Fic: Prerogatives (3/4) (Criminal Minds, Rossi/Prentiss, FRAO)
Title: Prerogatives (3/4)
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi; Aaron Hotchner/Jennifer Jareau (but only if you're so inclined)
Rating: FRAO
Spoilers: Through To Hell...And Back, but it's "blink and you'll miss it"-type stuff.
Summary: Prerogative. n. A right or privilege which belongs to a person by virtue of rank, office, position or special characteristic and which entitles that person to precedence or the exercise of some power or advantage not granted to others. (A.k.a., the one where someone stalks JJ and the BAU circles the wagons. And, you know, saves the day.)
Author's Notes: I said to smittywing, "I want to write something plotty." She, being possessed of preternatural patience, did not hit me over the head with a book. 20K+ words later, this is the result. I really, really should know better. Thank heaven she was willing to beta the damn thing. Part four still needs beating with sticks, but part three got the seal of approval.
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"Fame and tranquility can never be bedfellows."
- Michel de Montaigne
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Part One
Part Two
At first, Emily's only sort of aware - just enough to register that she's profoundly uncomfortable and to remember that she needs to stay very, very quiet about it. She scrabbles up towards complete consciousness because she knows it's important; once she's there, she regrets it hugely, because she has the mother of all headaches. She allows herself the luxury of ten seconds of alarm, then forces herself to take stock.
Here is what she knows: she's face down on the seat of a car, her hair swarming into her face. She's gagged, but not so tightly she can't swallow. Her hands are bound behind her back at an angle sufficient to make her shoulder blades protest already, which means that if - when - she works them free, she's going to have pretty limited range of motion for a while. Her feet are also tied. The light filtering into the car suggests it hasn't been long - it's still a hazy, pearly gray and doesn't seem much brighter. There's not much to look at, given her angle, but what she can see of the back of the front seat suggests that her vision's okay, which means the most she has to worry about is the headache. The car hits a bump and her stomach churns - the headache might be enough.
Emily forces her attention back to the situation at hand. The car sounds like it's running rough, which makes complete sense considering the wreck it made of the back of her poor Prius. She knows it's a gray sedan and thinks she remembers seeing a Ford logo. To find out anything else, she's going to have to move, but she doesn't want to draw attention. Closing her eyes, she lets her head loll to one side, then slowly starts counts to a hundred and eighty. Three minutes without moving ought to convince him she's not really awake, even though she's moved. Outside, the sound of nearby traffic's increasing - Emily lets herself hope they're heading towards the city, or at least the suburbs.
Three minutes later, she cracks an eyelid. The guy from the library - Jonathan - is driving, one hand clenched so tightly on the wheel that she can see the tendons standing out. He's muttering to himself, a repetitive cycle of words she can't quite hear clearly enough to understand.
This sucks, Emily thinks to herself. Then, in the mental voice that's terrifyingly like her mother's, she thinks, Fine. So do something about it.
She flails for a moment: fear is lurking very near, but if she panics, she's fucked. Her brain's the thing most likely to get her out of this in one piece. Alive, she thinks, because there's no point not being blunt about it.
She breathes in. Breathes out. If this were a case, if she was sitting in the BAU, if they were all at the table, the next thing they'd do is to build the profile and figure out what they don't know. She can do that. Emily drags her brain all the way back to yesterday. She remembers Dorothy, her snide remarks about women's work, a failed thesis defense, and running a hour late to work. She replays snatches of the conversation she'd overheard between Jonathan and Rossi, about the hero-worship in Jonathan's voice she'd heard as just another fannish display. She thinks about Jonathan's description of his thesis and wonders exactly what extracurricular activities he'd wanted to limit. She thinks about Dave, about the word "distraction," about the last minute interview he'd given to NPR just before the letters started, that missing piece she hadn't been able to reach until she'd gotten out of her car. It's a stretch, but hardly a big one - they've built a profile from less. And her gut says it's right.
So she's got a misogynistic obsessive intent on freeing Dave Rossi from all distraction so that he can continue his charismatic leadership in the field of criminal justice. It makes sense that JJ would be the first target - she's front and center constantly. But the whole encounter at the library couldn't have gone any worse if they'd planned it that way.
Stupid, she thinks. Incredibly stupid. How did I miss this? I should have been paying attention. It's the victimology that blindsided her - she'd been so worried, so focused on protecting JJ, she hadn't been watching for anything pointing down a different trail. Stupid or not, however, now the problem's all hers. Unless it becomes Dave's, whispers a horrible little voice, and that's all too plausible for Emily's comfort. Jonathan's not having a good day up there in the front seat: he's already starting to spiral. The next step, she thinks, will be to go after Dave himself. Like hell, she snarls. Like fucking hell.
Anger helps. It clears her head and gives her space to think - to remind herself that she at least knows that Dave and Hotch made it back to the BAU okay. Emily doesn't know how Jonathan found her, but she's got a number of different possible answers and it doesn't really matter anyway. She doesn't know what's driving Jonathan's hero worship, or how that hero worship got twisted around so that women are the enemy. She doesn't know where they're going or what the hell he plans to do with her when they get there.
Very slowly, she clenches her hands, trying to get a feel for how they're bound. It's fabric of some sort - shoelaces, maybe - and that's a good thing, because fabric will stretch, given time. Time, of course, is the one major uncertainty in this equation, so she starts pulling her wrists as far apart as she can, for a count of ten, and repeating. It's going to take forever, but she doesn't think about that.
Instead, Emily tries to figure out what her best option is once he realizes she's awake - because he will, eventually, and even if he doesn't, at some point they're going to get to their destination. That, of course, is the cue for the car to rattle to a stop, making the question a lot more pressing.
The car door opens and slams shut. She tenses, but the rear doors remain closed. Instead, outside, something starts to make an unholy racket - metal-on-metal, like the door to a loading dock. She can't see, and it's enough to make her want to scream in frustration. She settles for listening for anything, any piece of information, and realizes that now she knows how Reid must've felt, trapped with Tobias, looking for any detail he could relay. I'm not Reid, she thinks dully, squeezing her eyes closed.
The noise outside has stopped; she's holding her breath, waiting for whatever is coming next. That's when she Reid's voice in her ear, clear as a bell. You do what it takes, he says calmly. You do whatever it takes to get out alive.
Emily's pretty sure she's been struck upon the head harder than she'd originally thought, because hearing voices is never a good sign - and yet, it helps. By the time Jonathan opens the car door and slides back in, her breathing's evened out. She groans and stirs a little, testing his reaction. The sounds of movement in the front seat stops abruptly. He starts up a low mutter of "not yet, not yet, not yet," so she subsides - no point in panicking him until she's better able to take advantage of it.
Jonathan's quiet for a moment and then the car sputters to life and moves forward. The light changes, and Emily bets they've moved indoors. The car door opens and shuts again and the metallic rattling resumes; then the door next to her head opens and she's got an excellent view of Jonathan's boots. Limp, she thinks. Stay limp. Not awake. Not aware. No sir. Not me.
"Bitch," Jonathan says somewhere above her head. Then he's hauling her out of the car and over his shoulder in - it's awkward, and her shoulders are really going hurt tomorrow, and it's doing fuck-all to help her nausea, all of which just gives her more reason to get really annoyed at this guy. If she's annoyed, she can't be scared. He's moving now, so she risks opening her eyes. Sure enough, they're in a loading bay, albeit one that gone unused for some time. The car, she notes with satisfaction, is pretty well done for. They jounce up a few stairs and she swallows hard against rising bile. Puking all over him is probably not listed under the heading of whatever it takes, satisfying though it is to contemplate.
Who are you, she thinks at Jonathan. How did you get to this place? Somewhere, she hopes, Garcia is having a field day pulling his life story off of the internet.
Focus, snaps another voice, sounding suspiciously like Hotch. Apparently the whole team's along for the ride, she thinks, and then realizes that the truth of that statement might be what's keeping her sane. Or at least functionally crazy, since, again, voices in her head. They'll find out she's missing almost as soon as someone reports the damage to her car, since she'd listed JJ as her secondary contact years back. As soon as JJ gets that call, they'll be out the door - if they aren't already. Dave's got all the same information she does and more than twice the time at the BAU, but Emily's not sure she wants him to be the one to put the facts together, because that just ups the odds of something awful happening, and frankly, that just starts her right down the road to useless worry. So she's not thinking too hard about that possibility just now.
Focus, Prentiss, Hotch insists, and she blinks hard against her headache, which is patently not helped by the fact that she is upside-down and up close and personal with Jonathan Insert-Last-Name-Here's jean-clad ass. Pay attention to where you're going. Pay attention to how you're going to get out. Pay attention. Since Hotch is nothing if not obdurate, Emily pays attention. By the time Jonathan opens one last door, flips a light switch, and walks into what appears to be, from her limited vantage point, a very small, very windowless room, she's got a pretty good idea of how to get back to where they started this very unpleasant adventure.
Jonathan kicks at something Emily can't see. She barely has a chance to close her eyes before he heaves her off of his shoulder and deposits her unceremoniously into one of the most uncomfortable chairs it's ever been her pleasure to encounter. The sudden shift in equilibrium is kind of appalling. It doesn't take any acting ability for her to nearly fall over - she really is close to blacking out again.
Vaguely, from a long way away, she hears Jonathan swear. After a moment, he grabs her arms and finagles them over the chair back, then wraps a wide swath of what feels like duct tape around both arms and chair. As a means of keeping her in place, it's crude, but effective.
He finishes with the tape and pulls the gag from her mouth before he steps back - it's knotted around her neck and it's hard not to stiffen against the pressure of the fabric as he tugs it down. In the little room, his breathing is fast and harsh. Emily doesn't dare try to open her eyes, though, so she can't tell if it's from exertion or rage or both. She still has no idea how to play this - outright anger, condescension, or arrogance will obviously only make things worse, but that still gives her a huge range of mistakes to make. The dizziness is receding; if only her head didn't hurt so damn much, she could think more clearly. Wait, Gideon advises quietly, sounding calm and composed, like they're sitting at a chess board. He's not finished his opening moves. Wait. Watch. Consider. She hears Jonathan shut the door. The only goal is control, she thinks, or Gideon says, not that it isn't all the same, and you still don't know what kind of game he's playing, not entirely.
"Wake up," Jonathan snarls, and backhands her across the face. It hurts - she can't even move with it, given the angle and manner in which she's bound. "Wake up," he demands again, following it with another blow to the opposite cheek. Emily gasps, sucking in air, forcing her eyes open, probing her teeth gently with her tongue. "I'm awake!" she says desperately, "I'm awake."
Jonathan's directly in front of her. His face is a horrible shade of brick red; she's never actually encountered someone that enraged since the last time her mother found out exactly what she'd been doing when she skipped fourth period during her senior year of high school. And her mother didn't - doesn't - believe in physical violence. Control the center, Gideon says again. Fine, Emily thinks. She's always liked the hypermodern school, using distant pieces to take out an opponent's central pawns - in this case, pawn, singular, but one's enough right now, thanks. Although it would be nice if her team was a bit less distant. They'll get here, she thinks. She shrinks in on herself, allowing Jonathan the illusion of strength. "Please," she says, and lets her voice break.
He slaps her again. "Please what?"
"Please," Emily whimpers, cringing as best she can. "Please don't hit me again." She's watching carefully, though her eyes are watering hard, which means she doesn't miss the satisfaction and scorn that flash across his face. She needs information - something to use to plan a way out of this. Only trouble is, as angry as Jonathan appears to be, just about anything could provoke him. "I'm sorry," she says, working on the theory that the weaker she looks, the better he'll feel. "I'm so sorry."
He grabs her chin, staring her down; she looks away as fast as she can. You're the alpha, she thinks. No challenge here, not from me. "You're nothing," he says, low and angry. She's going to have bruises. "You're nothing but an interfering whore."
"I know," she whispers, aiming for terrified and broken. It's not a huge stretch. "I know. I didn't - I wanted -"
"You wanted what?" Jonathan demands, letting go. "A share of his fame? Of his money?"
She must hesitate a fraction too long, because when he hits her this time, it's not with an open palm. "Yes!" she says. "I wanted it." There's blood in her mouth - her teeth have cut into her lip. There's an ominous tickling under her nose that suggests it's also started to bleed. Damn, she thinks, trying not to think about it. I really liked this shirt.
Jonathan's pacing in front of her. "No," he says, and she hauls her attention front and center - now is not the time to get distracted. "No," Jonathan mutters. "That's not enough for you. You wanted to own him. You wanted the credit."
Emily doesn't say a word this time, wouldn't for all the money in the world. Let him talk, she hears Morgan say. The more he tells you about his obsession with Rossi, the less he's focusing on you. It's comforting to think about having Morgan at there - he's always, always got her back, just like she has his, even when they disagree. Right now, though, she's completely in accord.
"It just killed you, didn't it," Jonathan says. Emily hauls her attention back to the real world. "To watch him work - to know how much evil he prevented - and to know you couldn't ever be as good." He's gesticulating now; the whole thing feels vaguely like the plot to a bad movie, except for the part where she hurts like hell. "So you stopped him. You distracted him," he spits, "and you thought you'd steal his fame."
He turns, suddenly, wrapping a hand around her throat. "I heard you," he hisses, and his hand tightens to the point that she's actively fighting for breath. "I heard you threaten him," he says again. Little black spots are starting to dance in her field of vision.
I could die here, Emily realizes, clearly and calmly. No one knows where I am. They might not even know who it is yet. I could die here. Jonathan is snarling something, but she can't understand it; she's got her head tilted back and can't read his lips - she's trying to open her airway even a little, just a little, just enough for a little breath, please Jesus. I could die here. It could happen.
Like hell, Rossi says.
Emily knows he's not there, knows she's just concussed and exhausted and scared, but it's his voice, no question, and he's furious.
If you do, I will find you and kill you myself, he adds.
That makes no sense, she wants to say, but she's distracted by the fact that Jonathan has let go and she can haul in a lungful of musty, stale, precious air. She coughs, blinks hard, and tries to focus. Jonathan's rage is gone, but she's not sure it's an improvement - he's watching her, circling her, and his gaze is cold and clinical. Nothing she does, she realizes dully, is going to help this situation.
So? Dave says, unimpressed.
"You're nothing," Jonathan says. "You're less than worthless." He passes behind her, and she tries ignore the way the back of her neck crawls. "He won't miss you. He doesn't need you." The words themselves are laughable - it's the tone of his voice that has her suppressing a shudder. His anger's not gone. It's just very, very tightly focused. On her.
So? Dave says again, and if he were here, she'd smack him for being a bastard.
So I try to find out what he's planning to do, Emily replies. And then I get him to go the fuck away, so I can get out of here.
That's better, Dave agrees. That's when she knows she's in bad shape, because she can practically see him smiling at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up sardonically.
"You're nothing," Jonathan says again, from behind her. "You're just a little, lying, greedy cunt."
And you're a complete nutbar, Emily thinks, but let's see if you've ever heard of Evil Overlord Rule Number Seven. It's not really funny - she knows it's not - but she needs the forward momentum that little bit of bravado offers. "What are you going to do to me?" she quavers.
Jonathan moves slowly back into her field of vision. "Do to you?" he answers. "I don't have to do anything to you."
"You're not going to kill me?" Emily asks.
"Kill you?" Jonathan's face twists. "No. That would be evil." He reaches out and she can't help it: she tries to jerk away when he touches her shoulder. "No killing," he says. "Thou shalt not kill. I just need to free him from you." His fingers tighten briefly as he shoves her backwards, hard, and lets the chair tip over.
Emily's slumped slightly to the side. The uneven weight distribution means the chair tilts as it falls. Her thigh and shoulder take the brunt of it, but she can't stop her head from cracking against the floor. There can't be much underneath the thin layer of carpet besides cement. The impact's stunning - literally - she can't do anything but breathe through it and cling to consciousness.
When her vision clears, she's staring at Jonathan's boots. Oh look, she thinks creakily. Back where we started. He prods her with one foot, forcing her to turn her head and look up at him. She sees him grimace; feels him wipe his boot-tip on her slacks. "I don't need to do anything to you," Jonathan says quietly. "All I have to do is lock the door." His feet move off; a moment later, the lights go out. "You'll die just fine all on your own."
The door clicks shut; the bolt latches seconds after. Breathing quietly, she listens to his boot heels walking off down the hall. For the space of several minutes, she forces herself to lie still and wait. The carpet smells like cat pee and motor oil and it's scratchy against the swelling on her cheek. It would be very, very easy to just let go, to close her eyes for a little while.
It's tempting.
Except.
Except she doesn't know where Jonathan is going.
And she doesn't know if the team's figured it out yet.
And she will be damned to hell if she lets Jonathan anywhere near David Rossi ever again.
At least, she thinks, testing the give in the bindings around her wrists, if they've figured it out, they'll convince Dave not to do anything stupid.
Hey, he says in the back of her head.
"Oh shut up," she says out loud, because it makes her feel better. If nothing else, it distracts her from the fact that her fingers feel like sausages and her entire upper body aches. "Tell me I'm wrong."
Dave, wisely, says nothing further. "God," Emily mutters. "Even the voices in my head think I'm crazy." The cords or shoelaces or whatever they are have actually started to stretch. She doesn't know what she's going to do about the duct tape, short of dislocating a shoulder, but she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. Right now, she's got one loop almost loose enough that she can - maybe - snake her hand through. Either that, or cut off her circulation trying. "What the hell," she says, closing her eyes even though it's dark, because she needs to pay attention to what her fingers can tell her.
A really fun thirty-ish minutes later, her breath is coming short and fast, she's pretty sure her pinky wasn't supposed to bend like that, and the skin on her left wrist and palm is raw, but her hands are free. She gives herself a minute. It hurts. She just needs a minute, and then she'll be able to ignore it.
What she can't ignore, however, is that she is still duct-taped to the goddamn chair. At least she's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, because the thought of the adhesive on her bare arms makes her cringe. Okay, she thinks. It's not a lot of duct tape. Which is true - it's only wrapped around her twice, just around her upper arms and the chair-back, and it's not horribly tight. Even with her hands untied, though, she's not double-jointed: reaching up to try and pry it loose is out of the question.
She shifts experimentally - there's a fair amount of give in the fabric of her top. Emily rolls her eyes. "What the hell did I do to deserve karma like this?" Nobody answers this time, which makes her feel a little better about her sanity but also maybe a little worse. "God damn it," she says, and starts wriggling out of her shirt.
It takes forever. Emily's terrifyingly aware of the passage of time and the fact that she has no idea what's going on. It's a ridiculous process - she tugs and writhes and spends a good twenty minutes using her head and her teeth to shift the bottom hem of her shirt up and over her head. The worst part is walking her arms up the inside of her sleeves - her shoulders really are not pleased about today's events. Eventually, though, she's out, she's free, short of breath and sweaty and bra-clad and, after a few minutes' fumbling at her ankles, totally unrestrained.
The first thing she does is pull the fabric he'd used to gag her over her head and fling it across the room. Then she hauls herself to her feet, wincing as her knees crack and her leg muscles stretch and her stomach roils. It's still pitch-black, but that, at least, she can fix. She reaches out and moves slowly until she feels a wall, and follows it to a corner. Then she makes her way around the room, running her hands over each patch of wall methodically. She knows there's a light switch; she remembers Jonathan flipping it off. She's pretty sure it's inside the room, and she could really use a little luck right about now.
It takes her three walls, the second of which is covered in what feels like paper and photographs - she moves over it gently, because she's got a pretty good idea of what it might be and she doesn't want to to disturb it. She eventually finds the switch, flooding the room with sickly, flickering fluorescent light, for which she is infinitely grateful even if it makes her head hurt worse. When she turns to look at the papered wall, it's about what she'd expected, but that doesn't make it any less unsettling. It's covered in Rossi-related paraphernalia - pictures, press clippings, book jackets, tour schedules, printouts from the website his publisher manages. Her blood runs cold; she deliberately turns her back. On consideration, she extricates her shirt from the duct tape and puts it back on, which makes her feel better - even if the shirt won't ever be the same again.
Door, she thinks. Once I figure out the door, I can get out of here and get to a phone and make sure they know, make sure Dave knows, make sure we don't do anything else stupid. She takes a deep breath. Just the door. I can do this. An experimental jiggle of the knob proves it's definitely locked, although it at least opens outward. She looks around for something - anything - she can use, but comes up empty.
She looks down at her shoes dubiously. They're low-heeled loafers, comfortable for walking - or running - but not exactly what she'd have chosen if she'd known she'd need to kick down a door. Of course, she'd been in Wabash when she'd last changed her clothes. It feels like another lifetime.
Door, she thinks again. Door, then Dave. Then I can sleep for a week. She walks over and picks up the chair. She sets it not far from the door and leans on it, closing her eyes, thinking about what she wants to do. This is feasible, she tells herself. I can do this. It's an interior door and it feels lightweight enough.
It takes four kicks, but on the fourth the jamb splinters with an entirely satisfying sound. Emily takes one last look at the Rossi-covered wall and heads off down the hallway. It takes her a minute to think, but she still remembers the way back to the loading dock. Once she's there, it doesn't take long to find the mechanism for the bay doors.
Outside, it's gray and misting - one of those days in mid-September that reminds her November's not all that far away. She's down a small road that dead-ends not five hundred yards off; there's an empty lot across the way. The building she just left looks remarkably innocuous from the outside: it's just a small, old, vacant office building, squat and square. She can hear traffic nearby.
Jonathan's car's gone, although Emily doubts it's got much farther left in it before it either quits or gets pulled over for massive violations of the highway safety code. She can't tell what time it is - hasn't got a clue how long she's been stuck in that building - and it's that fact plus the absence of the car that brings panic flooding back. Rossi, she thinks. They need to know, need to know about Dave. She needs to tell them.
Her hair's getting damp; it clings to her neck as she starts towards the sound of cars. Emily shivers and wraps her arms around her waist. They've figured it out, she tells herself. They're going to be careful. It'll be okay. She chants it like she'd chant the rosary as she walks down the road. She wants to run, or at least jog, but she's stiff and dizzy and her heel's aching from kicking down a stupid door, so she sticks with walking. She tries not to think about the fact that she feels horribly exposed. It'll be okay.
Emily keeps her head down when she hits the main road; she's sure she looks a mess and she doesn't want a well-meaning driver to get between her and a telephone. Somewhere in the back of her head, she's pretty sure that line of reasoning's not entirely rational, but it gives her a functional goal. If she's thinking about getting to a telephone, she doesn't have to worry about anything else.
Traffic's light, which makes sense, because this should be Saturday. Emily's gone maybe three-quarters of a mile when the road turns a corner; she blinks at the gas station that practically materializes right in front of her, the shop sign set to "Open" and the register staffed. She's never been so damn happy to see a Sunoco in all her life.
Apparently she looks worse than she'd thought, because the woman at the counter - Barb, her name tag says - actually gasps. "Please," Emily asks, cutting off whatever Barb's about to say. "Please, do you have a phone?"
Barb is short and round and looks like she's in her fifties, and she's out from behind the register before Emily can blink. "Back here, darlin'," she says, moving to put an arm around Emily, who flinches away without meaning to. "Just back in the office." Barb opens a door to a little room and Emily's skin crawls. Don't be an idiot, Prentiss, she tells herself, but she still takes the chair that lets her watch the door. "You sure all you need's a telephone?"
"Yes," Emily says, blinking. "Yes, I'm better than I look." Barb gives her an incredulous once-over. "Um. Well. Not as bad, anyway. I just - I need to call some friends. My work. Then it'll be okay."
Barb gives her another extremely skeptical look, but doesn't argue. At the front of the store, the door bells chime. "I'll be back - you do whatever it is you need to."
"Thanks," Emily says as Barb walks away. She picks up the handset and tries to ignore the slight tremor in her hands. The first number she tries is Dave's, hoping against hope he'll pick up and cursing when she gets his voicemail. The recording beeps; she fights to keep her voice calm and steady. "Rossi. It's Prentiss. Call the office, as soon as you get this. It's - critical. Call as soon as you get this message." She pauses. "I'm okay. It's Jonathan, the one from GMU. Be careful, please. And call the office when you get this. Please." She hangs up before she can ramble any more.
If not Dave, she thinks, then Hotch. Only she can't remember Hotch's cell number - she's grabbing for it, but her head's all muzzy. Her own phone is God-alone-knows where. She swears again, trying to think. The unit number - that she remembers, and that'll get her someone who can get her someone - and the someone turns out to be Garcia.
Hearing a friendly voice makes Emily's throat seize up - Garcia's on her third hello before Emily can get words out. "Garcia," she says, and clears her throat. "Garcia, I need to talk to Hotch."
"Emily!" Penelope's off and running with a million questions, and Emily would laugh, she's that glad to hear them, but she needs to know - now, sooner than now - what the hell's going on
"Garcia. I promise, I will tell you anything you want to know, but right now," she says, trying to keep her tone from rising, "I need you to get me through to Hotch. I've got to tell him -"
"Right. Yes." There's a soft hiss as Penelope clicks over to speaker. Emily can hear Garcia demanding that someone get Agents Hotchner and Jareau to her office immediately, and then her footsteps as she walks back to the phone. "Emily - we've been so -"
"Penelope, please," Emily manages, a little desperately, over a flurry of activity on the other end of the line. "Hotch. Now."
"I'm here," Hotch says, and the wave of relief has her digging her nails into her thighs. "Prentiss, where the hell are you? Are you all right?"
"Hotch, listen - you've got to tell Rossi, it's the guy we met -"
"At the GMU library. We know." She sags a little, the sudden urgency gone. They know. It's going to be okay. "We know, Prentiss. Morgan, Reid, and Rossi are out looking for him; we're waiting for a call."
"What?" she demands. "Hotch, no - this guy - you've got to call Rossi off. Dave's the target; if he's there, Jonathan will go nuts." Stupid, stupid, stupid man. She doesn't mean Hotch.
Hotch is saying something on the phone - she thinks it's her name, but she's a hair's breadth from actually panicking and she has to actively force herself away from that edge. "Prentiss," Hotch says again. She tells herself to focus. "Emily. Listen to me. We know. It all came together after you left JJ's. We know. Dave went along, but he's under strict orders to hang back if they have to go in. He's not allowed to enter until Morgan tells him it's secure."
Emily sits with a thump. She hadn't realized she was standing. It's going to be okay, she tells herself again. "He agreed to that?" she says, and this time she can't quite keep her voice from shaking.
"He gave me his word," Hotch replies.
"Also, Morgan and Hotch threatened to lock him in his office," JJ adds helpfully.
Emily lets out a strangled laugh. "I'm sorry I missed that."
"Well," Garcia offers, "there's always security footage."
"Prentiss," Hotch says, and she sobers immediately, because she can hear the note of strain underneath the exasperation and she knows what it's like on the other end of this experience. "Where are you? What happened?"
"I -," Emily realizes she hasn't actually gotten that far. She looks around the office a little wildly and seizes on a stack of business cards. "I'm in Newington. At a gas station. A Sunoco." She reels off the address. "They let me use the phone. I don't - what time is it?" she asks.
"Three forty-five. Emily, do you need a bus?" Hotch's voice is level, but she's pretty sure that's worry in there, so she tries to get a grip.
"What? No - no. Hotch, I -" she pauses and collects her thoughts. "I need to be looked over. He roughed me up some." A lot. "A lot like last year in Texas. Maybe not quite as bad, but a few more solid blows to the head. I'm functional," sort of, "but I'm going to hurt tomorrow." A lot. "It's just - Hotch, I will go wherever, see whatever doctor you want, I just -"
She doesn't have to finish the sentence, for which she owes Hotch, because she's not really very good at admitting weakness. "JJ and I will be there in half an hour. Do not," he says firmly, "go anywhere."
"No sir," Emily agrees, and they all hang up. She sets the phone back in the cradle carefully, then props her head in her hands, the heels of her palms against her eyes. You've got half an hour to get it together, kiddo, she tells herself.
A knock on the door startles her upright. Barb bustles in, plunking down a hairbrush, a pack of wet wipes, and a bottle of water. "Um," Emily says.
"On the house," the older woman says firmly. "I only caught the end of that phone call, but if you want those friends of yours to believe that nonsense you just fed them, sweetheart, you've got some cleaning up to do. Bathroom's next door," Barb adds with a nod. "Just settle yourself back in here when you're done. I assume they're coming to collect your banged-up butt?"
"Yes'm," is all Emily manages, unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Go on, then. Scoot." With that, she hurries back towards the front of the store, where something's beeping. Emily scoots.
Her encounter with the mirror is not a friendly one and goes a long way to explaining Barb's insistence. The hairbrush is kind of a debacle, given her headache and the approximately sixteen thousand bruises that appear to have taken up residence on her skull. Three-quarters of a pack of wet wipes later, she looks, if not feels, somewhat more human, although a good bit of what remains is going to look much worse before it looks better.
Emily goes back to the little office and settles herself in the same chair, taking a swig of the bottled water. The adrenaline's wearing off. Reaction's creeping in, but she tells herself to sit on it and distracts herself by focusing on the little things: the spot of wear at the corner of the chair cushion, the rusting corner of the metal file cabinet, the lines in the cap on the water bottle. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and spends several minutes contemplating her knuckles.
When she looks up, JJ's standing in the doorway, Hotch just behind her. Emily doesn't miss the crease in JJ's forehead or the tightness around Hotch's eyes when they see her face, but she's hardly going to argue with what she senses is an immediate trip to the hospital. "Hey," JJ says quietly. "Ready to get out of here?"
"Oh hell yes," Emily says fervently, and gets herself on her feet. She doesn't need help, but it's a near thing and mostly due to the fact that she's stubborn. Barb's waiting by the outside doors. "Thank you," she says quietly.
Barb just nods. "Good thing you've got friends."
"Yeah," Emily replies. "It is."
"Doctor," Hotch says once she's settled in the car. "Now." Emily heartily agrees. In retrospect, she thinks that's probably why they get to Potomac Hospital in a quantity of time that does not mathematically comport with the speed limit. En route, she points out the turn that will take them to the building she'd been in; it's ridiculously close, given how long she'd felt like she'd been walking. Hotch just nods.
Morgan calls when they're pulling into the hospital's parking lot. She talks to all of them, including Dave, who doesn't say much: his voice is raspy and curt, but he reiterates his promise to do exactly as required. She refuses to get out of the car until they've told her what's going on. They're tracking Jonathan - Howell, apparently, Jonathan Howell - and they've got a solid lead on his current location. After that, she goes quietly with JJ while Hotch finishes up the call, mostly because she's hoping there's a bed in her near future and partly because she really is running out of the ability to focus on much more than putting one foot in front of the other.
Bed doesn't happen nearly as fast as she'd hoped - she's poked and prodded and scanned and salved and bandaged for what feels like ages before they decide they want to keep her for observation for twenty-four hours, which isn't surprising. Eventually, though, she's plugged into a zillion different machines, JJ's curled up in the recliner in the corner, and Hotch is outside her door. They haven't heard any more from the rest of the team: Emily's not fooled - they're standing guard just as much as they're keeping her company. She's very, very grateful. The last nurse leaves with a warning that she'll be back in an hour to wake Emily up. The Tylenol's working beautifully; sleep comes fast and easy.
---
The nurse is true to her word; someone comes in every hour and keeps her awake for twenty minutes, checking her vitals, shining bright lights in her eyes, and making her hold functional conversations before they let her drift off again. The first time, the attendant's a little concerned about what she calls Emily's "high level of irritability;" fortunately, JJ's still there and explains about the fact that Emily's very short on sleep and kind of always like that until she's had a cup of coffee.
The second hour isn't much different, but the third hour, it's actually hard to wake up. Her lips and tongue feel too heavy and she can't figure out why Hotch is there instead of JJ. She's incredibly groggy. It's frustrating, because she keeps asking about JJ, and Dave, and JJ, and Dave again. She can't hang on to the answer and she hates repeating the question, but she needs to know, even if she can't quite remember why it's important. Even Hotch's calm, steady voice, with its repeated reassurances, isn't enough to keep her from getting agitated. It's enough that the doctor shows back up, only he won't answer her questions either; instead, they wheel her down the hall for a second MRI.
Hotch is still in her room when she gets back; JJ's reappeared as well. The lines around Hotch's mouth are deeper than normal - he makes her stay awake and talk to them until they're partway into hour five and she's starting to retain information. At that point, they run another MRI and everyone seems to relax a little. If nothing else, they let Emily go back to sleep - for another hour. It's another two hours after that - nearly midnight - before the doctor decides that the swelling's settling out and she doesn't have to be woken up so frequently.
The next time she wakes up, she doesn't know how long it's been, but there's been a changing of the guard. Now it's Reid curled up in the corner and she feels like she's actually in control of her brain again. Reid's asleep; the shadows under his eyes are dark, but otherwise he looks approximately sixteen. She's sitting there quietly, kind of afraid to move because that way lies a world of hurt, when Morgan appears in the doorway holding two cups of coffee.
"Hey, lazybones," he says. "Leaving us the dirty work, huh?"
"Mmm," Emily answers sleepily. "Seemed like the right division of labor. Don't wake Reid," she says.
"Reid's awake," Spencer says, shifting upright and knuckling his eyes before accepting one of Morgan's cups.
"You caught him?" Emily says, her brain catching up with her mouth. "Where's Rossi?" She struggles to sit up higher and hisses when her shoulders protest.
"Whoa, whoa. Settle down," Morgan says, walking over and pushing the button that moves the bed. Emily shoots him a filthy look. "We caught him. Rossi will be on his way soon - he stayed to watch Hotch's interrogation, in case we needed an ace in the hole. He'll be here in about forty minutes."
She lets her head drop back to the pillow - gently, because now that she's all the way awake, she still has a headache. It's just downgraded from appalling to evil. "Where?" she asks, closing her eyes. She's still ridiculously tired.
"Back on GMU's campus," Reid says. "In one of the grad student offices. He had a gun in his backpack."
"Same one he hit me with, probably." She looks over at Morgan, feeling exhausted and miserable. "I fucked this one up. Or Dave and I did. We should've seen it. We weren't paying attention."
"Prentiss - Emily." Morgan sets the coffee down and leans on the bed rail. "Cut that shit out right now." She looks away. "Hey," he insists. "I mean it."
"We all missed it," Reid says, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. "Sometimes it happens. We had a blind spot. The important thing is that we figured it out in time."
She's got something stuck in her throat that makes it hard to get the words out. "When'd you get so smart?" she mumbles.
"Prentiss," Morgan drawls, "he was born that way."
Reid shakes his head in mock-concern. "I don't know. She's taken a few hits to the head. Maybe it's temporary amnesia. I can remind you," he says, smiling.
She holds up her hands. "I remember, I remember," she mock-pleads. "Spare me." The distraction works, though - she's grinning, even though her face aches, and the pit of her stomach seems to have resumed its normal position.
They chat for a while longer about complete nonsense. Emily wants to stay awake till Dave gets there, but it doesn't take long for another sleepy pocket to snag her and suck her down. One minute she's listening to Morgan and Reid debate Reid's theory about matching socks or something equally ridiculous, the next she's waking up because there's something very warm and very heavy on her right thigh, making her toes go all pins and needles - it turns out to be Rossi's head. Thankfully, with the rest of Rossi still attached.
He's in a chair that looks suspiciously like the ones just outside her door that the nurse told Hotch not to move, and he's dozing, his head and arms resting against her leg. His face is turned towards her; the skin around his eyes is soft and papery and the corners of his mouth are tilted down. His back might never forgive him if he spends too much longer at that angle. She reaches out and palms the nape of his neck without really thinking: it's more that he's there, she hasn't seen him since this all went to hell, and she wants to touch him.
Dave mutters something completely unintelligible and she grins. For a few moments, Emily just watches him, smoothing her fingers over the short hairs at his nape. She's warm, her headache has just barely edged into the realm of manageable, and for the first time in days she can feel herself starting to relax. She closes her eyes and tips her head back; when she opens them again, Dave's awake and looking at her.
"Hi," she says quietly.
"Hi, yourself," he replies, and straightens with a groan. She lets her hand fall back to the bed. He shifts to cover it with his. "We got him," he says, his eyes taking stock of the state of her face and neck. His face sets in stern lines. "We got him."
Emily turns her hand over, curls her fingers around his. "Good," she says, only it comes out ragged. It's overwhelming, all of a sudden - she feels terrifyingly fragile and only her death grip on his hand is keeping her together. He's squeezing back just as hard. Not here, she thinks. I can't do this here. She clears her throat. "What time is it?"
Dave looks at his watch. "Late. Or early. Depends on your point of view." He catches her eyeroll. "Four thirty. The a.m. kind."
"Ouch." Emily wonders how long he's been here, but she doesn't ask. "Tell me Morgan and Reid went home."
"They went home. Everybody's home now. Except Jonathan Howell." His grin is hard, but then he looks at her again and sobers. "Prentiss - Emily. I'm sorry I wasn't - that I didn't get here sooner." He looks down at their hands. "I needed -"
"To check the locks," she finishes when he trails off, because she understands, she really does. She'd do the same. She did the same, more or less, she thinks, remembering walking down the street, praying for a telephone. She's never going to give him a hard time about it again. "Hey." He looks up at her and she feels her heart crack at the expression on his face. Oh, Dave. "It's okay. We're all okay." It's actually true, she realizes.
He ducks his head. When he looks up, his eyes are dark, but his smile is real. "I don't know," he says. "You look like shit."
"Asshole." She smacks him and winces at the pull in her arms. "Ow."
He catches her hand again. "Yeah." He kisses her knuckles, his lips warm on her skin. "Leopard can't change his spots," he says.
"Hmm," she says, considering. "Good thing I like your spots." She shifts awkwardly and frowns. "But I really hate this bed. When do they say I can leave?"
Dave laughs, deep and rich. "This afternoon, if you're very good and you don't scare the crap out of everyone like you did last night." He straightens up; they both wince at the popping noise from his back. "Although I gather the last MRI suggested that's unlikely."
"I'll make a note," she says and immediately thereafter yawns hugely. "Sorry," she manages. "I just get -"
"Sleepy," he finishes for her. "With good reason." He hits the button on the bed and she scowls - what is it about the men she works with that she can't push her own buttons, she wonders.
She doesn't realize she's said it out loud until Rossi replies, "Because it's so much fun, Prentiss."
"Bed," she orders, pointing at the recliner. "Now."
He laughs again, but he follows instructions. Smart man. She watches as he settles into the chair, popping the footrest out and leaning back. "Dave?" she asks quietly, as she feels herself starting to fade again.
"Mmm?" From the sound of it, he's not far from sleep himself - today hasn't been easy on his end, either, she knows.
Still, it's important she ask. "Can we -" she starts, and tries again. "I want -" This shouldn't be so difficult, she thinks. "Can I go to your place, when they turn me loose?"
He's silent for a long moment. When he answers her, his voice is rough. "Emily," he answers, "if I thought you'd planned on going anywhere else, I'd make them keep you here until you were back in your right mind." He leans forward and snags the extra blanket off the foot of her bed. "The doctor's coming by at nine. Go to sleep."
She goes to sleep.
---
Part Four
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi; Aaron Hotchner/Jennifer Jareau (but only if you're so inclined)
Rating: FRAO
Spoilers: Through To Hell...And Back, but it's "blink and you'll miss it"-type stuff.
Summary: Prerogative. n. A right or privilege which belongs to a person by virtue of rank, office, position or special characteristic and which entitles that person to precedence or the exercise of some power or advantage not granted to others. (A.k.a., the one where someone stalks JJ and the BAU circles the wagons. And, you know, saves the day.)
Author's Notes: I said to smittywing, "I want to write something plotty." She, being possessed of preternatural patience, did not hit me over the head with a book. 20K+ words later, this is the result. I really, really should know better. Thank heaven she was willing to beta the damn thing. Part four still needs beating with sticks, but part three got the seal of approval.
---
"Fame and tranquility can never be bedfellows."
- Michel de Montaigne
---
Part One
Part Two
At first, Emily's only sort of aware - just enough to register that she's profoundly uncomfortable and to remember that she needs to stay very, very quiet about it. She scrabbles up towards complete consciousness because she knows it's important; once she's there, she regrets it hugely, because she has the mother of all headaches. She allows herself the luxury of ten seconds of alarm, then forces herself to take stock.
Here is what she knows: she's face down on the seat of a car, her hair swarming into her face. She's gagged, but not so tightly she can't swallow. Her hands are bound behind her back at an angle sufficient to make her shoulder blades protest already, which means that if - when - she works them free, she's going to have pretty limited range of motion for a while. Her feet are also tied. The light filtering into the car suggests it hasn't been long - it's still a hazy, pearly gray and doesn't seem much brighter. There's not much to look at, given her angle, but what she can see of the back of the front seat suggests that her vision's okay, which means the most she has to worry about is the headache. The car hits a bump and her stomach churns - the headache might be enough.
Emily forces her attention back to the situation at hand. The car sounds like it's running rough, which makes complete sense considering the wreck it made of the back of her poor Prius. She knows it's a gray sedan and thinks she remembers seeing a Ford logo. To find out anything else, she's going to have to move, but she doesn't want to draw attention. Closing her eyes, she lets her head loll to one side, then slowly starts counts to a hundred and eighty. Three minutes without moving ought to convince him she's not really awake, even though she's moved. Outside, the sound of nearby traffic's increasing - Emily lets herself hope they're heading towards the city, or at least the suburbs.
Three minutes later, she cracks an eyelid. The guy from the library - Jonathan - is driving, one hand clenched so tightly on the wheel that she can see the tendons standing out. He's muttering to himself, a repetitive cycle of words she can't quite hear clearly enough to understand.
This sucks, Emily thinks to herself. Then, in the mental voice that's terrifyingly like her mother's, she thinks, Fine. So do something about it.
She flails for a moment: fear is lurking very near, but if she panics, she's fucked. Her brain's the thing most likely to get her out of this in one piece. Alive, she thinks, because there's no point not being blunt about it.
She breathes in. Breathes out. If this were a case, if she was sitting in the BAU, if they were all at the table, the next thing they'd do is to build the profile and figure out what they don't know. She can do that. Emily drags her brain all the way back to yesterday. She remembers Dorothy, her snide remarks about women's work, a failed thesis defense, and running a hour late to work. She replays snatches of the conversation she'd overheard between Jonathan and Rossi, about the hero-worship in Jonathan's voice she'd heard as just another fannish display. She thinks about Jonathan's description of his thesis and wonders exactly what extracurricular activities he'd wanted to limit. She thinks about Dave, about the word "distraction," about the last minute interview he'd given to NPR just before the letters started, that missing piece she hadn't been able to reach until she'd gotten out of her car. It's a stretch, but hardly a big one - they've built a profile from less. And her gut says it's right.
So she's got a misogynistic obsessive intent on freeing Dave Rossi from all distraction so that he can continue his charismatic leadership in the field of criminal justice. It makes sense that JJ would be the first target - she's front and center constantly. But the whole encounter at the library couldn't have gone any worse if they'd planned it that way.
Stupid, she thinks. Incredibly stupid. How did I miss this? I should have been paying attention. It's the victimology that blindsided her - she'd been so worried, so focused on protecting JJ, she hadn't been watching for anything pointing down a different trail. Stupid or not, however, now the problem's all hers. Unless it becomes Dave's, whispers a horrible little voice, and that's all too plausible for Emily's comfort. Jonathan's not having a good day up there in the front seat: he's already starting to spiral. The next step, she thinks, will be to go after Dave himself. Like hell, she snarls. Like fucking hell.
Anger helps. It clears her head and gives her space to think - to remind herself that she at least knows that Dave and Hotch made it back to the BAU okay. Emily doesn't know how Jonathan found her, but she's got a number of different possible answers and it doesn't really matter anyway. She doesn't know what's driving Jonathan's hero worship, or how that hero worship got twisted around so that women are the enemy. She doesn't know where they're going or what the hell he plans to do with her when they get there.
Very slowly, she clenches her hands, trying to get a feel for how they're bound. It's fabric of some sort - shoelaces, maybe - and that's a good thing, because fabric will stretch, given time. Time, of course, is the one major uncertainty in this equation, so she starts pulling her wrists as far apart as she can, for a count of ten, and repeating. It's going to take forever, but she doesn't think about that.
Instead, Emily tries to figure out what her best option is once he realizes she's awake - because he will, eventually, and even if he doesn't, at some point they're going to get to their destination. That, of course, is the cue for the car to rattle to a stop, making the question a lot more pressing.
The car door opens and slams shut. She tenses, but the rear doors remain closed. Instead, outside, something starts to make an unholy racket - metal-on-metal, like the door to a loading dock. She can't see, and it's enough to make her want to scream in frustration. She settles for listening for anything, any piece of information, and realizes that now she knows how Reid must've felt, trapped with Tobias, looking for any detail he could relay. I'm not Reid, she thinks dully, squeezing her eyes closed.
The noise outside has stopped; she's holding her breath, waiting for whatever is coming next. That's when she Reid's voice in her ear, clear as a bell. You do what it takes, he says calmly. You do whatever it takes to get out alive.
Emily's pretty sure she's been struck upon the head harder than she'd originally thought, because hearing voices is never a good sign - and yet, it helps. By the time Jonathan opens the car door and slides back in, her breathing's evened out. She groans and stirs a little, testing his reaction. The sounds of movement in the front seat stops abruptly. He starts up a low mutter of "not yet, not yet, not yet," so she subsides - no point in panicking him until she's better able to take advantage of it.
Jonathan's quiet for a moment and then the car sputters to life and moves forward. The light changes, and Emily bets they've moved indoors. The car door opens and shuts again and the metallic rattling resumes; then the door next to her head opens and she's got an excellent view of Jonathan's boots. Limp, she thinks. Stay limp. Not awake. Not aware. No sir. Not me.
"Bitch," Jonathan says somewhere above her head. Then he's hauling her out of the car and over his shoulder in - it's awkward, and her shoulders are really going hurt tomorrow, and it's doing fuck-all to help her nausea, all of which just gives her more reason to get really annoyed at this guy. If she's annoyed, she can't be scared. He's moving now, so she risks opening her eyes. Sure enough, they're in a loading bay, albeit one that gone unused for some time. The car, she notes with satisfaction, is pretty well done for. They jounce up a few stairs and she swallows hard against rising bile. Puking all over him is probably not listed under the heading of whatever it takes, satisfying though it is to contemplate.
Who are you, she thinks at Jonathan. How did you get to this place? Somewhere, she hopes, Garcia is having a field day pulling his life story off of the internet.
Focus, snaps another voice, sounding suspiciously like Hotch. Apparently the whole team's along for the ride, she thinks, and then realizes that the truth of that statement might be what's keeping her sane. Or at least functionally crazy, since, again, voices in her head. They'll find out she's missing almost as soon as someone reports the damage to her car, since she'd listed JJ as her secondary contact years back. As soon as JJ gets that call, they'll be out the door - if they aren't already. Dave's got all the same information she does and more than twice the time at the BAU, but Emily's not sure she wants him to be the one to put the facts together, because that just ups the odds of something awful happening, and frankly, that just starts her right down the road to useless worry. So she's not thinking too hard about that possibility just now.
Focus, Prentiss, Hotch insists, and she blinks hard against her headache, which is patently not helped by the fact that she is upside-down and up close and personal with Jonathan Insert-Last-Name-Here's jean-clad ass. Pay attention to where you're going. Pay attention to how you're going to get out. Pay attention. Since Hotch is nothing if not obdurate, Emily pays attention. By the time Jonathan opens one last door, flips a light switch, and walks into what appears to be, from her limited vantage point, a very small, very windowless room, she's got a pretty good idea of how to get back to where they started this very unpleasant adventure.
Jonathan kicks at something Emily can't see. She barely has a chance to close her eyes before he heaves her off of his shoulder and deposits her unceremoniously into one of the most uncomfortable chairs it's ever been her pleasure to encounter. The sudden shift in equilibrium is kind of appalling. It doesn't take any acting ability for her to nearly fall over - she really is close to blacking out again.
Vaguely, from a long way away, she hears Jonathan swear. After a moment, he grabs her arms and finagles them over the chair back, then wraps a wide swath of what feels like duct tape around both arms and chair. As a means of keeping her in place, it's crude, but effective.
He finishes with the tape and pulls the gag from her mouth before he steps back - it's knotted around her neck and it's hard not to stiffen against the pressure of the fabric as he tugs it down. In the little room, his breathing is fast and harsh. Emily doesn't dare try to open her eyes, though, so she can't tell if it's from exertion or rage or both. She still has no idea how to play this - outright anger, condescension, or arrogance will obviously only make things worse, but that still gives her a huge range of mistakes to make. The dizziness is receding; if only her head didn't hurt so damn much, she could think more clearly. Wait, Gideon advises quietly, sounding calm and composed, like they're sitting at a chess board. He's not finished his opening moves. Wait. Watch. Consider. She hears Jonathan shut the door. The only goal is control, she thinks, or Gideon says, not that it isn't all the same, and you still don't know what kind of game he's playing, not entirely.
"Wake up," Jonathan snarls, and backhands her across the face. It hurts - she can't even move with it, given the angle and manner in which she's bound. "Wake up," he demands again, following it with another blow to the opposite cheek. Emily gasps, sucking in air, forcing her eyes open, probing her teeth gently with her tongue. "I'm awake!" she says desperately, "I'm awake."
Jonathan's directly in front of her. His face is a horrible shade of brick red; she's never actually encountered someone that enraged since the last time her mother found out exactly what she'd been doing when she skipped fourth period during her senior year of high school. And her mother didn't - doesn't - believe in physical violence. Control the center, Gideon says again. Fine, Emily thinks. She's always liked the hypermodern school, using distant pieces to take out an opponent's central pawns - in this case, pawn, singular, but one's enough right now, thanks. Although it would be nice if her team was a bit less distant. They'll get here, she thinks. She shrinks in on herself, allowing Jonathan the illusion of strength. "Please," she says, and lets her voice break.
He slaps her again. "Please what?"
"Please," Emily whimpers, cringing as best she can. "Please don't hit me again." She's watching carefully, though her eyes are watering hard, which means she doesn't miss the satisfaction and scorn that flash across his face. She needs information - something to use to plan a way out of this. Only trouble is, as angry as Jonathan appears to be, just about anything could provoke him. "I'm sorry," she says, working on the theory that the weaker she looks, the better he'll feel. "I'm so sorry."
He grabs her chin, staring her down; she looks away as fast as she can. You're the alpha, she thinks. No challenge here, not from me. "You're nothing," he says, low and angry. She's going to have bruises. "You're nothing but an interfering whore."
"I know," she whispers, aiming for terrified and broken. It's not a huge stretch. "I know. I didn't - I wanted -"
"You wanted what?" Jonathan demands, letting go. "A share of his fame? Of his money?"
She must hesitate a fraction too long, because when he hits her this time, it's not with an open palm. "Yes!" she says. "I wanted it." There's blood in her mouth - her teeth have cut into her lip. There's an ominous tickling under her nose that suggests it's also started to bleed. Damn, she thinks, trying not to think about it. I really liked this shirt.
Jonathan's pacing in front of her. "No," he says, and she hauls her attention front and center - now is not the time to get distracted. "No," Jonathan mutters. "That's not enough for you. You wanted to own him. You wanted the credit."
Emily doesn't say a word this time, wouldn't for all the money in the world. Let him talk, she hears Morgan say. The more he tells you about his obsession with Rossi, the less he's focusing on you. It's comforting to think about having Morgan at there - he's always, always got her back, just like she has his, even when they disagree. Right now, though, she's completely in accord.
"It just killed you, didn't it," Jonathan says. Emily hauls her attention back to the real world. "To watch him work - to know how much evil he prevented - and to know you couldn't ever be as good." He's gesticulating now; the whole thing feels vaguely like the plot to a bad movie, except for the part where she hurts like hell. "So you stopped him. You distracted him," he spits, "and you thought you'd steal his fame."
He turns, suddenly, wrapping a hand around her throat. "I heard you," he hisses, and his hand tightens to the point that she's actively fighting for breath. "I heard you threaten him," he says again. Little black spots are starting to dance in her field of vision.
I could die here, Emily realizes, clearly and calmly. No one knows where I am. They might not even know who it is yet. I could die here. Jonathan is snarling something, but she can't understand it; she's got her head tilted back and can't read his lips - she's trying to open her airway even a little, just a little, just enough for a little breath, please Jesus. I could die here. It could happen.
Like hell, Rossi says.
Emily knows he's not there, knows she's just concussed and exhausted and scared, but it's his voice, no question, and he's furious.
If you do, I will find you and kill you myself, he adds.
That makes no sense, she wants to say, but she's distracted by the fact that Jonathan has let go and she can haul in a lungful of musty, stale, precious air. She coughs, blinks hard, and tries to focus. Jonathan's rage is gone, but she's not sure it's an improvement - he's watching her, circling her, and his gaze is cold and clinical. Nothing she does, she realizes dully, is going to help this situation.
So? Dave says, unimpressed.
"You're nothing," Jonathan says. "You're less than worthless." He passes behind her, and she tries ignore the way the back of her neck crawls. "He won't miss you. He doesn't need you." The words themselves are laughable - it's the tone of his voice that has her suppressing a shudder. His anger's not gone. It's just very, very tightly focused. On her.
So? Dave says again, and if he were here, she'd smack him for being a bastard.
So I try to find out what he's planning to do, Emily replies. And then I get him to go the fuck away, so I can get out of here.
That's better, Dave agrees. That's when she knows she's in bad shape, because she can practically see him smiling at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up sardonically.
"You're nothing," Jonathan says again, from behind her. "You're just a little, lying, greedy cunt."
And you're a complete nutbar, Emily thinks, but let's see if you've ever heard of Evil Overlord Rule Number Seven. It's not really funny - she knows it's not - but she needs the forward momentum that little bit of bravado offers. "What are you going to do to me?" she quavers.
Jonathan moves slowly back into her field of vision. "Do to you?" he answers. "I don't have to do anything to you."
"You're not going to kill me?" Emily asks.
"Kill you?" Jonathan's face twists. "No. That would be evil." He reaches out and she can't help it: she tries to jerk away when he touches her shoulder. "No killing," he says. "Thou shalt not kill. I just need to free him from you." His fingers tighten briefly as he shoves her backwards, hard, and lets the chair tip over.
Emily's slumped slightly to the side. The uneven weight distribution means the chair tilts as it falls. Her thigh and shoulder take the brunt of it, but she can't stop her head from cracking against the floor. There can't be much underneath the thin layer of carpet besides cement. The impact's stunning - literally - she can't do anything but breathe through it and cling to consciousness.
When her vision clears, she's staring at Jonathan's boots. Oh look, she thinks creakily. Back where we started. He prods her with one foot, forcing her to turn her head and look up at him. She sees him grimace; feels him wipe his boot-tip on her slacks. "I don't need to do anything to you," Jonathan says quietly. "All I have to do is lock the door." His feet move off; a moment later, the lights go out. "You'll die just fine all on your own."
The door clicks shut; the bolt latches seconds after. Breathing quietly, she listens to his boot heels walking off down the hall. For the space of several minutes, she forces herself to lie still and wait. The carpet smells like cat pee and motor oil and it's scratchy against the swelling on her cheek. It would be very, very easy to just let go, to close her eyes for a little while.
It's tempting.
Except.
Except she doesn't know where Jonathan is going.
And she doesn't know if the team's figured it out yet.
And she will be damned to hell if she lets Jonathan anywhere near David Rossi ever again.
At least, she thinks, testing the give in the bindings around her wrists, if they've figured it out, they'll convince Dave not to do anything stupid.
Hey, he says in the back of her head.
"Oh shut up," she says out loud, because it makes her feel better. If nothing else, it distracts her from the fact that her fingers feel like sausages and her entire upper body aches. "Tell me I'm wrong."
Dave, wisely, says nothing further. "God," Emily mutters. "Even the voices in my head think I'm crazy." The cords or shoelaces or whatever they are have actually started to stretch. She doesn't know what she's going to do about the duct tape, short of dislocating a shoulder, but she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. Right now, she's got one loop almost loose enough that she can - maybe - snake her hand through. Either that, or cut off her circulation trying. "What the hell," she says, closing her eyes even though it's dark, because she needs to pay attention to what her fingers can tell her.
A really fun thirty-ish minutes later, her breath is coming short and fast, she's pretty sure her pinky wasn't supposed to bend like that, and the skin on her left wrist and palm is raw, but her hands are free. She gives herself a minute. It hurts. She just needs a minute, and then she'll be able to ignore it.
What she can't ignore, however, is that she is still duct-taped to the goddamn chair. At least she's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, because the thought of the adhesive on her bare arms makes her cringe. Okay, she thinks. It's not a lot of duct tape. Which is true - it's only wrapped around her twice, just around her upper arms and the chair-back, and it's not horribly tight. Even with her hands untied, though, she's not double-jointed: reaching up to try and pry it loose is out of the question.
She shifts experimentally - there's a fair amount of give in the fabric of her top. Emily rolls her eyes. "What the hell did I do to deserve karma like this?" Nobody answers this time, which makes her feel a little better about her sanity but also maybe a little worse. "God damn it," she says, and starts wriggling out of her shirt.
It takes forever. Emily's terrifyingly aware of the passage of time and the fact that she has no idea what's going on. It's a ridiculous process - she tugs and writhes and spends a good twenty minutes using her head and her teeth to shift the bottom hem of her shirt up and over her head. The worst part is walking her arms up the inside of her sleeves - her shoulders really are not pleased about today's events. Eventually, though, she's out, she's free, short of breath and sweaty and bra-clad and, after a few minutes' fumbling at her ankles, totally unrestrained.
The first thing she does is pull the fabric he'd used to gag her over her head and fling it across the room. Then she hauls herself to her feet, wincing as her knees crack and her leg muscles stretch and her stomach roils. It's still pitch-black, but that, at least, she can fix. She reaches out and moves slowly until she feels a wall, and follows it to a corner. Then she makes her way around the room, running her hands over each patch of wall methodically. She knows there's a light switch; she remembers Jonathan flipping it off. She's pretty sure it's inside the room, and she could really use a little luck right about now.
It takes her three walls, the second of which is covered in what feels like paper and photographs - she moves over it gently, because she's got a pretty good idea of what it might be and she doesn't want to to disturb it. She eventually finds the switch, flooding the room with sickly, flickering fluorescent light, for which she is infinitely grateful even if it makes her head hurt worse. When she turns to look at the papered wall, it's about what she'd expected, but that doesn't make it any less unsettling. It's covered in Rossi-related paraphernalia - pictures, press clippings, book jackets, tour schedules, printouts from the website his publisher manages. Her blood runs cold; she deliberately turns her back. On consideration, she extricates her shirt from the duct tape and puts it back on, which makes her feel better - even if the shirt won't ever be the same again.
Door, she thinks. Once I figure out the door, I can get out of here and get to a phone and make sure they know, make sure Dave knows, make sure we don't do anything else stupid. She takes a deep breath. Just the door. I can do this. An experimental jiggle of the knob proves it's definitely locked, although it at least opens outward. She looks around for something - anything - she can use, but comes up empty.
She looks down at her shoes dubiously. They're low-heeled loafers, comfortable for walking - or running - but not exactly what she'd have chosen if she'd known she'd need to kick down a door. Of course, she'd been in Wabash when she'd last changed her clothes. It feels like another lifetime.
Door, she thinks again. Door, then Dave. Then I can sleep for a week. She walks over and picks up the chair. She sets it not far from the door and leans on it, closing her eyes, thinking about what she wants to do. This is feasible, she tells herself. I can do this. It's an interior door and it feels lightweight enough.
It takes four kicks, but on the fourth the jamb splinters with an entirely satisfying sound. Emily takes one last look at the Rossi-covered wall and heads off down the hallway. It takes her a minute to think, but she still remembers the way back to the loading dock. Once she's there, it doesn't take long to find the mechanism for the bay doors.
Outside, it's gray and misting - one of those days in mid-September that reminds her November's not all that far away. She's down a small road that dead-ends not five hundred yards off; there's an empty lot across the way. The building she just left looks remarkably innocuous from the outside: it's just a small, old, vacant office building, squat and square. She can hear traffic nearby.
Jonathan's car's gone, although Emily doubts it's got much farther left in it before it either quits or gets pulled over for massive violations of the highway safety code. She can't tell what time it is - hasn't got a clue how long she's been stuck in that building - and it's that fact plus the absence of the car that brings panic flooding back. Rossi, she thinks. They need to know, need to know about Dave. She needs to tell them.
Her hair's getting damp; it clings to her neck as she starts towards the sound of cars. Emily shivers and wraps her arms around her waist. They've figured it out, she tells herself. They're going to be careful. It'll be okay. She chants it like she'd chant the rosary as she walks down the road. She wants to run, or at least jog, but she's stiff and dizzy and her heel's aching from kicking down a stupid door, so she sticks with walking. She tries not to think about the fact that she feels horribly exposed. It'll be okay.
Emily keeps her head down when she hits the main road; she's sure she looks a mess and she doesn't want a well-meaning driver to get between her and a telephone. Somewhere in the back of her head, she's pretty sure that line of reasoning's not entirely rational, but it gives her a functional goal. If she's thinking about getting to a telephone, she doesn't have to worry about anything else.
Traffic's light, which makes sense, because this should be Saturday. Emily's gone maybe three-quarters of a mile when the road turns a corner; she blinks at the gas station that practically materializes right in front of her, the shop sign set to "Open" and the register staffed. She's never been so damn happy to see a Sunoco in all her life.
Apparently she looks worse than she'd thought, because the woman at the counter - Barb, her name tag says - actually gasps. "Please," Emily asks, cutting off whatever Barb's about to say. "Please, do you have a phone?"
Barb is short and round and looks like she's in her fifties, and she's out from behind the register before Emily can blink. "Back here, darlin'," she says, moving to put an arm around Emily, who flinches away without meaning to. "Just back in the office." Barb opens a door to a little room and Emily's skin crawls. Don't be an idiot, Prentiss, she tells herself, but she still takes the chair that lets her watch the door. "You sure all you need's a telephone?"
"Yes," Emily says, blinking. "Yes, I'm better than I look." Barb gives her an incredulous once-over. "Um. Well. Not as bad, anyway. I just - I need to call some friends. My work. Then it'll be okay."
Barb gives her another extremely skeptical look, but doesn't argue. At the front of the store, the door bells chime. "I'll be back - you do whatever it is you need to."
"Thanks," Emily says as Barb walks away. She picks up the handset and tries to ignore the slight tremor in her hands. The first number she tries is Dave's, hoping against hope he'll pick up and cursing when she gets his voicemail. The recording beeps; she fights to keep her voice calm and steady. "Rossi. It's Prentiss. Call the office, as soon as you get this. It's - critical. Call as soon as you get this message." She pauses. "I'm okay. It's Jonathan, the one from GMU. Be careful, please. And call the office when you get this. Please." She hangs up before she can ramble any more.
If not Dave, she thinks, then Hotch. Only she can't remember Hotch's cell number - she's grabbing for it, but her head's all muzzy. Her own phone is God-alone-knows where. She swears again, trying to think. The unit number - that she remembers, and that'll get her someone who can get her someone - and the someone turns out to be Garcia.
Hearing a friendly voice makes Emily's throat seize up - Garcia's on her third hello before Emily can get words out. "Garcia," she says, and clears her throat. "Garcia, I need to talk to Hotch."
"Emily!" Penelope's off and running with a million questions, and Emily would laugh, she's that glad to hear them, but she needs to know - now, sooner than now - what the hell's going on
"Garcia. I promise, I will tell you anything you want to know, but right now," she says, trying to keep her tone from rising, "I need you to get me through to Hotch. I've got to tell him -"
"Right. Yes." There's a soft hiss as Penelope clicks over to speaker. Emily can hear Garcia demanding that someone get Agents Hotchner and Jareau to her office immediately, and then her footsteps as she walks back to the phone. "Emily - we've been so -"
"Penelope, please," Emily manages, a little desperately, over a flurry of activity on the other end of the line. "Hotch. Now."
"I'm here," Hotch says, and the wave of relief has her digging her nails into her thighs. "Prentiss, where the hell are you? Are you all right?"
"Hotch, listen - you've got to tell Rossi, it's the guy we met -"
"At the GMU library. We know." She sags a little, the sudden urgency gone. They know. It's going to be okay. "We know, Prentiss. Morgan, Reid, and Rossi are out looking for him; we're waiting for a call."
"What?" she demands. "Hotch, no - this guy - you've got to call Rossi off. Dave's the target; if he's there, Jonathan will go nuts." Stupid, stupid, stupid man. She doesn't mean Hotch.
Hotch is saying something on the phone - she thinks it's her name, but she's a hair's breadth from actually panicking and she has to actively force herself away from that edge. "Prentiss," Hotch says again. She tells herself to focus. "Emily. Listen to me. We know. It all came together after you left JJ's. We know. Dave went along, but he's under strict orders to hang back if they have to go in. He's not allowed to enter until Morgan tells him it's secure."
Emily sits with a thump. She hadn't realized she was standing. It's going to be okay, she tells herself again. "He agreed to that?" she says, and this time she can't quite keep her voice from shaking.
"He gave me his word," Hotch replies.
"Also, Morgan and Hotch threatened to lock him in his office," JJ adds helpfully.
Emily lets out a strangled laugh. "I'm sorry I missed that."
"Well," Garcia offers, "there's always security footage."
"Prentiss," Hotch says, and she sobers immediately, because she can hear the note of strain underneath the exasperation and she knows what it's like on the other end of this experience. "Where are you? What happened?"
"I -," Emily realizes she hasn't actually gotten that far. She looks around the office a little wildly and seizes on a stack of business cards. "I'm in Newington. At a gas station. A Sunoco." She reels off the address. "They let me use the phone. I don't - what time is it?" she asks.
"Three forty-five. Emily, do you need a bus?" Hotch's voice is level, but she's pretty sure that's worry in there, so she tries to get a grip.
"What? No - no. Hotch, I -" she pauses and collects her thoughts. "I need to be looked over. He roughed me up some." A lot. "A lot like last year in Texas. Maybe not quite as bad, but a few more solid blows to the head. I'm functional," sort of, "but I'm going to hurt tomorrow." A lot. "It's just - Hotch, I will go wherever, see whatever doctor you want, I just -"
She doesn't have to finish the sentence, for which she owes Hotch, because she's not really very good at admitting weakness. "JJ and I will be there in half an hour. Do not," he says firmly, "go anywhere."
"No sir," Emily agrees, and they all hang up. She sets the phone back in the cradle carefully, then props her head in her hands, the heels of her palms against her eyes. You've got half an hour to get it together, kiddo, she tells herself.
A knock on the door startles her upright. Barb bustles in, plunking down a hairbrush, a pack of wet wipes, and a bottle of water. "Um," Emily says.
"On the house," the older woman says firmly. "I only caught the end of that phone call, but if you want those friends of yours to believe that nonsense you just fed them, sweetheart, you've got some cleaning up to do. Bathroom's next door," Barb adds with a nod. "Just settle yourself back in here when you're done. I assume they're coming to collect your banged-up butt?"
"Yes'm," is all Emily manages, unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Go on, then. Scoot." With that, she hurries back towards the front of the store, where something's beeping. Emily scoots.
Her encounter with the mirror is not a friendly one and goes a long way to explaining Barb's insistence. The hairbrush is kind of a debacle, given her headache and the approximately sixteen thousand bruises that appear to have taken up residence on her skull. Three-quarters of a pack of wet wipes later, she looks, if not feels, somewhat more human, although a good bit of what remains is going to look much worse before it looks better.
Emily goes back to the little office and settles herself in the same chair, taking a swig of the bottled water. The adrenaline's wearing off. Reaction's creeping in, but she tells herself to sit on it and distracts herself by focusing on the little things: the spot of wear at the corner of the chair cushion, the rusting corner of the metal file cabinet, the lines in the cap on the water bottle. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and spends several minutes contemplating her knuckles.
When she looks up, JJ's standing in the doorway, Hotch just behind her. Emily doesn't miss the crease in JJ's forehead or the tightness around Hotch's eyes when they see her face, but she's hardly going to argue with what she senses is an immediate trip to the hospital. "Hey," JJ says quietly. "Ready to get out of here?"
"Oh hell yes," Emily says fervently, and gets herself on her feet. She doesn't need help, but it's a near thing and mostly due to the fact that she's stubborn. Barb's waiting by the outside doors. "Thank you," she says quietly.
Barb just nods. "Good thing you've got friends."
"Yeah," Emily replies. "It is."
"Doctor," Hotch says once she's settled in the car. "Now." Emily heartily agrees. In retrospect, she thinks that's probably why they get to Potomac Hospital in a quantity of time that does not mathematically comport with the speed limit. En route, she points out the turn that will take them to the building she'd been in; it's ridiculously close, given how long she'd felt like she'd been walking. Hotch just nods.
Morgan calls when they're pulling into the hospital's parking lot. She talks to all of them, including Dave, who doesn't say much: his voice is raspy and curt, but he reiterates his promise to do exactly as required. She refuses to get out of the car until they've told her what's going on. They're tracking Jonathan - Howell, apparently, Jonathan Howell - and they've got a solid lead on his current location. After that, she goes quietly with JJ while Hotch finishes up the call, mostly because she's hoping there's a bed in her near future and partly because she really is running out of the ability to focus on much more than putting one foot in front of the other.
Bed doesn't happen nearly as fast as she'd hoped - she's poked and prodded and scanned and salved and bandaged for what feels like ages before they decide they want to keep her for observation for twenty-four hours, which isn't surprising. Eventually, though, she's plugged into a zillion different machines, JJ's curled up in the recliner in the corner, and Hotch is outside her door. They haven't heard any more from the rest of the team: Emily's not fooled - they're standing guard just as much as they're keeping her company. She's very, very grateful. The last nurse leaves with a warning that she'll be back in an hour to wake Emily up. The Tylenol's working beautifully; sleep comes fast and easy.
---
The nurse is true to her word; someone comes in every hour and keeps her awake for twenty minutes, checking her vitals, shining bright lights in her eyes, and making her hold functional conversations before they let her drift off again. The first time, the attendant's a little concerned about what she calls Emily's "high level of irritability;" fortunately, JJ's still there and explains about the fact that Emily's very short on sleep and kind of always like that until she's had a cup of coffee.
The second hour isn't much different, but the third hour, it's actually hard to wake up. Her lips and tongue feel too heavy and she can't figure out why Hotch is there instead of JJ. She's incredibly groggy. It's frustrating, because she keeps asking about JJ, and Dave, and JJ, and Dave again. She can't hang on to the answer and she hates repeating the question, but she needs to know, even if she can't quite remember why it's important. Even Hotch's calm, steady voice, with its repeated reassurances, isn't enough to keep her from getting agitated. It's enough that the doctor shows back up, only he won't answer her questions either; instead, they wheel her down the hall for a second MRI.
Hotch is still in her room when she gets back; JJ's reappeared as well. The lines around Hotch's mouth are deeper than normal - he makes her stay awake and talk to them until they're partway into hour five and she's starting to retain information. At that point, they run another MRI and everyone seems to relax a little. If nothing else, they let Emily go back to sleep - for another hour. It's another two hours after that - nearly midnight - before the doctor decides that the swelling's settling out and she doesn't have to be woken up so frequently.
The next time she wakes up, she doesn't know how long it's been, but there's been a changing of the guard. Now it's Reid curled up in the corner and she feels like she's actually in control of her brain again. Reid's asleep; the shadows under his eyes are dark, but otherwise he looks approximately sixteen. She's sitting there quietly, kind of afraid to move because that way lies a world of hurt, when Morgan appears in the doorway holding two cups of coffee.
"Hey, lazybones," he says. "Leaving us the dirty work, huh?"
"Mmm," Emily answers sleepily. "Seemed like the right division of labor. Don't wake Reid," she says.
"Reid's awake," Spencer says, shifting upright and knuckling his eyes before accepting one of Morgan's cups.
"You caught him?" Emily says, her brain catching up with her mouth. "Where's Rossi?" She struggles to sit up higher and hisses when her shoulders protest.
"Whoa, whoa. Settle down," Morgan says, walking over and pushing the button that moves the bed. Emily shoots him a filthy look. "We caught him. Rossi will be on his way soon - he stayed to watch Hotch's interrogation, in case we needed an ace in the hole. He'll be here in about forty minutes."
She lets her head drop back to the pillow - gently, because now that she's all the way awake, she still has a headache. It's just downgraded from appalling to evil. "Where?" she asks, closing her eyes. She's still ridiculously tired.
"Back on GMU's campus," Reid says. "In one of the grad student offices. He had a gun in his backpack."
"Same one he hit me with, probably." She looks over at Morgan, feeling exhausted and miserable. "I fucked this one up. Or Dave and I did. We should've seen it. We weren't paying attention."
"Prentiss - Emily." Morgan sets the coffee down and leans on the bed rail. "Cut that shit out right now." She looks away. "Hey," he insists. "I mean it."
"We all missed it," Reid says, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. "Sometimes it happens. We had a blind spot. The important thing is that we figured it out in time."
She's got something stuck in her throat that makes it hard to get the words out. "When'd you get so smart?" she mumbles.
"Prentiss," Morgan drawls, "he was born that way."
Reid shakes his head in mock-concern. "I don't know. She's taken a few hits to the head. Maybe it's temporary amnesia. I can remind you," he says, smiling.
She holds up her hands. "I remember, I remember," she mock-pleads. "Spare me." The distraction works, though - she's grinning, even though her face aches, and the pit of her stomach seems to have resumed its normal position.
They chat for a while longer about complete nonsense. Emily wants to stay awake till Dave gets there, but it doesn't take long for another sleepy pocket to snag her and suck her down. One minute she's listening to Morgan and Reid debate Reid's theory about matching socks or something equally ridiculous, the next she's waking up because there's something very warm and very heavy on her right thigh, making her toes go all pins and needles - it turns out to be Rossi's head. Thankfully, with the rest of Rossi still attached.
He's in a chair that looks suspiciously like the ones just outside her door that the nurse told Hotch not to move, and he's dozing, his head and arms resting against her leg. His face is turned towards her; the skin around his eyes is soft and papery and the corners of his mouth are tilted down. His back might never forgive him if he spends too much longer at that angle. She reaches out and palms the nape of his neck without really thinking: it's more that he's there, she hasn't seen him since this all went to hell, and she wants to touch him.
Dave mutters something completely unintelligible and she grins. For a few moments, Emily just watches him, smoothing her fingers over the short hairs at his nape. She's warm, her headache has just barely edged into the realm of manageable, and for the first time in days she can feel herself starting to relax. She closes her eyes and tips her head back; when she opens them again, Dave's awake and looking at her.
"Hi," she says quietly.
"Hi, yourself," he replies, and straightens with a groan. She lets her hand fall back to the bed. He shifts to cover it with his. "We got him," he says, his eyes taking stock of the state of her face and neck. His face sets in stern lines. "We got him."
Emily turns her hand over, curls her fingers around his. "Good," she says, only it comes out ragged. It's overwhelming, all of a sudden - she feels terrifyingly fragile and only her death grip on his hand is keeping her together. He's squeezing back just as hard. Not here, she thinks. I can't do this here. She clears her throat. "What time is it?"
Dave looks at his watch. "Late. Or early. Depends on your point of view." He catches her eyeroll. "Four thirty. The a.m. kind."
"Ouch." Emily wonders how long he's been here, but she doesn't ask. "Tell me Morgan and Reid went home."
"They went home. Everybody's home now. Except Jonathan Howell." His grin is hard, but then he looks at her again and sobers. "Prentiss - Emily. I'm sorry I wasn't - that I didn't get here sooner." He looks down at their hands. "I needed -"
"To check the locks," she finishes when he trails off, because she understands, she really does. She'd do the same. She did the same, more or less, she thinks, remembering walking down the street, praying for a telephone. She's never going to give him a hard time about it again. "Hey." He looks up at her and she feels her heart crack at the expression on his face. Oh, Dave. "It's okay. We're all okay." It's actually true, she realizes.
He ducks his head. When he looks up, his eyes are dark, but his smile is real. "I don't know," he says. "You look like shit."
"Asshole." She smacks him and winces at the pull in her arms. "Ow."
He catches her hand again. "Yeah." He kisses her knuckles, his lips warm on her skin. "Leopard can't change his spots," he says.
"Hmm," she says, considering. "Good thing I like your spots." She shifts awkwardly and frowns. "But I really hate this bed. When do they say I can leave?"
Dave laughs, deep and rich. "This afternoon, if you're very good and you don't scare the crap out of everyone like you did last night." He straightens up; they both wince at the popping noise from his back. "Although I gather the last MRI suggested that's unlikely."
"I'll make a note," she says and immediately thereafter yawns hugely. "Sorry," she manages. "I just get -"
"Sleepy," he finishes for her. "With good reason." He hits the button on the bed and she scowls - what is it about the men she works with that she can't push her own buttons, she wonders.
She doesn't realize she's said it out loud until Rossi replies, "Because it's so much fun, Prentiss."
"Bed," she orders, pointing at the recliner. "Now."
He laughs again, but he follows instructions. Smart man. She watches as he settles into the chair, popping the footrest out and leaning back. "Dave?" she asks quietly, as she feels herself starting to fade again.
"Mmm?" From the sound of it, he's not far from sleep himself - today hasn't been easy on his end, either, she knows.
Still, it's important she ask. "Can we -" she starts, and tries again. "I want -" This shouldn't be so difficult, she thinks. "Can I go to your place, when they turn me loose?"
He's silent for a long moment. When he answers her, his voice is rough. "Emily," he answers, "if I thought you'd planned on going anywhere else, I'd make them keep you here until you were back in your right mind." He leans forward and snags the extra blanket off the foot of her bed. "The doctor's coming by at nine. Go to sleep."
She goes to sleep.
---
Part Four