and sent home in pretty short order, so she and Morgan will collect him and round up with everyone back at the police station.
"Don't be," Morgan says, as if he's read her mind. He's lightened up on the accelerator, she notices. "Rossi's gonna be fine. He called Hotch from the damn ambulance to find out what happened."
Rossi, it turns out, has a cracked rib and a concussion, which is what happens when you take a bullet in your vest at medium range and crack your skull against the wall on your way down, but nothing that'll do more than slow him down. And make him a grumpier pain in the ass than usual, she thinks fondly, which is all it takes to ratchet her right back up again. She's vaguely aware that Morgan's asked a question, but has no idea what it was. "Sorry," she says again. "I missed that."
Morgan starts to repeats himself, then stops. "What aren't you telling me?" he says instead, and she closes her eyes. This is what she's been afraid of from the beginning. That she couldn't keep this and the job separate. That somebody'd figure it out.
Tonight it doesn't seem to matter nearly as much.
Morgan's waiting, his silence code for "in your own time," but she knows he won't let it drop. Just like she knows that whatever she says next is just between them, the job be damned.
Tonight, she'd kind of like to know there's a friend in her corner, since she can't seem to trust herself to keep it together. Not well, at any rate.
So she opens her eyes and leans her head against the window again, eyes straight ahead, watching the road vanish beneath them. She starts with something easy, because she's a coward, because she's scared that if she says it aloud, something's going to change. "I, um. I know it's ridiculous. Rossi's fine. I know that. It's just -" she hesitates.
"It's just been a long couple of months," Derek offers, echoing her earlier thoughts, but she's started this and she's not going to take the easy out.
"No - I mean, yes, and I guess that's part of it, but -" She takes a breath and forces the words out, slow and clear. "Rossi - Dave and I - we've been -" she fumbles for a word, something she thinks won't over-commit either of them. "Seeing each other. For - for a while."
"Seeing each other?" is all Morgan asks, but the corner of his mouth is twitching suspiciously.
"Seeing a lot of each other," she amends. "As in -"
"Stop right there," he interrupts, taking a hand off the wheel to mirror his plea. "I am all good right there." He's full-on grinning now.
"You creep," she snaps, and bats his hand down. "You knew. Oh god," she says, sobering. "You knew."
"I guessed," Morgan admits. "Breathe, Prentiss. I'm not going running to Strauss." He glances over at her. "Just how serious is it?"
"Um," Emily says helpfully, and considers the last forty-five minutes.
"That bad?" Morgan says, but it's not really a question. Sometimes Emily regrets working closely with a profiler with two sisters. Whom he adores. It really ought to be a little harder for him.
"Bad enough," she admits. "I can't speak for Dave." Which is, after all, part of the problem. That it could have been worse, and she'd never have had a chance to hear Dave speak for himself. And because it's important that Morgan understand this, she adds, "But it doesn't affect my ability to do this job."
"Usually," Morgan agrees, "or somebody would have noticed."
"Ever," she retorts, stung. "Tonight - this is - it's a one-time thing." Next time - because she's kidding herself to think that next time isn't a real possibility - she'll know how to cope.
"Knock wood," Morgan laughs, but stops when he sees her face. "Prentiss, hey. Emily. It's okay," he says. "You're allowed."
She doesn't have an answer to that and she hates the fact that her eyes are burning. She turns her head away and goes back to looking out the window. By the time they get there she knows, she'll be fine. Dave will be fine - is fine. It will all be completely fine, just like it's supposed to be.
I hate this, she thinks, and she's only sort of lying. How did I let this happen?
---
I hate this, she thinks, and she's only sort of lying. How did I let this happen?
She's standing in her kitchen, realizing that she'd taken her last bottle of white to Dave's three weeks back and hasn't had a chance to restock. She's not in the mood for red. All she wants is a glass of white wine, a hot bath, a good book, and no interruptions.
When Dave's key sounds in her lock - and it has to be Dave, because her mother's in Luxembourg and would have called anyway - she knows that what she's getting is a fight.
It's Friday. They've been back from Savannah for two days. It's been five since he took a bullet. He's got a new vest - had gotten it pretty much immediately. He's popping ibuprofen like candy, but he's otherwise functional.
For four days, she has been completely professional. She's been cordial and competent and she's managed to avoid being alone in a room with him for four days without much effort. The first two days back, she'd pleaded fatigue and just gone home.
Until today, when he'd cornered her by the coffee pot and demanded she tell him what the hell was going on.
"Nothing," she'd said quietly. "It's just been a long few days." She'd met his stare evenly.
"Tell me about it," he'd snapped. "And the fact that I'm standing here playing guessing games isn't exactly changing that trend."
"There's nothing to guess. I'm tired." She'd picked up her coffee mug.
He'd plucked it out of her hands and set it on the counter. "You've had so much caffeine you're twitching."
"Don't," she'd said, voice cold. "Don't coddle me, Rossi."
"Don't hold out on me, Prentiss." He'd been crowding her, and she'd hoped no one walked past. She hadn't been that close to him since the hospital.
She'd reclaimed her mug. "This is not a conversation I'm having at work," she'd said flatly, and walked away. If he'd wanted to stop her, he'd have had to grab her. She knows him well enough to bet that he wouldn't - and he hadn't - and she'd felt obscurely horrible, like she'd been caught playing dirty.
She'd been waiting for him when he walked down the hall, watching for him as she leaned on the island. They'd stood there, watching each other, until she'd started to feel ridiculous and turned away. Now she's got her back to him, but she can hear the slight shift of his feet on the tile. And even if she couldn't, she'd feel the weight of his gaze on the back of her neck.
"We're not at work," he says finally. She hasn't said a word.
"No, we're not." The granite of her counter is cold against her fingers. She shouldn't have ever let this come so far.
Rossi's voice is low, like he's fighting for control. "Do you have something you need to say to me?"
She has a million things she wants to say - Morgan knows, and Are you really okay, and You goddamn motherfucking idiot, but they get all jammed up on her tongue and monosyllables are safer anyway. "No." It's not a question of need, anyway, it's a question of right, and she doesn't have it. They went into this clear on the whole no-strings issue. Just because she's gotten confused doesn't mean anything else has changed.
"Could've fooled me," Rossi retorts. "Damn it, Emily. What the hell happened in Savannah that I missed?"
Emily laughs, and it hurts. "Nothing - in fact, it didn't miss you at all."
"That's what this is about?"
"Your complete inability to use the fucking buddy system? Yes." No. Maybe. Partly. And it's a convenient excuse.
"Jesus Christ," he snaps. "What did you want me to do, Prentiss, send Reid on his own?"
It feels like a slap, and it turns her around, chin up. "That's a low blow."
"It's ridiculous," he shoots back. "In fact, I'm not sure what's dumber - that, or the fact that I crack a rib and you practically lock me out."
"Clearly unsuccessfully," she mutters.
He stares at her in something that looks a lot like disbelief. "This is the job, Emily. This has always been the job. It could've been worse," he says, and abruptly, she realizes that she has heard enough.
"Don't you tell me about the job," she says, and Rossi shuts the hell up. He looks tired, like he has the edges of a headache, and she does not give a flying fuck. She can't imagine what she looks like, but she feels like she's about to explode. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare tell me it could have been worse."
"What the hell do you want me to do?" he demands, and that's exactly the question she didn't want to answer tonight. "You knew what you were getting into when we started this. So what, now the rules have changed?"
Yes, she thinks, and now she knows exactly where this conversation is going. It makes her want to puke.
"Tell me what the hell you want, Prentiss," he says again. "Because I gotta tell you, the job's not going to change, and I'm not going to stop."
Neither am I, she thinks, and that's just another piece of the problem. The ache is so sharp it makes her hunch. She knows exactly what to say next. "I want you to leave," she says. She feels horribly calm.
He blinks. "You what?"
"This was supposed to be easy," she says. It was, and it's not his fault it isn't easy any more. "It's not, and it's getting in the way."
"In the way," Rossi repeats.
"Of the job," she adds, just so they're clear.
"It's getting in the way of the job." His voice is totally flat.
Emily's exhausted. She just wants him to go. "Exactly." She turns away. "So the right answer is for you to leave." Now. Five minutes ago.
There's a long moment in which no one moves. Then she hears him turn, and she lets out the breath she's been holding and doesn't care if it's a little wavery. He's leaving, and tomorrow she can start moving back toward normal again.
When he speaks again, she's not expecting it, and she damn near jumps out of her skin. "You are," Rossi says, and she's not sure she's ever heard him this angry, for all he's not shouting, "the dumbest smart woman I have ever met. Do you honestly think I'd walk away from this?"
"I wish like hell you would," she snaps.
"Tough shit," he fires back. "And you should know better than to lie to a profiler."
She laughs. "You think I'm lying?"
"I know you are," he says, stepping closer. "And I don't think you want me to leave."
Emily curses. "Why the hell not? How much clearer can I possibly be?" He's in her space, crowding her out - fine, she thinks, and stands her ground. He might be an asshole, but she knows where he draws the line. "This is my house," she says, not as firmly as she'd like, "and I want you to leave."
Rossi just leans back against the counter. His voice is calm, but his eyes are still dark. "Tell me why," he says, "and I'll go."
"Because I want you to," she says, trying to match his tone.
"That's a lie," he answers. "Let me rephrase." He crosses his arms. "Tell me the truth, and I'll go."
"Because it's a distraction."
He snorts. "While I admit that you are a lovely woman and I defy any male alive not to be distracted, thus far I have managed not to ravage you in the bullpen."
She's going to hit him shortly. "Because Morgan knows."
"So does Hotch. And almost certainly JJ and Garcia. I don't want to know if Reid knows, although I'm certain he doesn't care. Try again."
She's well aware that her fists are balled. "Because I can't do this and my job."
He tilts his head, considering. "Closer. But still a lie."
And that's her limit, apparently. She's not going to manhandle him out the door, and he's not leaving until she tells him the truth, and she's already had the argument she wanted so desperately to avoid, so there's no real point to holding out.
"Because I can't walk away." From you or the job, she thinks, and turns to lean against the fridge. "Because I can't walk away, and one of us should." And you still can, she thinks.
Except then Rossi's leaning against the counter next to her. She refuses to look at him. "Guess we're fucked, then," he says calmly. "Because I can't either."
When she looks up, he's right there, watching her, and any protest dies in her throat. He's not screwing with her. And while he doesn't look angry, exactly, she's seen that look on his face and knows not to get in the way. Maybe, she thinks, she's gotten something wrong.
"Now it's my turn to talk," Rossi says, and he's close enough that the words brush over her skin and make her shiver. "You are not the only one who's confused as all hell. You are not the only one that worries about what happens when we're out there. You are not the only one with no fucking idea how we got here. And I am not walking away."
She's been running this circuit in her brain for days now and she never thought this was the way the loop would break. She drops her chin, lets her eyes close, fighting for just a little space to process, but then Rossi wraps a hand around her neck and rests his forehead against hers and even that space is gone.
Emily's breath is wobbly and she can't trust herself to speak, but Rossi doesn't seem to be much better off. They just stand there for a while and she lets herself start to relax, until she thinks she might have a voice again. "I always was a shitty liar," she says at last. She still hasn't moved.
Rossi laughs, and it sounds a little frayed. "Nah," he answers. "I just know your tells."
"Shut up," Emily says, because this is not where tonight was supposed to end up, and she is hardly complaining, but all she wants to do at this precise moment is kiss him. Fortunately, he gets the message and obliges.
She missed this, she thinks, leaning up. She hasn't done this since before Savannah and she's missed it. The way he tastes, the way he smells, the way his hands feel when they cup the back of her head. She brings her hands up, curls one into the fabric of his shirt and rests the other against his neck, just below his jaw, where she can feel the quiet thud of his pulse. He shifts slightly, nipping gently at her lip.
She lets him in, lets him kiss her long and slow and quiet. When he pulls back, just a little, enough to rest his temple against hers, she realizes she's on the verge of tears. It's ridiculous, she thinks. Emily drops her head to Dave's shoulder, hoping he won't notice. She's overwrought - tired, stressed, recently panicked - and that's plenty of explanation right there. Except then he wraps an arm around her and tucks her head under his chin with his other hand, and says "I'm not walking."
Emily laughs, or she tries to, but it chokes her and comes out more like a sob. "I've been terrified," she says, and it's like saying it makes it even more real, brings it out from the background and into daylight. She can't breathe, suddenly, and she's got her hand clenched on his shoulder tight enough that it's got to hurt. "I am terrified," she admits, because he's human and she's human and they've both got enough issues to have subscriptions. But he's said he's not walking, and that's - it's not a statement she'll take lightly, because he has never been anything but honest with her, from the beginning.
He tucks a stand of hair back behind her ear. "Yeah, well. Join the club," he says, and she straightens enough to glance up. He's smiling, but it's tight, and it occurs to her that this hasn't exactly been a picnic for him either. Enough, she orders herself, settling back against his shoulder, and strangely enough, for tonight, she might be starting to believe that it is. Slowly, she admits, since she's still holding on for dear life and has no interest in letting go, but she's gradually losing the massive anxiety that's been ramping her up all night. All week. At least.
Rossi shifts beneath her and she feels the quick tension as he aggravates something sore and readjusts. She could stay here forever, but they'd probably both regret it in the morning. "Want to go hide under the covers?" she asks softly, running her thumb along his jaw, ruffling the line of his beard. It's not exactly an apology, but it's the closest she can come.
"Yeah," he answers. He laces his fingers with hers and brings her hand up, dropping a kiss on her palm. "I do." Rossi disentangles himself and bumps her gently towards the stairs. "Go on," he says. "I'll check the locks."
Emily goes. It's not like he has many locks to check - she's barely to the bedroom door when she hears him start up the stairs. She's slipped off shoes and slacks and is rummaging for a t-shirt when he walks in the door, a hand on his collar, his cuffs already shot. He's moving a little easier, she thinks, which only makes her realize she hasn't seen him since - that it's been five days, and she hasn't had a chance to make sure he's okay.
"Hey," she says, stepping into his space. "Let me."
"Be my guest," he grins, and she takes him at his word. She's not slow about it either, for all she likes undressing him. This isn't about sex, though, and it's the last of the adrenaline that makes her fingers unsteady as she works her way down the line of buttons. He shrugs the button-down off his shoulders as she rucks up his undershirt, forcing herself to relax, keeping her eyes on his neck and shoulders until he's tugged it over his head and off. Then she lets herself look.
The bruise is angry, a lurid splotch the size of her hand. Bigger, she thinks, tracing the edge of it where the purple has started to give way to yellow and green. Rossi tenses, and she drops her hand. "Sorry," she says, taking a step back. "I -"
"Emily," Rossi says quietly, "shut up."
"Dave," she starts to say, and bites her lip before heading back to the dresser for that t-shirt, unbuttoning her blouse as she goes. She knows the top she wants, soft and old and nearly falling apart, but she can't seem to find it. Behind her, she hears Rossi slip off his jeans and dump his clothes on the nearest chair.
She's about to slam the drawer in frustration when he steps up behind her and settles his hands on her shoulders. "I just don't want my brain writing a check my body can't cash," he offers. "Cracked ribs really suck."
Emily tries to smile as she turns in his hold. He's pulled on pajama bottoms, but he's not wearing the top, and the bruise is just as ugly as it was two minutes ago. "I hope you won't mind if I take your word for it," she says.
He frowns. "I'd much prefer it, actually," he replies, but before she can feel like an idiot about that, he keeps going. "Prentiss - Emily," his hands are warm through her blouse, and his thumb rubs gently over the fabric, "I am really bad at this."
She has a lump in her throat, but she seems to be smiling.
He's watching her very carefully. "This hasn't been about easy for a long time," he says. "I didn't realize I hadn't made that clear."
She hadn't realized he was trying to, Emily thinks, and considers the possibility that she's lying. "Maybe I didn't want to listen," she says, and he frowns, so she hurries on. "Not because I didn't want to. Because it would be easier if I didn't."
He quirks a grin. "Prentiss," he says, in that rumble that makes her shiver, "stop talking." She shoots him a look, but he's pulling her to him and turning her again, her back to his front. She can see the two of them in the mirror; she's standing in front of him and she can't see the bruise at all.
She watches as his hands brush against her neck before slipping the blouse off of her shoulders and down her arms. She can feel it puddle around her feet, silky and cool. He's warm against her back, and she likes the way they look together: the way his hand looks, curled around her upper arm; the way he looks as he dips his head to brush a kiss at the junction of her neck and shoulder. He's taking his time, she thinks, and it makes her shiver.
His hands are everywhere, skimming her arms, across her stomach, barely touching; he twines his fingers through hers and brings her with him, touching herself as he moves over her body. When he lets her hands go and gently flicks open the clasp at the front of her bra, she thinks she's aware of every square inch of skin. He slides the straps down and off. Her breasts are tight and heavy; there's a throb between her legs that's sweet and hot. When he palms her breasts, she sucks in a gasp and lets her head fall back against his shoulder. She can't stop looking, her eyes half-open, watching his hands on her body, the flush that's spreading under her skin. "Do you see this?" he murmurs in her ear. "Do you have any idea how amazing this is?" His tone is low, almost harsh. He rolls her nipples gently and she groans. "Do you have any idea what this feels like?" he demands. One his hands slides down and under the edge of her underwear. "How the hell could I walk away from this?" he says, and brushes his index finger just so against her clit.
"Dave," Emily gasps, looking for words, but then he does it again and it takes the last of her rational thought to consider that it's really not a good idea for him to take her weight. "Bed," she manages, and tries to remember how her knees work.
"Bed," he agrees, "but take those off first." Emily's wholly in accord, skimming out of her underwear without so much as a peep as he opens a bureau drawer and rummages.
She's just pulled the covers back when he joins her, tossing a very familiar little black bag onto the bed and wrapping his arms around her waist. Reason, however, has begun to reassert itself, and she has to say it. "This is probably not -"
"The way I'd prefer to go about it," Rossi finishes for her. She should argue this, she thinks, but if she's honest, she doesn't want to. She wants this - wants him - wants to fall apart and let him catch her. I'm not walking, she hears him say, and shivers - and stops fighting.
Dave lets go of her and settles himself into bed, pillows arranged strategically, his back against the headboard, and is watching her with a grin. "I feel like a damn invalid," he grumbles, but his eyes are laughing.
"In that case," she laughs, "I'll come back in two weeks." She pretends to walk away, but he catches her wrist.
"Come here now," he rumbles, tugging until she complies. She ends up tucked against him, her legs across his thighs, and Rossi kisses her. When they surface for air, the world's gone hazy again. His thumb brushes lightly over her nipple. She can feel the air conditioning raising goosebumps on her skin.
He smoothes her hair back from her face. "Lay down," he says, and she blinks at him. "Prentiss," he says, "trust me on this. Lay down." She lies down, her hips on his lap, her head on the bed, squirming a little until she finds a comfortable spot in the nest of pillows. She feels ridiculous, until he starts to touch her. Long, sweeping strokes, fingertip-light and then growing firmer, like he's learning her body all over again, tracing over her stomach, her hips, her breasts, her thighs, like she's something entirely new. It's a little unsettling at first - she feels open and embarrassed and exposed - but his hands are sure, coaxing her along until she's arching underneath him, her legs slipping open, hips shifting up as he touches her everywhere but where she wants it most.
"Jesus, Emily," he mutters, resting a hand on her inner thigh. Her hands are fisted in the comforter, and she's breathing hard. If he doesn't do something soon, she thinks, she might actually combust. She hears him fumbling for something, but by the time she's processed the buzz of her little silver vibrator, Dave's putting it to full and very, very skillful use.
His palm is low on her belly, holding her still as he slides it in slowly, setting a rhythm that short-circuits her brain in about thirty seconds. She's trying to move with him, trying to match him, but his grip is firm and her traction sucks. Emily doesn't recognize the noises she's making, but Dave's saying her name like a litany and she clings to it. He changes the angle slightly, just enough to nudge her G-spot, and she actually bucks, then orders him to do it again. He just laughs, and keeps talking, telling her she's lovely and strong and beloved, even if those aren't the words he uses. It would make her want to cry, except for the fact that she's too busy trying to breathe and the heat in his voice is crackling over her skin.
Her back's arched, her neck's arched, her whole body's tingling with the stretch when Dave finally brings his other hand to her clit and angles the vibrator just right. The orgasm tears through her, shuddering and fierce, stripping her of the tension and anger and worry that's been practically hard-wired into her bones the last few days. The aftershocks shiver through her, and gradually she's aware that Dave's touching her gently, murmuring to her as he eases the vibrator out and settles her against him, shifting them both further down the bed.
Emily wants to tell him she got the message - that she understands, that she's sorry, that she's not walking either. She needs to tell him, she thinks, but she feels limp and hollow - calm, for the first time in days. Dave's hand is warm on the small of her back and sleep is sucking her down hard and fast.
Except this is important. "Dave," she murmurs, and feels, rather than hears, his inquiring hum. She reaches for his free hand, trapping it in her own, resting their hands on his chest. She's tired, looking for words that don't come easy, not to either of them, and for a moment she settles for smoothing her thumb over his. She's drowsing, eyelids heavy, by the time the words slip out. "'M not going anywhere," she mumbles, and hears his rusty chuckle.
"I'd be amazed," he says, and she tries to rouse herself enough to explain, but he just tightens his hold. "Prentiss," he says quietly. "I know you aren't. Me either."
That's all she needs to hear - mission accomplished - all she needs in order to let herself go, and tumble into sleep.
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi, Criminal Minds
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Spoilers/Warnings: Through the end of S4. Could be thoroughly jossed come September.
Summary: "... shag Hotch, marry Rossi." It's not really a hard call, and she's pretty pleased with herself for dodging that bullet, until she realizes that it did not come out right at all - she'd meant to say marry Hotch, shag Rossi.
Notes: smittywing made this so much better. Which is the norm, but I am always grateful.
"There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss."
- Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Will and JJ split in the early spring. It's mutual, it's cordial, and Emily doesn't have to be a profiler to figure out that JJ's faking it when it comes to coping.
It's late summer when Emily finds herself in an SUV with Morgan, driving far too quickly down a far too poorly lit, far too winding road. She's painfully, blindingly aware that when it comes to David Rossi, she's not faking it at all - and that she's known it for months.
---
It's almost May, and she and JJ and Garcia are desperately in need of a therapeutic girl's night in.
"So," Garcia says and pauses to sip an extremely pink beverage out of one of the enormous daiquiri glasses she'd pulled out of her duffel bag of party paraphernalia. It has an umbrella, also pink. It also has more alcohol in it than Emily has ever put into a single drink in her life. Which could be why, she acknowledges with great solemnity as she takes a sip out of her own very large glass of very pink beverage - which could be why she, Emily, is feeling no pain. She is almost entirely certain that JJ and Garcia are right there with her. Certainly the little vertical furrow between JJ's eyebrows has gone away, at least temporarily.
"So," Garcia says again, and Emily realizes she has completely lost the thread of whatever conversation they're having, "Marry, shag, cliff."
Emily snorts and gets pink up her nose. Garcia smiles beneficently while she recovers. JJ's busy laughing at the two of them, which is sort of the point, Emily reasons, setting down her drink and mopping at her nose with a (pink) napkin. They're in her living room, shoes off, hair back, and feet on the table, with a bizarre mix of music on the speakers. Garcia's CD had been labeled "Girl Power" and Emily supposes the earlier Carole King and Fiona Apple tracks fit the pattern, but right now they're on some crazy trip through the 1950s and 1960s and "It's My Party" is the latest song permeating her apartment. It's the best girls' night Emily's ever had and JJ and Garcia seem right at home.
Once Emily stops choking, Garcia raises an eyebrow imperiously. "Well?"
Emily grins at JJ, who grins right back. "I'm in. But you go first."
Garcia cackles. "All right. Name 'em."
"Morgan, Reid, Hotch," JJ says promptly.
Garcia takes a long, slow, pink sip. "Oh, my darling. Like that's hard. Shag Morgan, marry Hotch, and cliff Reid, poor boy. Although he'd probably run when he saw me coming," she chuckles.
"I agree," Emily volunteers. "And if Morgan ever hears about this we are all dead women. We'll never live it down."
JJ purses her lips in thought, but her eyes are sparkling. "I don't know," she says. "Morgan might be cliffable on ego alone. Not," she adds, forestalling Garcia's instant protest, "that he wouldn't be extremely fun to shag."
There's a brief moment of silence in honor of the idea - and then they all crack up. Somewhere, Emily thinks affectionately, Morgan's ears are burning and he has no idea why.
"Fine, then," Emily goads. "What's your choice?"
JJ doesn't even stop to think. "Cliff Morgan, marry Reid, shag Hotch."
If it weren't for the fact that JJ's cheeks are just the littlest bit pink, Emily thinks, she'd have pulled that little statement off completely. Emily's been watching, though - purely out of friendly interest, she insists to herself - and that blush didn't show up till the end of the sentence.
She'd rag on JJ a little bit, but Garcia's gotten in ahead of her. "Marry Reid,?" she demands. "I don't buy it."
"That," JJ replies, gesturing with the little paper umbrella, "is a failure of imagination on your part." Emily snorts, and the umbrella shifts her direction. "Two words," JJ insists. "Totally. Trainable."
Garcia mock-frowns. "That's a little mercenary."
"She's not wrong," Emily allows, and immediately regrets it, because now two pairs of very interested eyes are focused on her.
"No?" Garcia asks brightly, and better women than Emily Prentiss have quailed in the face of that particular brand of mischief. "If that's so easy, let's shake it up, shall we?"
Emily groans. "Okay, okay," she starts to say, but then JJ cuts her off.
"Oh yes," JJ says, and levels her finger at Emily. "Marry, shag, cliff: Morgan, Hotch, and Rossi." Emily really regrets having given her that bye on shagging Hotch. The corner of Garcia's mouth is twitching.
"That's just not fair," Emily groans, and hopes to god they think it's because that's the most ungovernable trio of alpha males to ever walk the earth.
"Are you forfeiting?" JJ demands, and Emily is never, ever playing Truth or Dare with these women. Ever. Garcia is humming the theme to Jeopardy. Emily gulps her drink.
"Oh my god," she says finally, grinning despite herself. "Fine. Cliff Morgan, because JJ's not wrong, shag Hotch, marry Rossi." It's not really a hard call, and she's pretty pleased with herself for dodging that bullet, until she realizes that it did not come out right at all - she'd meant to say marry Hotch, shag Rossi.
JJ's raised an eyebrow. Garcia is looking far too alert and far too interested, which bodes entirely ill. Emily is thinking as fast as she can while trying to remain cool, calm, and collected, which is no mean feat given the amount of alcoholic pink beverage she's ingested.
"Oh, honey," Garcia drawls. "You really want to stand in line to be the fourth Mrs. Rossi?" Emily knows she's being baited, but that's okay - she's got an answer.
"Of course," she says, waving her glass expansively. "Think of the alimony."
It gets the desired laugh, and "These Boots Are Made for Walking" starts to play, prompting Garcia to gracefully stomp her way back to the drink pitcher. JJ stands and starts to join her, pausing next to Emily's chair. They look at each other for a moment, then JJ's mouth quirks and she plucks the glass out of Emily's hand. "I'll get you a refill," she says, and moves off, admonishing Garcia to save some for the rest of them.
Emily just sits there, feeling like she's been smacked in the head with a two-by-four. She's suddenly, blindingly aware of two things: one, that it's the alimony crack, not the drink, that's left a sour taste in her mouth and two, that she's pretty sure she actually just told the truth and she's only just realized it.
Oh god, she thinks a little wildly. Oh my god. What the hell just happened?
---
Oh god, she thinks a little wildly. Oh my god. What the hell just happened?
She's not talking about Morgan's driving, either. Emily wraps her hand around the door handle and squeezes, just to have something to hold on to. It's the middle of July, it's somewhere outside of Savannah, and it's so humid that the blast of the air conditioner turns her skin clammy, making her shiver.
Morgan doesn't miss it, sparing her a quick look before jerking his attention back to the road. "Hey," he says quietly. "Relax. We know Rossi's okay."
It's true, they do. Sort of. The EMTs had been there in record time, and he'd been wearing a vest. He'd been unconscious, but he'd been breathing, and Reid hadn't seen any blood.
"I know," she answers, leaning her head against the window and feeling queasy. "It's just - "
"Unexpected."
"Yeah," Emily says. Unexpected. Heart-stopping. Terrifying. "Something like that."
It's serial arson this time, and they'd narrowed the next target to one of two houses. She and Morgan had taken one; Hotch, Reid, and Rossi the other. Hotch and Reid had been on the other side of the house; Rossi had surprised the unsub in the bushes, casing the place. The bastard had fired before Rossi could draw, hitting him on the side, but well within the vest. The impact had cracked Dave's head against the side of the house's separate garage - a solid brick wall - knocking him out. Reid and Hotch had been there in seconds - in enough time for Hotch to give chase, draw, and wing the guy - a scratch, but they've got blood now, which means DNA.
Morgan's cell rings, and he digs it out of his pocket. Emily forces herself to let go of the door and folds her hands together, resting them in her lap. Her heart's still pounding; she focuses on breathing slow and steady, tells herself she's over-reacting. Because Hotch was such a near miss. Because they've all been on edge since he started back in the field. Because you're waiting for the next shoe to drop and terrified it's going to be Rossi, says a little voice in her head, loud and clear. Her throat tightens again.
When did this happen? she asks herself. It wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be more than friends with benefits. She'd be devastated if they lost anyone on their team - it's her team - but she wouldn't be feeling like this. She's not entirely sure she knows what this is, but it's defying her every attempt to lock it down.
"Prentiss." Morgan's voice is low, but it cuts through her internal monologue. Emily looks at him - she hadn't realized the call had ended. "You're gonna break a finger," he says, "if you squeeze any harder."
Emily looks down at her hands, fingers wrapped around each other so hard they're turning white, and hisses as she lets go. "Sorry," she offers, clearing her throat a little when her voice catches. "Just worried, I guess." No reason to be, she reminds herself again. The EMTs figured Dave would be bandaged and medicated and sent home in pretty short order, so she and Morgan will collect him and round up with everyone back at the police station.
"Don't be," Morgan says, as if he's read her mind. He's lightened up on the accelerator, she notices. "Rossi's gonna be fine. He called Hotch from the damn ambulance to find out what happened."
Rossi, it turns out, has a cracked rib and a concussion, which is what happens when you take a bullet in your vest at medium range and crack your skull against the wall on your way down, but nothing that'll do more than slow him down. And make him a grumpier pain in the ass than usual, she thinks fondly, which is all it takes to ratchet her right back up again. She's vaguely aware that Morgan's asked a question, but has no idea what it was. "Sorry," she says again. "I missed that."
Morgan starts to repeats himself, then stops. "What aren't you telling me?" he says instead, and she closes her eyes. This is what she's been afraid of from the beginning. That she couldn't keep this and the job separate. That somebody'd figure it out.
Tonight it doesn't seem to matter nearly as much.
Morgan's waiting, his silence code for "in your own time," but she knows he won't let it drop. Just like she knows that whatever she says next is just between them, the job be damned.
Tonight, she'd kind of like to know there's a friend in her corner, since she can't seem to trust herself to keep it together. Not well, at any rate.
So she opens her eyes and leans her head against the window again, eyes straight ahead, watching the road vanish beneath them. She starts with something easy, because she's a coward, because she's scared that if she says it aloud, something's going to change. "I, um. I know it's ridiculous. Rossi's fine. I know that. It's just -" she hesitates.
"It's just been a long couple of months," Derek offers, echoing her earlier thoughts, but she's started this and she's not going to take the easy out.
"No - I mean, yes, and I guess that's part of it, but -" She takes a breath and forces the words out, slow and clear. "Rossi - Dave and I - we've been -" she fumbles for a word, something she thinks won't over-commit either of them. "Seeing each other. For - for a while."
"Seeing each other?" is all Morgan asks, but the corner of his mouth is twitching suspiciously.
"Seeing a lot of each other," she amends. "As in -"
"Stop right there," he interrupts, taking a hand off the wheel to mirror his plea. "I am all good right there." He's full-on grinning now.
"You creep," she snaps, and bats his hand down. "You knew. Oh god," she says, sobering. "You knew."
"I guessed," Morgan admits. "Breathe, Prentiss. I'm not going running to Strauss." He glances over at her. "Just how serious is it?"
"Um," Emily says helpfully, and considers the last forty-five minutes.
"That bad?" Morgan says, but it's not really a question. Sometimes Emily regrets working closely with a profiler with two sisters. Whom he adores. It really ought to be a little harder for him.
"Bad enough," she admits. "I can't speak for Dave." Which is, after all, part of the problem. That it could have been worse, and she'd never have had a chance to hear Dave speak for himself. And because it's important that Morgan understand this, she adds, "But it doesn't affect my ability to do this job."
"Usually," Morgan agrees, "or somebody would have noticed."
"Ever," she retorts, stung. "Tonight - this is - it's a one-time thing." Next time - because she's kidding herself to think that next time isn't a real possibility - she'll know how to cope.
"Knock wood," Morgan laughs, but stops when he sees her face. "Prentiss, hey. Emily. It's okay," he says. "You're allowed."
She doesn't have an answer to that and she hates the fact that her eyes are burning. She turns her head away and goes back to looking out the window. By the time they get there she knows, she'll be fine. Dave will be fine - is fine. It will all be completely fine, just like it's supposed to be.
I hate this, she thinks, and she's only sort of lying. How did I let this happen?
---
I hate this, she thinks, and she's only sort of lying. How did I let this happen?
She's standing in her kitchen, realizing that she'd taken her last bottle of white to Dave's three weeks back and hasn't had a chance to restock. She's not in the mood for red. All she wants is a glass of white wine, a hot bath, a good book, and no interruptions.
When Dave's key sounds in her lock - and it has to be Dave, because her mother's in Luxembourg and would have called anyway - she knows that what she's getting is a fight.
It's Friday. They've been back from Savannah for two days. It's been five since he took a bullet. He's got a new vest - had gotten it pretty much immediately. He's popping ibuprofen like candy, but he's otherwise functional.
For four days, she has been completely professional. She's been cordial and competent and she's managed to avoid being alone in a room with him for four days without much effort. The first two days back, she'd pleaded fatigue and just gone home.
Until today, when he'd cornered her by the coffee pot and demanded she tell him what the hell was going on.
"Nothing," she'd said quietly. "It's just been a long few days." She'd met his stare evenly.
"Tell me about it," he'd snapped. "And the fact that I'm standing here playing guessing games isn't exactly changing that trend."
"There's nothing to guess. I'm tired." She'd picked up her coffee mug.
He'd plucked it out of her hands and set it on the counter. "You've had so much caffeine you're twitching."
"Don't," she'd said, voice cold. "Don't coddle me, Rossi."
"Don't hold out on me, Prentiss." He'd been crowding her, and she'd hoped no one walked past. She hadn't been that close to him since the hospital.
She'd reclaimed her mug. "This is not a conversation I'm having at work," she'd said flatly, and walked away. If he'd wanted to stop her, he'd have had to grab her. She knows him well enough to bet that he wouldn't - and he hadn't - and she'd felt obscurely horrible, like she'd been caught playing dirty.
She'd been waiting for him when he walked down the hall, watching for him as she leaned on the island. They'd stood there, watching each other, until she'd started to feel ridiculous and turned away. Now she's got her back to him, but she can hear the slight shift of his feet on the tile. And even if she couldn't, she'd feel the weight of his gaze on the back of her neck.
"We're not at work," he says finally. She hasn't said a word.
"No, we're not." The granite of her counter is cold against her fingers. She shouldn't have ever let this come so far.
Rossi's voice is low, like he's fighting for control. "Do you have something you need to say to me?"
She has a million things she wants to say - Morgan knows, and Are you really okay, and You goddamn motherfucking idiot, but they get all jammed up on her tongue and monosyllables are safer anyway. "No." It's not a question of need, anyway, it's a question of right, and she doesn't have it. They went into this clear on the whole no-strings issue. Just because she's gotten confused doesn't mean anything else has changed.
"Could've fooled me," Rossi retorts. "Damn it, Emily. What the hell happened in Savannah that I missed?"
Emily laughs, and it hurts. "Nothing - in fact, it didn't miss you at all."
"That's what this is about?"
"Your complete inability to use the fucking buddy system? Yes." No. Maybe. Partly. And it's a convenient excuse.
"Jesus Christ," he snaps. "What did you want me to do, Prentiss, send Reid on his own?"
It feels like a slap, and it turns her around, chin up. "That's a low blow."
"It's ridiculous," he shoots back. "In fact, I'm not sure what's dumber - that, or the fact that I crack a rib and you practically lock me out."
"Clearly unsuccessfully," she mutters.
He stares at her in something that looks a lot like disbelief. "This is the job, Emily. This has always been the job. It could've been worse," he says, and abruptly, she realizes that she has heard enough.
"Don't you tell me about the job," she says, and Rossi shuts the hell up. He looks tired, like he has the edges of a headache, and she does not give a flying fuck. She can't imagine what she looks like, but she feels like she's about to explode. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare tell me it could have been worse."
"What the hell do you want me to do?" he demands, and that's exactly the question she didn't want to answer tonight. "You knew what you were getting into when we started this. So what, now the rules have changed?"
Yes, she thinks, and now she knows exactly where this conversation is going. It makes her want to puke.
"Tell me what the hell you want, Prentiss," he says again. "Because I gotta tell you, the job's not going to change, and I'm not going to stop."
Neither am I, she thinks, and that's just another piece of the problem. The ache is so sharp it makes her hunch. She knows exactly what to say next. "I want you to leave," she says. She feels horribly calm.
He blinks. "You what?"
"This was supposed to be easy," she says. It was, and it's not his fault it isn't easy any more. "It's not, and it's getting in the way."
"In the way," Rossi repeats.
"Of the job," she adds, just so they're clear.
"It's getting in the way of the job." His voice is totally flat.
Emily's exhausted. She just wants him to go. "Exactly." She turns away. "So the right answer is for you to leave." Now. Five minutes ago.
There's a long moment in which no one moves. Then she hears him turn, and she lets out the breath she's been holding and doesn't care if it's a little wavery. He's leaving, and tomorrow she can start moving back toward normal again.
When he speaks again, she's not expecting it, and she damn near jumps out of her skin. "You are," Rossi says, and she's not sure she's ever heard him this angry, for all he's not shouting, "the dumbest smart woman I have ever met. Do you honestly think I'd walk away from this?"
"I wish like hell you would," she snaps.
"Tough shit," he fires back. "And you should know better than to lie to a profiler."
She laughs. "You think I'm lying?"
"I know you are," he says, stepping closer. "And I don't think you want me to leave."
Emily curses. "Why the hell not? How much clearer can I possibly be?" He's in her space, crowding her out - fine, she thinks, and stands her ground. He might be an asshole, but she knows where he draws the line. "This is my house," she says, not as firmly as she'd like, "and I want you to leave."
Rossi just leans back against the counter. His voice is calm, but his eyes are still dark. "Tell me why," he says, "and I'll go."
"Because I want you to," she says, trying to match his tone.
"That's a lie," he answers. "Let me rephrase." He crosses his arms. "Tell me the truth, and I'll go."
"Because it's a distraction."
He snorts. "While I admit that you are a lovely woman and I defy any male alive not to be distracted, thus far I have managed not to ravage you in the bullpen."
She's going to hit him shortly. "Because Morgan knows."
"So does Hotch. And almost certainly JJ and Garcia. I don't want to know if Reid knows, although I'm certain he doesn't care. Try again."
She's well aware that her fists are balled. "Because I can't do this and my job."
He tilts his head, considering. "Closer. But still a lie."
And that's her limit, apparently. She's not going to manhandle him out the door, and he's not leaving until she tells him the truth, and she's already had the argument she wanted so desperately to avoid, so there's no real point to holding out.
"Because I can't walk away." From you or the job, she thinks, and turns to lean against the fridge. "Because I can't walk away, and one of us should." And you still can, she thinks.
Except then Rossi's leaning against the counter next to her. She refuses to look at him. "Guess we're fucked, then," he says calmly. "Because I can't either."
When she looks up, he's right there, watching her, and any protest dies in her throat. He's not screwing with her. And while he doesn't look angry, exactly, she's seen that look on his face and knows not to get in the way. Maybe, she thinks, she's gotten something wrong.
"Now it's my turn to talk," Rossi says, and he's close enough that the words brush over her skin and make her shiver. "You are not the only one who's confused as all hell. You are not the only one that worries about what happens when we're out there. You are not the only one with no fucking idea how we got here. And I am not walking away."
She's been running this circuit in her brain for days now and she never thought this was the way the loop would break. She drops her chin, lets her eyes close, fighting for just a little space to process, but then Rossi wraps a hand around her neck and rests his forehead against hers and even that space is gone.
Emily's breath is wobbly and she can't trust herself to speak, but Rossi doesn't seem to be much better off. They just stand there for a while and she lets herself start to relax, until she thinks she might have a voice again. "I always was a shitty liar," she says at last. She still hasn't moved.
Rossi laughs, and it sounds a little frayed. "Nah," he answers. "I just know your tells."
"Shut up," Emily says, because this is not where tonight was supposed to end up, and she is hardly complaining, but all she wants to do at this precise moment is kiss him. Fortunately, he gets the message and obliges.
She missed this, she thinks, leaning up. She hasn't done this since before Savannah and she's missed it. The way he tastes, the way he smells, the way his hands feel when they cup the back of her head. She brings her hands up, curls one into the fabric of his shirt and rests the other against his neck, just below his jaw, where she can feel the quiet thud of his pulse. He shifts slightly, nipping gently at her lip.
She lets him in, lets him kiss her long and slow and quiet. When he pulls back, just a little, enough to rest his temple against hers, she realizes she's on the verge of tears. It's ridiculous, she thinks. Emily drops her head to Dave's shoulder, hoping he won't notice. She's overwrought - tired, stressed, recently panicked - and that's plenty of explanation right there. Except then he wraps an arm around her and tucks her head under his chin with his other hand, and says "I'm not walking."
Emily laughs, or she tries to, but it chokes her and comes out more like a sob. "I've been terrified," she says, and it's like saying it makes it even more real, brings it out from the background and into daylight. She can't breathe, suddenly, and she's got her hand clenched on his shoulder tight enough that it's got to hurt. "I am terrified," she admits, because he's human and she's human and they've both got enough issues to have subscriptions. But he's said he's not walking, and that's - it's not a statement she'll take lightly, because he has never been anything but honest with her, from the beginning.
He tucks a stand of hair back behind her ear. "Yeah, well. Join the club," he says, and she straightens enough to glance up. He's smiling, but it's tight, and it occurs to her that this hasn't exactly been a picnic for him either. Enough, she orders herself, settling back against his shoulder, and strangely enough, for tonight, she might be starting to believe that it is. Slowly, she admits, since she's still holding on for dear life and has no interest in letting go, but she's gradually losing the massive anxiety that's been ramping her up all night. All week. At least.
Rossi shifts beneath her and she feels the quick tension as he aggravates something sore and readjusts. She could stay here forever, but they'd probably both regret it in the morning. "Want to go hide under the covers?" she asks softly, running her thumb along his jaw, ruffling the line of his beard. It's not exactly an apology, but it's the closest she can come.
"Yeah," he answers. He laces his fingers with hers and brings her hand up, dropping a kiss on her palm. "I do." Rossi disentangles himself and bumps her gently towards the stairs. "Go on," he says. "I'll check the locks."
Emily goes. It's not like he has many locks to check - she's barely to the bedroom door when she hears him start up the stairs. She's slipped off shoes and slacks and is rummaging for a t-shirt when he walks in the door, a hand on his collar, his cuffs already shot. He's moving a little easier, she thinks, which only makes her realize she hasn't seen him since - that it's been five days, and she hasn't had a chance to make sure he's okay.
"Hey," she says, stepping into his space. "Let me."
"Be my guest," he grins, and she takes him at his word. She's not slow about it either, for all she likes undressing him. This isn't about sex, though, and it's the last of the adrenaline that makes her fingers unsteady as she works her way down the line of buttons. He shrugs the button-down off his shoulders as she rucks up his undershirt, forcing herself to relax, keeping her eyes on his neck and shoulders until he's tugged it over his head and off. Then she lets herself look.
The bruise is angry, a lurid splotch the size of her hand. Bigger, she thinks, tracing the edge of it where the purple has started to give way to yellow and green. Rossi tenses, and she drops her hand. "Sorry," she says, taking a step back. "I -"
"Emily," Rossi says quietly, "shut up."
"Dave," she starts to say, and bites her lip before heading back to the dresser for that t-shirt, unbuttoning her blouse as she goes. She knows the top she wants, soft and old and nearly falling apart, but she can't seem to find it. Behind her, she hears Rossi slip off his jeans and dump his clothes on the nearest chair.
She's about to slam the drawer in frustration when he steps up behind her and settles his hands on her shoulders. "I just don't want my brain writing a check my body can't cash," he offers. "Cracked ribs really suck."
Emily tries to smile as she turns in his hold. He's pulled on pajama bottoms, but he's not wearing the top, and the bruise is just as ugly as it was two minutes ago. "I hope you won't mind if I take your word for it," she says.
He frowns. "I'd much prefer it, actually," he replies, but before she can feel like an idiot about that, he keeps going. "Prentiss - Emily," his hands are warm through her blouse, and his thumb rubs gently over the fabric, "I am really bad at this."
She has a lump in her throat, but she seems to be smiling.
He's watching her very carefully. "This hasn't been about easy for a long time," he says. "I didn't realize I hadn't made that clear."
She hadn't realized he was trying to, Emily thinks, and considers the possibility that she's lying. "Maybe I didn't want to listen," she says, and he frowns, so she hurries on. "Not because I didn't want to. Because it would be easier if I didn't."
He quirks a grin. "Prentiss," he says, in that rumble that makes her shiver, "stop talking." She shoots him a look, but he's pulling her to him and turning her again, her back to his front. She can see the two of them in the mirror; she's standing in front of him and she can't see the bruise at all.
She watches as his hands brush against her neck before slipping the blouse off of her shoulders and down her arms. She can feel it puddle around her feet, silky and cool. He's warm against her back, and she likes the way they look together: the way his hand looks, curled around her upper arm; the way he looks as he dips his head to brush a kiss at the junction of her neck and shoulder. He's taking his time, she thinks, and it makes her shiver.
His hands are everywhere, skimming her arms, across her stomach, barely touching; he twines his fingers through hers and brings her with him, touching herself as he moves over her body. When he lets her hands go and gently flicks open the clasp at the front of her bra, she thinks she's aware of every square inch of skin. He slides the straps down and off. Her breasts are tight and heavy; there's a throb between her legs that's sweet and hot. When he palms her breasts, she sucks in a gasp and lets her head fall back against his shoulder. She can't stop looking, her eyes half-open, watching his hands on her body, the flush that's spreading under her skin. "Do you see this?" he murmurs in her ear. "Do you have any idea how amazing this is?" His tone is low, almost harsh. He rolls her nipples gently and she groans. "Do you have any idea what this feels like?" he demands. One his hands slides down and under the edge of her underwear. "How the hell could I walk away from this?" he says, and brushes his index finger just so against her clit.
"Dave," Emily gasps, looking for words, but then he does it again and it takes the last of her rational thought to consider that it's really not a good idea for him to take her weight. "Bed," she manages, and tries to remember how her knees work.
"Bed," he agrees, "but take those off first." Emily's wholly in accord, skimming out of her underwear without so much as a peep as he opens a bureau drawer and rummages.
She's just pulled the covers back when he joins her, tossing a very familiar little black bag onto the bed and wrapping his arms around her waist. Reason, however, has begun to reassert itself, and she has to say it. "This is probably not -"
"The way I'd prefer to go about it," Rossi finishes for her. She should argue this, she thinks, but if she's honest, she doesn't want to. She wants this - wants him - wants to fall apart and let him catch her. I'm not walking, she hears him say, and shivers - and stops fighting.
Dave lets go of her and settles himself into bed, pillows arranged strategically, his back against the headboard, and is watching her with a grin. "I feel like a damn invalid," he grumbles, but his eyes are laughing.
"In that case," she laughs, "I'll come back in two weeks." She pretends to walk away, but he catches her wrist.
"Come here now," he rumbles, tugging until she complies. She ends up tucked against him, her legs across his thighs, and Rossi kisses her. When they surface for air, the world's gone hazy again. His thumb brushes lightly over her nipple. She can feel the air conditioning raising goosebumps on her skin.
He smoothes her hair back from her face. "Lay down," he says, and she blinks at him. "Prentiss," he says, "trust me on this. Lay down." She lies down, her hips on his lap, her head on the bed, squirming a little until she finds a comfortable spot in the nest of pillows. She feels ridiculous, until he starts to touch her. Long, sweeping strokes, fingertip-light and then growing firmer, like he's learning her body all over again, tracing over her stomach, her hips, her breasts, her thighs, like she's something entirely new. It's a little unsettling at first - she feels open and embarrassed and exposed - but his hands are sure, coaxing her along until she's arching underneath him, her legs slipping open, hips shifting up as he touches her everywhere but where she wants it most.
"Jesus, Emily," he mutters, resting a hand on her inner thigh. Her hands are fisted in the comforter, and she's breathing hard. If he doesn't do something soon, she thinks, she might actually combust. She hears him fumbling for something, but by the time she's processed the buzz of her little silver vibrator, Dave's putting it to full and very, very skillful use.
His palm is low on her belly, holding her still as he slides it in slowly, setting a rhythm that short-circuits her brain in about thirty seconds. She's trying to move with him, trying to match him, but his grip is firm and her traction sucks. Emily doesn't recognize the noises she's making, but Dave's saying her name like a litany and she clings to it. He changes the angle slightly, just enough to nudge her G-spot, and she actually bucks, then orders him to do it again. He just laughs, and keeps talking, telling her she's lovely and strong and beloved, even if those aren't the words he uses. It would make her want to cry, except for the fact that she's too busy trying to breathe and the heat in his voice is crackling over her skin.
Her back's arched, her neck's arched, her whole body's tingling with the stretch when Dave finally brings his other hand to her clit and angles the vibrator just right. The orgasm tears through her, shuddering and fierce, stripping her of the tension and anger and worry that's been practically hard-wired into her bones the last few days. The aftershocks shiver through her, and gradually she's aware that Dave's touching her gently, murmuring to her as he eases the vibrator out and settles her against him, shifting them both further down the bed.
Emily wants to tell him she got the message - that she understands, that she's sorry, that she's not walking either. She needs to tell him, she thinks, but she feels limp and hollow - calm, for the first time in days. Dave's hand is warm on the small of her back and sleep is sucking her down hard and fast.
Except this is important. "Dave," she murmurs, and feels, rather than hears, his inquiring hum. She reaches for his free hand, trapping it in her own, resting their hands on his chest. She's tired, looking for words that don't come easy, not to either of them, and for a moment she settles for smoothing her thumb over his. She's drowsing, eyelids heavy, by the time the words slip out. "'M not going anywhere," she mumbles, and hears his rusty chuckle.
"I'd be amazed," he says, and she tries to rouse herself enough to explain, but he just tightens his hold. "Prentiss," he says quietly. "I know you aren't. Me either."
That's all she needs to hear - mission accomplished - all she needs in order to let herself go, and tumble into sleep.