My Muse is disappointing. And that's all I'm going to say.
In case you haven’t noticed yet, I love giving the characters in my stories a hard time. I love torturing them emotionally, getting them shot at, blown up and sliced like a piece of salami. Angst makes me smile, as effed up as that might sound, but it’s true. And if there are any psychologists in the audience, I’m sure they could give me advice or two on how to deal with this issue of mine that I cleverly like to call ‘artistic liberty’.
This story is for Maxi because she pesters me about writing CM every chance she gets is my favorite German and I owe my adoration of Paget Brewster’s shiny hair to her. I hope she still likes me after reading the story.
Title: Three times Emily Prentiss died
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emily/JJ
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The story is mine, characters are not.
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.”
Washington Irving
She fell in love when she was fifteen, maybe, for the first time. And as all first loves, it was quick and strong like a tidal wave. You cannot escape it, you’ll most probably drown in it, and once it is gone, it leaves memories so deep that will never ever fade away for as long as you live.
A woman came; it was Thursday, just after ten in the morning. She smiled with both her eyes and a lazy stretch of her lips, and introduced herself to Emily. Jennifer Jareau, she said, and Emily shook her hand.
She seemed too graceful and too precious to be working as a profiler, Emily thought at first. That gun seemed so heavy on her hip, almost sticking out like a sore thumb against the perfectly fitting material of her gray, knee-high skirt and the impeccable lily-white silk blouse. With that pretty hair and radiant eyes and perfect pronunciation, agent Jareau seemed to fit better behind the news desk at CNN than in front of the team in B.A.U.’s small briefing room counting off some of the most gruesome crimes human mind can churn up.
Just a week later, Emily realized she couldn’t have been more wrong. Well, as far as agent Jareau not quite corresponding with the requirements of the job at hand, that is. Jennifer might have been precious, too prim for her own good, but she was tough, smart, sharp and unflinching in all the right situations. Emily caught herself smiling at the uselessness of the action that was Jennifer’s attempt to smooth out creases made by the bulletproof vest on the shirt she wore. She gave up eventually and then went to smooth out her hair tousled by the wind and adrenaline.
Emily stood and watched as gentle fingers brushed through blonde hair, carefully and methodically, bringing it into place, making it fall just right off of Jennifer’s shoulders, making it catch a golden hue of the late afternoon sun setting somewhere behind the distant horizon. The commotion around them ceased to exist. The ache in Emily’s strained muscles disappeared without a trace. A moment later, Jennifer shifted her eyes and met Emily’s. It was just like that one time when she was fifteen, only so much better. Gripping.
This must be how it feels to be dying without fear, Emily thought to herself. Exhilarating. Flying. Liberating. Free.
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Emily could have died right there on the spot, the very second she saw those delicate eyelashes flutter, when blue eyes fell shut and Jennifer’s lips parted in anticipation of a kiss. This must be how it feels to die while sleeping, it crossed Emily’s mind. Serene. Relaxed. Unburdened. Floating away on the wings of the most wonderful dream.
It was just a kiss, but it was dying and being born again, all in the span of a few lingering moments. If she could, she would have made it last forever, that tiny moment in time when everything falls into place - hours, days, weeks of longing, stolen glances, sleepless nights, forbidden fantasies. All it took was a gentle brush of fingertips against Emily’s cheek for her to surrender.
No one else had to know. It didn’t even have to happen again. It doesn’t have to become more than it is, a kiss, a stolen moment, a complete fulfillment of dreams.
When it ended and they pulled away from each other almost as tentatively and shyly as two teenagers, a smile tugged on both of their lips and when their eyes met, Emily could clearly read from Jennifer’s features how the future holds far more than just this one kiss.
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Rubble cracked under the soles of her boots as she walked forward and dust hung in the air like thick swamp fog, heavy and choking. Flashing of red and blue lights somewhere in the distance broke through that miasma of debris and smoke, giving Emily Prentiss an ounce of hope that soon, that distinct stench of burning plastic and pungent smell of phosphorus, will disperse and she will finally be able to breathe.
The Earth seemed to shatter in only one second. It’s only a heartbeat between being there and suddenly being gone, and as Emily walked, dragging her feet, clutching her left upper arm sticky with blood and grime, she thanked whomever it was that decided it wasn’t her time to die.
She heard distorted voices, like old 45s playing at 33 rpm. People in front of her, obscured by the smoke, they waved at her, shouting loudly - yet muffled in her ears - and then they started running towards her, all in slow motion, until she was in the clear, until dust and debris and panels and panels of shattered glass were left behind her.
It was a fireman, in heavy fireproof gear, mask on his face and an oxygen tank on his back, who reached her first. Emily suddenly felt weightless when he scooped her up and ran away from the blown up building carrying her in his arms, out from the harms way. Her head tiredly lolled back and when she swallowed there was a taste of sand scratching in the back of her throat. As soon as she was out of the way, SWAT team swarmed past her and they ran into that hell she just saved herself from, with their guns drawn, forceful beams of light and mighty resolve.
The assailant was dead; there was no doubt about it. He had strapped himself with five pounds of heavy explosive and then held the switch in the fist of his sweaty and nervous hand. Emily could still remember the stab of fear she felt when she saw him release it.
For the longest time she couldn’t hear anything besides ringing in her ears. Then, the ringing ceased a bit and gave room to the pounding sound of her heart. She didn’t hear Morgan’s voice, but she felt him walk up to her so she turned and found him standing just off the side with the most startling look in his eyes. Anger. Fury. Desperation. Helplessness. Emily squinted, then rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand so she could see better. He was crying.
“Morgan,” she croaked and flinched at the soreness in her throat and when he didn’t respond, Emily followed the line of his gaze to where it stopped twenty yards away.
On impulse she stood up as soon as her eyes met the sight, pulling the paramedic who tended to her wounded arm on her feet as well, knocking down a bag of saline mounted on the stand next to her with a giant splat and spilling a box full of bandages all over the dirty road at their feet. Jennifer’s shirt was torn open, her pretty face and flawless hair mated together with blood. One slender arm dangled lifelessly off the side of the gurney. Gently, one of the paramedics picked it up and tucked it against Jennifer’s side.
As they slowly covered her face with a stark white sheet - grave looks on their faces, almost apologetic when Emily accidentally met one of the paramedic’s eyes - she realized it was over; they weren’t fighting for her anymore. She wanted to move, to run to where Jennifer was now being left abandoned from all hope, but her feet felt bolted to the ground.
Emily stood helpless, watching as they wheeled the gurney away and she thought how this must be how it feels to be dying a slow death. Long. Piercing. Excruciating. As if the pain would never end.
The end.