Waiting for the Storm to Break Part 1
Title: Waiting for the Storm to Break (part 1)
Author: Louisa and Tamoline
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/Emma Frost
This is part of a story in a sequence Intersecting Trajectories. Links to the rest can be found in this post:
Masterpost
There's a storm coming, building up inside Emily. The only question is: when it breaks, will she break with it?
I rub my eyes tiredly as I restart my computer and gather my things, getting ready to vacate the office for the evening. It's getting on and I need to leave. Not because I've any life outside these walls, not anymore, but because I've already had a few late nights this week. Any more would be a pattern, and profilers have an inconvenient habit of picking up on those. Then would come questions and then...
And then...
But that's not important. Nothing really seems to be at the moment, but my childhood etched into me the importance of keeping up a good facade. So I'm going to soldier on, pretend everything is fine.
And hope to god no one asks any friendly questions about Emma tomorrow. They're going to come, sooner or later -- we're one big happy family here -- but not tomorrow. Please, not tomorrow.
I can only hope that by the time they do come, I'll be collected enough to answer with a light comment.
It's getting easier. It is. It's only been a week or so since Emma dropped her bombshell and then walked out of my life, but I'm... dealing with it. Just a few days more, that's all I ask. Then let the questions come. I'll handle them.
Just not tomorrow.
Movement catches my eye as I get up -- Morgan entering the bullpen. There's something different about him, his walk not quite its usual self-assured strut, the way he's not quite meeting anyone's eyes. It has the flavour of the same weirdness I've been noticing off and on throughout the building over the last week or so. Up until now I'd just dismissed it as one of the many petty power plays that infest the Bureau, the politics that infest any organisation this size.
Maybe normally I would have tried to find out more, but with Emma, and the run up to the same, I just haven’t had the energy.
But now it's reached our team, and that's odd. Hotch usually manages to shield us from that particular kind of irritation.
I should probably go over and see if Morgan wants to talk, or if I can help in some way. I really should.
Even self-interest argues for it -- it’s not unlikely that this shit is going to flow in my direction too.
I close my eyes briefly, then open them again.
Maybe tomorrow.
* * * * * *
9:01
One minute since the last time I'd looked at it, and I was finally out of excuses.
I wasn't going to wait more than an hour for her, *again*. And I'd given her the full minute, just in case, somehow, she was going to get here on the hour.
I had really thought -- hoped -- that this time would be different. A new start. A promise that we were actually going to try to fix the widening tears in the fabric of our relationship.
But she didn't even bother to text me some excuse these days when she didn't show.
And she'd left me sitting here on my own. Again.
Sharp-edged disappointment surged like a tidal wave within me, the strength of the feeling nearly taking my breath away.
Tossing back the last of my wine, I signalled for the bill. I had my coat on by the time the waiter handed me my receipt. I had to get out of here. I had to talk to her. To try to talk to her. Again.
I wondered what she'd tell me this time. And whether I was finally angry enough, finally had enough self-respect, to not care.
Oh, Amanda...
* * * * * *
The slightly dank air of the motel room greets me as I open the door. The room is cheap and used, which matches my mood far too well at the moment. I haven’t been able to face my apartment since, well, since she left. I let her in, and now she stains every surface. It’s silly, it’s stupid, but I just can’t face that at the moment.
Hopefully by the time I can face my own front door, I’ll just be thinking how stupid I was to allow anyone else access. Thinking of ways to make sure that it never happens again.
Just like I did after Amanda.
There may be strength in not letting fate’s slings and arrows deter me, but I’ve never had that kind of fortitude. I may be a coward, but I like to think that I’m an honest one.
I collapse into bed, and stare blankly upwards for a moment. I'm emotionally full up. I need to relieve the pressure inside of me. I need to go on a hunt.
I just can't.
I know that if I go there, I'll just stare into a drink for a few hours, unable to summon up the energy to do more. Not that it would matter if I did; I won't attract anyone without confidence, and Emma took that with her when she walked out the door.
Damn her.
I just need time; to repair myself, my battered defences.
To make sure this never happens again, that I'm never this vulnerable again.
To destroy the part of me that's still waiting for her to ring my phone; to knock, somehow, on that door.
Whatever. This is unproductive. I grab a book from my ever dwindling supply on the shelf. Whilst I’m reading I can share in the tales and adventures of other people, lose my problems in their own, and find comfort in their victories.
The calm they offer can feel almost addictive in its own way, even if it only lasts until I turn the last page.
Which reminds me, I’ll need to raid Amazon again sometime soon.
I read until the small hours of the morning, until I achieve some measure of tranquillity, then turn the light off, and let my weary body rest.
To sleep, perchance not to dream.
Please.
* * * * * *
The low murmur of voices greeted me as I stalked into our apartment. My apartment, as she'd seen fit to remind me during our last fight. Or maybe it was the one before that. I forgot. Anyway, that didn't matter right now.
By the time I'd kicked off my shoes and hung up my coat, I'd identified the source of the voices as the television. That almost made it worse than my first assumption: that she had company. If someone had called around unexpectedly, I could have understood her having to cancel. Granted, that wouldn't have explained why she didn't so much as text me, but it would at least have been something.
Nowadays, I'd take what I could get.
She was sprawled out on the sofa, comfortable in shorts and a T-shirt. As always, a part of me startled a little to find her here. Like a panther on a bus, she was out of context; exotic wildness surrounded by the mundane. Usually, the contrast thrilled me a little, reminding me all over again that she'd chosen to be here. That she was at home here, with me.
Now, it just set my teeth on edge.
"Fancy meeting you here." My voice was heavy, knives bristling just below the surface of the words.
She turned around, teeth showing white in her tanned face as she flashed me a sleepy smile.
"Hi honey, you're home," she drawled, stretching languorously.
"And so are you." I was brittle ice to her smooth molasses, but then my anger had always tended to run cold.
A confused look drifted across her face, like clouds scudding across a clear blue sky. "Should I be somewhere else?"
"Oh, I don't know." I crossed the room to stand over her, intentionally looming so she would either have to crane her neck or sit upright in order to look at me. It was petty, I know, but I couldn't help myself. "How about a certain fancy restaurant, having dinner with your *girlfriend*."
She blinked at me, eyes wide enough to show me pupils like gaping pits, irises reduced to a mere sliver of colour around the edges. I filed the observation away somewhere I didn't have to think about it. Like the flush in her cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin. The way she kept blinking owlishly at me, like she was having trouble focusing. File it away, file it all away. It didn't mean anything important.
Because I loved her. And she loved me. And when we were good...
This was just a hiccup. Nothing else. I'd never felt like this about anyone.
Even if most of what I felt at the moment was anger.
"Oh, right. That. I'm so sorry, baby. I..." Forgot. She forgot. *Again.* Stood me up. *Again.* Let me down. *Again.* "I was busy."
She swung her legs off the sofa and levered herself to her feet. Her expression was open and honest, as guileless as a child's.
"So busy you couldn't even text me? Really? What was so urgent?"
"Work stuff." She waved one hand dismissively. "It was pretty intense -- not the kind of thing I could really break away from to check the time, let alone send a text. I'll tell you about it later, when I've decompressed a little."
Her arms went around my neck, a swaying half-step pressing our bodies together. I moved away, breaking her embrace, trying not to wince at the hurt in her eyes. I wasn't going to fold so easily. Not this time.
"And afterwards?"
"Well, then I was so frazzled I, uh, I kinda forgot." Now she was displaying guilt and contrition. Distress at having abandoned me. "I'm so sorry."
She probably even meant that. Against my will I felt myself start to thaw a little, my anger ebbing just a touch, just enough for me to think of forgiveness. But then she spoke again.
"I know you're mad, but-"
"Mad?" I folded my arms, shot her a Look that should have chilled her to the bone. "No, *mad* was a few flake-outs ago. Now, I'm fucking *angry*."
She jerked back like I'd slapped her, fury flashing bright and hot where mere moments ago there'd been rueful apology.
"I told you, I was *busy*." Her voice rose as she spoke, so that the last word was an irate yell.
"And what about all the times before that?" I dropped my arms to my sides, felt my hands clenching into fists. Despite that, my tone remained low and measured. A part of me felt obscurely proud of that small achievement. "Once is chance, twice is coincidence and three times is enemy action. How many times has it been for you, Amanda? How long should I keep giving you the benefit of the doubt? How many times should I believe your excuses?"
"Oh, I'm the *enemy* now?" She screamed the words into my face, trying to make me flinch. I refused to budge, meeting her gaze steadily even as every muscle seemed to vibrate with tension.
"Sometimes I wonder."
Things went downhill from there and stayed bad until the morning, when she greeted me with a sheepish smile and a heartfelt apology that melted my heart.
Just like always.
Sometimes, love was hard.
Author: Louisa and Tamoline
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/Emma Frost
This is part of a story in a sequence Intersecting Trajectories. Links to the rest can be found in this post:
Masterpost
There's a storm coming, building up inside Emily. The only question is: when it breaks, will she break with it?
I rub my eyes tiredly as I restart my computer and gather my things, getting ready to vacate the office for the evening. It's getting on and I need to leave. Not because I've any life outside these walls, not anymore, but because I've already had a few late nights this week. Any more would be a pattern, and profilers have an inconvenient habit of picking up on those. Then would come questions and then...
And then...
But that's not important. Nothing really seems to be at the moment, but my childhood etched into me the importance of keeping up a good facade. So I'm going to soldier on, pretend everything is fine.
And hope to god no one asks any friendly questions about Emma tomorrow. They're going to come, sooner or later -- we're one big happy family here -- but not tomorrow. Please, not tomorrow.
I can only hope that by the time they do come, I'll be collected enough to answer with a light comment.
It's getting easier. It is. It's only been a week or so since Emma dropped her bombshell and then walked out of my life, but I'm... dealing with it. Just a few days more, that's all I ask. Then let the questions come. I'll handle them.
Just not tomorrow.
Movement catches my eye as I get up -- Morgan entering the bullpen. There's something different about him, his walk not quite its usual self-assured strut, the way he's not quite meeting anyone's eyes. It has the flavour of the same weirdness I've been noticing off and on throughout the building over the last week or so. Up until now I'd just dismissed it as one of the many petty power plays that infest the Bureau, the politics that infest any organisation this size.
Maybe normally I would have tried to find out more, but with Emma, and the run up to the same, I just haven’t had the energy.
But now it's reached our team, and that's odd. Hotch usually manages to shield us from that particular kind of irritation.
I should probably go over and see if Morgan wants to talk, or if I can help in some way. I really should.
Even self-interest argues for it -- it’s not unlikely that this shit is going to flow in my direction too.
I close my eyes briefly, then open them again.
Maybe tomorrow.
* * * * * *
9:01
One minute since the last time I'd looked at it, and I was finally out of excuses.
I wasn't going to wait more than an hour for her, *again*. And I'd given her the full minute, just in case, somehow, she was going to get here on the hour.
I had really thought -- hoped -- that this time would be different. A new start. A promise that we were actually going to try to fix the widening tears in the fabric of our relationship.
But she didn't even bother to text me some excuse these days when she didn't show.
And she'd left me sitting here on my own. Again.
Sharp-edged disappointment surged like a tidal wave within me, the strength of the feeling nearly taking my breath away.
Tossing back the last of my wine, I signalled for the bill. I had my coat on by the time the waiter handed me my receipt. I had to get out of here. I had to talk to her. To try to talk to her. Again.
I wondered what she'd tell me this time. And whether I was finally angry enough, finally had enough self-respect, to not care.
Oh, Amanda...
* * * * * *
The slightly dank air of the motel room greets me as I open the door. The room is cheap and used, which matches my mood far too well at the moment. I haven’t been able to face my apartment since, well, since she left. I let her in, and now she stains every surface. It’s silly, it’s stupid, but I just can’t face that at the moment.
Hopefully by the time I can face my own front door, I’ll just be thinking how stupid I was to allow anyone else access. Thinking of ways to make sure that it never happens again.
Just like I did after Amanda.
There may be strength in not letting fate’s slings and arrows deter me, but I’ve never had that kind of fortitude. I may be a coward, but I like to think that I’m an honest one.
I collapse into bed, and stare blankly upwards for a moment. I'm emotionally full up. I need to relieve the pressure inside of me. I need to go on a hunt.
I just can't.
I know that if I go there, I'll just stare into a drink for a few hours, unable to summon up the energy to do more. Not that it would matter if I did; I won't attract anyone without confidence, and Emma took that with her when she walked out the door.
Damn her.
I just need time; to repair myself, my battered defences.
To make sure this never happens again, that I'm never this vulnerable again.
To destroy the part of me that's still waiting for her to ring my phone; to knock, somehow, on that door.
Whatever. This is unproductive. I grab a book from my ever dwindling supply on the shelf. Whilst I’m reading I can share in the tales and adventures of other people, lose my problems in their own, and find comfort in their victories.
The calm they offer can feel almost addictive in its own way, even if it only lasts until I turn the last page.
Which reminds me, I’ll need to raid Amazon again sometime soon.
I read until the small hours of the morning, until I achieve some measure of tranquillity, then turn the light off, and let my weary body rest.
To sleep, perchance not to dream.
Please.
* * * * * *
The low murmur of voices greeted me as I stalked into our apartment. My apartment, as she'd seen fit to remind me during our last fight. Or maybe it was the one before that. I forgot. Anyway, that didn't matter right now.
By the time I'd kicked off my shoes and hung up my coat, I'd identified the source of the voices as the television. That almost made it worse than my first assumption: that she had company. If someone had called around unexpectedly, I could have understood her having to cancel. Granted, that wouldn't have explained why she didn't so much as text me, but it would at least have been something.
Nowadays, I'd take what I could get.
She was sprawled out on the sofa, comfortable in shorts and a T-shirt. As always, a part of me startled a little to find her here. Like a panther on a bus, she was out of context; exotic wildness surrounded by the mundane. Usually, the contrast thrilled me a little, reminding me all over again that she'd chosen to be here. That she was at home here, with me.
Now, it just set my teeth on edge.
"Fancy meeting you here." My voice was heavy, knives bristling just below the surface of the words.
She turned around, teeth showing white in her tanned face as she flashed me a sleepy smile.
"Hi honey, you're home," she drawled, stretching languorously.
"And so are you." I was brittle ice to her smooth molasses, but then my anger had always tended to run cold.
A confused look drifted across her face, like clouds scudding across a clear blue sky. "Should I be somewhere else?"
"Oh, I don't know." I crossed the room to stand over her, intentionally looming so she would either have to crane her neck or sit upright in order to look at me. It was petty, I know, but I couldn't help myself. "How about a certain fancy restaurant, having dinner with your *girlfriend*."
She blinked at me, eyes wide enough to show me pupils like gaping pits, irises reduced to a mere sliver of colour around the edges. I filed the observation away somewhere I didn't have to think about it. Like the flush in her cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin. The way she kept blinking owlishly at me, like she was having trouble focusing. File it away, file it all away. It didn't mean anything important.
Because I loved her. And she loved me. And when we were good...
This was just a hiccup. Nothing else. I'd never felt like this about anyone.
Even if most of what I felt at the moment was anger.
"Oh, right. That. I'm so sorry, baby. I..." Forgot. She forgot. *Again.* Stood me up. *Again.* Let me down. *Again.* "I was busy."
She swung her legs off the sofa and levered herself to her feet. Her expression was open and honest, as guileless as a child's.
"So busy you couldn't even text me? Really? What was so urgent?"
"Work stuff." She waved one hand dismissively. "It was pretty intense -- not the kind of thing I could really break away from to check the time, let alone send a text. I'll tell you about it later, when I've decompressed a little."
Her arms went around my neck, a swaying half-step pressing our bodies together. I moved away, breaking her embrace, trying not to wince at the hurt in her eyes. I wasn't going to fold so easily. Not this time.
"And afterwards?"
"Well, then I was so frazzled I, uh, I kinda forgot." Now she was displaying guilt and contrition. Distress at having abandoned me. "I'm so sorry."
She probably even meant that. Against my will I felt myself start to thaw a little, my anger ebbing just a touch, just enough for me to think of forgiveness. But then she spoke again.
"I know you're mad, but-"
"Mad?" I folded my arms, shot her a Look that should have chilled her to the bone. "No, *mad* was a few flake-outs ago. Now, I'm fucking *angry*."
She jerked back like I'd slapped her, fury flashing bright and hot where mere moments ago there'd been rueful apology.
"I told you, I was *busy*." Her voice rose as she spoke, so that the last word was an irate yell.
"And what about all the times before that?" I dropped my arms to my sides, felt my hands clenching into fists. Despite that, my tone remained low and measured. A part of me felt obscurely proud of that small achievement. "Once is chance, twice is coincidence and three times is enemy action. How many times has it been for you, Amanda? How long should I keep giving you the benefit of the doubt? How many times should I believe your excuses?"
"Oh, I'm the *enemy* now?" She screamed the words into my face, trying to make me flinch. I refused to budge, meeting her gaze steadily even as every muscle seemed to vibrate with tension.
"Sometimes I wonder."
Things went downhill from there and stayed bad until the morning, when she greeted me with a sheepish smile and a heartfelt apology that melted my heart.
Just like always.
Sometimes, love was hard.