Waiting for the Storm to Break Part 2
Title: Waiting for the Storm to Break (part 2)
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 shatter with it?
The next morning progresses just like the one before it up until the point where I get a phone call telling me to go to an interview room on the fifth floor.
I stare at the phone for a second after I put it down. Irrationally, I feel a sudden urge to run from the building, my pulse racing as my body tries to ready itself for flight.
This kind of message is *never* a good thing.
But the past is another country, and I will *not* be a slave to my memories. Now isn't then, and this -- whatever it is -- isn't *that*. Lightning doesn't strike the same spot twice.
(Aside from those times when it does.)
So. I've been summoned. I suppose I'd better obey.
* * * * * *
I blinked and quickly came to a halt before I plowed into the bulky form of Simons.
I really was getting far too distracted by my ongoing drama with Amanda. I didn't think that it had affected my work yet -- I was too good at focussing for that -- but it was encroaching on my spare moments more and more.
I hadn't seen her at all yesterday after work.
I hoped that she was alright.
"Sorry," I said to Simons contritely. "Haven't had my first cup of coffee yet."
Instead of the easy smile I was hoping for, or even the irritation I probably deserved, there was a brusque... something. Anger? Disgust?
"It's alright," he said, his words belying what I thought I had seen in his eyes. "Agent Prentiss." he nodded and moved off, leaving looking after him.
What was up with him?
I tried to make it a point of principle not to analyse my fellow agents, but...
I was wrapped up enough in my thoughts that I almost missed that the next person I saw in the office, Barlow, looked away before our eyes could meet.
As I walked the rest of the way to my desk, I paid my full attention to the rest of the office for the first time in weeks. I realised consciously something I think I had already known, but just put on the backburner behind the mess with my girlfriend.
I was being treated almost like a pariah, like a ghost. My fellow agents, my team, my *friends* were avoiding my gaze, keeping out of my way and sneaking looks when they thought I wasn't looking.
When had things gotten so bad? I realised that I had been a bit off these last few weeks, but...
This hurt.
It was the kind of isolation I'd gotten from my family and, stupidly, never thought to get here.
It was the kind of betrayal I thought I had left behind in the many high schools I had attended.
Suddenly I was the unpopular girl who no one wanted to talk with all over again.
The cynical part of me wondered exactly what I had been thinking would happen.
Everyone hurt you. Everyone betrayed you.
When, not if.
Fine. I had survived all this once, I could do it again.
I got a coffee from the kitchen, then went straight to my desk, ignoring everyone else in the office.
I had work to do.
My phone range when I was in the middle of typing up an analysis.
"Agent Prentiss speaking."
"Agent Prentiss, please report to interview room 3a." A woman's voice, vaguely familiar; a secretary to one of my boss' bosses, I thought.
If my instincts weren't mistaken, this was the beginning of the next act.
So.
I suddenly wished that Amanda was here to back me up, but maybe it was best that she wasn't. I didn't want her to get tarred with whatever brush was being aimed at me.
I could handle this myself.
* * * * * *
Maybe whatever it is can help distract me from my brooding. But I don't feel that optimistic as I get to my feet.
I can't help but notice that Morgan avoids looking at me as I leave the bullpen. Huh. Interesting. No one else is looking shifty, though, which is a good sign. It means that I'm neither the only one being interrogated on whatever this is, nor the last to know.
A grey haired man and a mousy haired woman wait for me there. They're both dressed in immaculate suits. I can't make out too much about their features because they're sitting in front of a window, daylight shrouding them and making them difficult to look upon. The air conditioning is set just a little too low and, as I sit down, I can feel a gentle breeze down my back. All simple tricks designed to throw me a little off my game. Which isn't to say that they won't be effective.
* * * * * *
The looks and the whispering seemed to intensify during the long walk from my desk to the interview room.
Pretty much as expected.
Incipient blood always attracts the pack, and I had the feeling I was walking wounded, even if I didn't know why yet.
I kept my back straight and my expression easy and confident.
No sense in showing weakness. It only ever makes things worse.
I’d learned *that* lesson young.
Interview room 3a was small and cold. The lights were too bright, and something in the ceiling kept making a low, teeth-scraping hum. The chair I was directed to was some kind of refugee from the seventies; a molded plastic throwback to a simpler, less ergonomic time. I shifted a little, trying in vain to get comfortable, before recalling that such movements could also be a sign of nervousness or guilt. Hell, being in here like this was making me *feel* guilty, and I hadn't even done anything wrong. Had I? I mean, technically my relationship with Amanda was against bureau policy, but it wasn't exactly the crime of the century. It wasn't precisely a secret, either. At least not from the rest of the team.
I considered the men across from me. They'd introduced themselves as Agents Barnes and Corelli. I didn't know either of them; had never even so much as passed them in the corridor. That was unusual in an office this size. They were in their forties, crisply attired in neat black suits. Corelli was taller, with black hair; Barnes was shorter and blond-ish. Both wore identical masks of polite neutrality. This whole set up stank of internal affairs.
What exactly was I being accused of?
* * * * * *
I sigh internally. Apparently it's going to be one of *those* interviews.
It doesn't help that I genuinely have no idea what this is about. I don't have a story to tell, a spin to prepare.
Unless... Surely this can't be about Emma?
What I did was against regulations, but surely they wouldn't be coming down like *this* because of that.
Surely.
But I can still *her* saying 'It wasn't anything personal...' in that southern drawl and I know I'm not even fooling myself about that one.
No matter what logic has to say on the matter.
"Agent Prentiss, please sit down," the woman says. I find my mind grasping onto the fact. The FBI is still something of a boy's club, so I'd expected...
I'm slipping. His chair is oriented slightly towards hers, the centre of power, not the other way around.
In the midst of all my internal chaos, I still can't help but give a slight, silent cheer for this minor reversal of the roles.
"We'd like to ask you some questions, beginning with some of the events of May 22nd."
I cast my mind back. What had I been doing then?
"Could you confirm that's when former agent Alvarez," What? 'Former' agent? When did *that* happen? "Approached you to do some profiling for his unauthorised investigation." Statement, rather than a question. This is just a routine set of questions... or maybe they're hoping to make me think it is before springing the real interrogation on me.
I've had experience with both circumstances, from both directions. I'm hoping for the former, but the lingering, intertwined, presences of both Emma and *her* means that all my instincts are screaming the latter.
What the hell did Alvarez do? And did Emma, somehow, have something to do with this?
It's pure paranoia, I know, but I can't help tensing internally, waiting for the axe to fall.
I answer, calmly, as if I have nothing to hide.
I really hope that I have nothing to fear, but I don't believe it.
I feel like a dam, cracked, ready to burst. I feel like a pencil balanced on its tip and on the brink of falling, like a faultline just before an earthquake. I feel like a storm, ready to break.
I'm nowhere near in a fit state for this, not now.
I need to find my balance. I need to release my stress, get back to equilibrium. I need to hunt.
But first I just need to get through the next few hours.
* * * * * *
The questions come quick and fast.
What did I do on the afternoon of the 25th, after leaving the crime scene?
Did I recognise any of these people?
Why was the paperwork in this case filed late?
I answered as best as I could. Some of the mistakes were just that, some of them were covering for Amanda's increasingly erratic behaviour over the last month or two, some I couldn't answer. Remembering the exact details of my movements a month or so later was something I couldn't just do, no matter how many skeptical expressions the agents opposite flashed me.
And worse was the realisation that I simply couldn't prove my movements on any of those occasions that I could remember.
Moments spent outside the office, but not in the presence of other agents.
Moments that happened to all of us, but every time I answered that I couldn't prove my whereabouts, Barnes made another little note on the paper in front of him, and I felt slightly more sick.
Whoever has set me up had known exactly which moments to pick.
And there was only person who knew about me to do that, no matter how hard my mind looked for another explanation.
My partner.
My lover.
Amanda.
I couldn't believe it, yet I didn't see any other choice.
* * * * * *
Despite my misgivings, the questioning goes curiously smoothly. Nothing unexpected. I have to admit that I'm just not sure on several points, and I'm told to elaborate on some of the details, by paper naturally. Before I really know it, my hand is being shaken and I'm being informed that I may be called upon at a later date. And that, of course, I should keep the details of this interview confidential.
Being out of there should make me feel better. It doesn't. Instead I'm left with the feeling like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, liable to drop at any moment, but not having a clue when.
It brings to mind Emma.
It brings to mind *her*
The two are starting to merge, just another compartment that Emma has managed to infiltrate and make her own. Another place I can't escape from her. Only this place is bitter, toxic, poisoning even the good memories I have left of her.
On the bright side, it's becoming easier to cut her out of my heart, to treat Emma just like I treated *her*.
And it should be another bulwark against ever engaging in this damnable foolishness again, another way I can scar my heart to stop it ever loving.
But I'm full up. I need to let everything out, to release the tension.
And I have nothing. Emma left me with nothing.
I haven't even been able to face going to the club since...
Enough. I can try and deal with this after work.
I don't have time now, I don't have the energy. I don't have the composure.
And I *refuse* to show any cracks at work, especially now I'm under scrutiny, however peripherally.
* * * * * *
Corelli slapped a plastic folder on the table, disrupting my train of thought.
"Do you know what this is?" he growled.
I glanced at the cover of the folder. "It's the MacAndrews file. One of my current cases."
"What was it doing at your apartment?" Barnes leaped in.
I blinked at him. Oh god. "What do you mean?" I whispered, hoping I'd misheard.
"This was found in your apartment this morning. Why did you have it there?"
They'd searched my place. I couldn't believe it, but there it was.
They must have had reason. Good reason.
I just prayed that, somehow, that reason was something other than Amanda.
I just couldn't think of any other option.
And she *had* been around last night. She could easily have planted it then.
If she’d had reason.
Maybe, if she’d been directed. I’d heard of worse things happening, if not to fellow agents.
The room swam in front of my face.
This couldn't be happening.
It was.
I had to get my game face on, and try and fight my way out of this as best I could.
I was backed into a corner.
If only the truth would be my shield, but in this kind of battle it was a marginal ally, at best.
I just didn't have any other choice.
Conspirator. Liar. Traitor.
Those words would be my legacy within the bureau.
And I refused to let that happen.
* * * * * *
As I enter the office, Morgan gives me a glance, information passing wordlessly between us. A shared secret. I give him a small smile, what comfort I can muster. It isn't much - I'm too full up - but he seems to relax a little anyway. At least now he's not the only one around who knows. I can't imagine that he's taking this well either. He put so much work into the case. Maybe he knows more than me. Maybe not. Either way I won't find out until later, until the dust has settled a little bit.
I wish that there was more I could do, but there isn't. Not now.
* * * * * *
They didn't have enough to convict me. Not yet. The file wasn't enough, not by itself.
And everything else was circumstantial.
Not that it mattered. Just the rumours that I had been leaking information, overlooking suspects even deliberately fouling investigations would be enough to sink me without any kind of trial.
How do you disprove a negative?
No one was ever going to want to work with me again. Unless I somehow managed to prove my innocence, I was finished in the bureau.
The suspension without pay, pending the outcome of the internal affairs investigation, was really the least of my problems.
Naturally I wasn't even allowed to go back to my desk. They had someone go and collect my things -- well, those items I was allowed to take with me -- and then security escorted me off the premises. They'd taken my car for 'testing,' so I had to catch the bus.
It wasn't until I was perched on the worn seat, clutching my bag like a lifeline, that it started to hit me hard. This had been what I wanted for so long. Even if I managed to avoid prison, what was I going to do? Who'd want a fed thrown out for corruption? What would...?
No. I had to stop this now. These kind of thoughts were not only unproductive, they were actively harmful. But what could I actually do? Trust that the system would work? That the truth would out, and there'd be hugs and puppies and rainbows waiting at the end of the tunnel? That the light *wasn't* an oncoming train?
Somehow, I couldn't find it in myself to look on the bright side. But what I needed right now, much more than a positive mental attitude, was information. Why was IA investigating me in the first place?
The obvious answer: the same person who must have given them access to all that information. Access to my home. Access to my life. Except... Except I just couldn't believe it.
We may fight occasionally, we may have our problems, but Amanda and I loved each other. She wouldn't do this to me. To us. She wouldn’t tell IA anything unless she was under extreme duress.
Would she?
I couldn't believe it.
I had to believe that me, *us*, meant more to her than that.
I had to.
* * * * * *
The similarities are just too much.
It’s hitting me harder and harder now.
I need out... but I’ve got to get through the rest of the day first.
And I'm far too much of a selfish bitch to give Morgan much when I feel that I need everything I have for myself.
Except that...
Godammit, Morgan's a friend, and even I'm not that self centered.
This isn't the past, no matter how much it feels like a rerun at the moment.
Pulling myself together -- from the effort it takes, it almost feels like it's a physical process -- I take a detour by his desk.
"Hey," I say quietly.
"Hey Prentiss," he replies cautiously, noncommittally. "What's up?"
"Want to go grab a bite to eat?" He doesn't answer for a moment and so I clarify, "Somewhere that isn't here."
That's enough to tip the balance and he nods. "Sure thing."
Apparently both of us are feeling a little claustrophobic in this place.
I look at Morgan over the rim of my coffee cup, considering my next words carefully. Our sandwiches have been reduced to crumbs; our coffee mostly-drunk. We've done office gossip (excepting the obvious) and shooting the breeze. Our thoughts are starting to circle around the necessity of going back to the office, with all that entails. Now is the time.
In the end, I decide that simple and straightforward is the way to go.
"Want to talk about it?"
Morgan sighs, taking a sip of his coffee before looking up and meeting my gaze.
"We allowed to?" There's an ocean of bitterness lying beneath those words. "I don't know what they said to you, but they gave me the distinct impression that they'd throw the book at me if I so much as thought about discussing their little interrogation."
Sounds like he'd had a much harder time of it than I had. Not something I would be mentioning.
I shrug. "We both know already. I think they're more concerned about word getting out to the people they haven't questioned yet."
He fastens onto that point like it's a lifebelt.
"You think they're going to talk to everyone else, then? It's not just us?"
"That's the impression I got."
He taps his fingers on the table, drinks, looks away, looks back.
"Then yeah, I guess I do."
Like me, the IA interrogation was the first he'd heard about Alvarez no longer being an agent.
"I mean, he'd been incommunicado for a few days, but that's not exactly unusual for him. I never expected anything like *this*. I want to believe it's all a misunderstanding, but we all know how obsessed he is over that case. The number of times I had to pull him back from the edge of..." He shakes his head. "So I can believe he'd cut corners. But bringing IA down on his head? I don't know, Prentiss. I just wish I knew what's going on. And whether it's going to drag the rest of us down with it. All of us helped him out in one way or another. Hell, I even helped him persuade some of you. I mean, the guy's my friend, you know? He's one of the good guys. At least, I thought he was."
"You don't know that he isn't," I say softly. "Even if he did do something he shouldn't have, I'm sure his intentions were good."
"Yeah, well, you know what they say about good intentions."
"But wouldn't it make a difference? If he was trying to do the right thing in the wrong way, rather than..." I gesture vaguely, suddenly reluctant to even speak the alternative aloud.
He considers it. "I guess," he admits, grudgingly. "But we don't know *what* his intentions were. We don't even know what he did." A heavy sigh escapes his lips. "And that's the worst part."
"I know." I reach out my hand and rest it lightly on his forearm. "Look, Morgan, from what they said -- to both of us -- I don't get the impression that this is a general witch-hunt." My own hang-ups notwithstanding. "They're just trying to get all the facts."
"I... guess." His tone his grudging, but he's listening.
"And, whatever it turns out to be, you're not to blame. Alvarez is responsible for his own actions."
"But I..."
"You're a profiler, not a telepath. And, you said it yourself: he's one of the good guys. You couldn't have known."
He digests that in silence, but I think I've hit home. His shoulders are straighter, and guilt is no longer hanging around him like a cloud.
"You've got friends, Morgan. You're not on your own with this." Not like I am.
That gets a smile. "I know, Prentiss. And thank you."
I give him a grin. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel that difficult. “Any chance you could thank me by taking some of the reports off my desk?”
He laughs. “Not a chance.”
"Ah well. I thought it was worth a shot." I glance at my watch, then stand up and gather my things. "Now let's get back so I can do some of the work you refuse to free me from."
The laughter I shared with Morgan doesn’t last long.
The rest of the day goes almost smoothly, if you don't count the fact that I feel like I'm slowly falling apart. One by one, my other team-mates leave the bullpen and come back a little while later, the same slight traces of shame and confusion on their faces that I imagine were on my own. We're profilers. Knowing people is what we do for a living. How could we *not* have seen this, whatever 'this' is? Despite what I said to Morgan, we *all* feel that instinctive, irrational conviction that somehow, on some level, we *should*. *Have*. *Known*.
Just because it's irrational doesn't mean you can ignore it.
As each person returns, they look quickly around, to see who else is in on the dirty secret. With each new initiate, the overall tension decreases, just a little. No one seems unduly upset so, hopefully, whatever the inquisitors are looking for, they haven't found it amongst us.
I'm glad for the others, I really am, but I can't help feeling that this is all my fault, that everyone blames me for this. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help imagining *her* poison trickling into their ears, blackening me in their eyes.
It *is* stupid, I do *know* that, but I just need to get out of here as soon as possible.
I'm *not* going to be staying late tonight.
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 shatter with it?
The next morning progresses just like the one before it up until the point where I get a phone call telling me to go to an interview room on the fifth floor.
I stare at the phone for a second after I put it down. Irrationally, I feel a sudden urge to run from the building, my pulse racing as my body tries to ready itself for flight.
This kind of message is *never* a good thing.
But the past is another country, and I will *not* be a slave to my memories. Now isn't then, and this -- whatever it is -- isn't *that*. Lightning doesn't strike the same spot twice.
(Aside from those times when it does.)
So. I've been summoned. I suppose I'd better obey.
* * * * * *
I blinked and quickly came to a halt before I plowed into the bulky form of Simons.
I really was getting far too distracted by my ongoing drama with Amanda. I didn't think that it had affected my work yet -- I was too good at focussing for that -- but it was encroaching on my spare moments more and more.
I hadn't seen her at all yesterday after work.
I hoped that she was alright.
"Sorry," I said to Simons contritely. "Haven't had my first cup of coffee yet."
Instead of the easy smile I was hoping for, or even the irritation I probably deserved, there was a brusque... something. Anger? Disgust?
"It's alright," he said, his words belying what I thought I had seen in his eyes. "Agent Prentiss." he nodded and moved off, leaving looking after him.
What was up with him?
I tried to make it a point of principle not to analyse my fellow agents, but...
I was wrapped up enough in my thoughts that I almost missed that the next person I saw in the office, Barlow, looked away before our eyes could meet.
As I walked the rest of the way to my desk, I paid my full attention to the rest of the office for the first time in weeks. I realised consciously something I think I had already known, but just put on the backburner behind the mess with my girlfriend.
I was being treated almost like a pariah, like a ghost. My fellow agents, my team, my *friends* were avoiding my gaze, keeping out of my way and sneaking looks when they thought I wasn't looking.
When had things gotten so bad? I realised that I had been a bit off these last few weeks, but...
This hurt.
It was the kind of isolation I'd gotten from my family and, stupidly, never thought to get here.
It was the kind of betrayal I thought I had left behind in the many high schools I had attended.
Suddenly I was the unpopular girl who no one wanted to talk with all over again.
The cynical part of me wondered exactly what I had been thinking would happen.
Everyone hurt you. Everyone betrayed you.
When, not if.
Fine. I had survived all this once, I could do it again.
I got a coffee from the kitchen, then went straight to my desk, ignoring everyone else in the office.
I had work to do.
My phone range when I was in the middle of typing up an analysis.
"Agent Prentiss speaking."
"Agent Prentiss, please report to interview room 3a." A woman's voice, vaguely familiar; a secretary to one of my boss' bosses, I thought.
If my instincts weren't mistaken, this was the beginning of the next act.
So.
I suddenly wished that Amanda was here to back me up, but maybe it was best that she wasn't. I didn't want her to get tarred with whatever brush was being aimed at me.
I could handle this myself.
* * * * * *
Maybe whatever it is can help distract me from my brooding. But I don't feel that optimistic as I get to my feet.
I can't help but notice that Morgan avoids looking at me as I leave the bullpen. Huh. Interesting. No one else is looking shifty, though, which is a good sign. It means that I'm neither the only one being interrogated on whatever this is, nor the last to know.
A grey haired man and a mousy haired woman wait for me there. They're both dressed in immaculate suits. I can't make out too much about their features because they're sitting in front of a window, daylight shrouding them and making them difficult to look upon. The air conditioning is set just a little too low and, as I sit down, I can feel a gentle breeze down my back. All simple tricks designed to throw me a little off my game. Which isn't to say that they won't be effective.
* * * * * *
The looks and the whispering seemed to intensify during the long walk from my desk to the interview room.
Pretty much as expected.
Incipient blood always attracts the pack, and I had the feeling I was walking wounded, even if I didn't know why yet.
I kept my back straight and my expression easy and confident.
No sense in showing weakness. It only ever makes things worse.
I’d learned *that* lesson young.
Interview room 3a was small and cold. The lights were too bright, and something in the ceiling kept making a low, teeth-scraping hum. The chair I was directed to was some kind of refugee from the seventies; a molded plastic throwback to a simpler, less ergonomic time. I shifted a little, trying in vain to get comfortable, before recalling that such movements could also be a sign of nervousness or guilt. Hell, being in here like this was making me *feel* guilty, and I hadn't even done anything wrong. Had I? I mean, technically my relationship with Amanda was against bureau policy, but it wasn't exactly the crime of the century. It wasn't precisely a secret, either. At least not from the rest of the team.
I considered the men across from me. They'd introduced themselves as Agents Barnes and Corelli. I didn't know either of them; had never even so much as passed them in the corridor. That was unusual in an office this size. They were in their forties, crisply attired in neat black suits. Corelli was taller, with black hair; Barnes was shorter and blond-ish. Both wore identical masks of polite neutrality. This whole set up stank of internal affairs.
What exactly was I being accused of?
* * * * * *
I sigh internally. Apparently it's going to be one of *those* interviews.
It doesn't help that I genuinely have no idea what this is about. I don't have a story to tell, a spin to prepare.
Unless... Surely this can't be about Emma?
What I did was against regulations, but surely they wouldn't be coming down like *this* because of that.
Surely.
But I can still *her* saying 'It wasn't anything personal...' in that southern drawl and I know I'm not even fooling myself about that one.
No matter what logic has to say on the matter.
"Agent Prentiss, please sit down," the woman says. I find my mind grasping onto the fact. The FBI is still something of a boy's club, so I'd expected...
I'm slipping. His chair is oriented slightly towards hers, the centre of power, not the other way around.
In the midst of all my internal chaos, I still can't help but give a slight, silent cheer for this minor reversal of the roles.
"We'd like to ask you some questions, beginning with some of the events of May 22nd."
I cast my mind back. What had I been doing then?
"Could you confirm that's when former agent Alvarez," What? 'Former' agent? When did *that* happen? "Approached you to do some profiling for his unauthorised investigation." Statement, rather than a question. This is just a routine set of questions... or maybe they're hoping to make me think it is before springing the real interrogation on me.
I've had experience with both circumstances, from both directions. I'm hoping for the former, but the lingering, intertwined, presences of both Emma and *her* means that all my instincts are screaming the latter.
What the hell did Alvarez do? And did Emma, somehow, have something to do with this?
It's pure paranoia, I know, but I can't help tensing internally, waiting for the axe to fall.
I answer, calmly, as if I have nothing to hide.
I really hope that I have nothing to fear, but I don't believe it.
I feel like a dam, cracked, ready to burst. I feel like a pencil balanced on its tip and on the brink of falling, like a faultline just before an earthquake. I feel like a storm, ready to break.
I'm nowhere near in a fit state for this, not now.
I need to find my balance. I need to release my stress, get back to equilibrium. I need to hunt.
But first I just need to get through the next few hours.
* * * * * *
The questions come quick and fast.
What did I do on the afternoon of the 25th, after leaving the crime scene?
Did I recognise any of these people?
Why was the paperwork in this case filed late?
I answered as best as I could. Some of the mistakes were just that, some of them were covering for Amanda's increasingly erratic behaviour over the last month or two, some I couldn't answer. Remembering the exact details of my movements a month or so later was something I couldn't just do, no matter how many skeptical expressions the agents opposite flashed me.
And worse was the realisation that I simply couldn't prove my movements on any of those occasions that I could remember.
Moments spent outside the office, but not in the presence of other agents.
Moments that happened to all of us, but every time I answered that I couldn't prove my whereabouts, Barnes made another little note on the paper in front of him, and I felt slightly more sick.
Whoever has set me up had known exactly which moments to pick.
And there was only person who knew about me to do that, no matter how hard my mind looked for another explanation.
My partner.
My lover.
Amanda.
I couldn't believe it, yet I didn't see any other choice.
* * * * * *
Despite my misgivings, the questioning goes curiously smoothly. Nothing unexpected. I have to admit that I'm just not sure on several points, and I'm told to elaborate on some of the details, by paper naturally. Before I really know it, my hand is being shaken and I'm being informed that I may be called upon at a later date. And that, of course, I should keep the details of this interview confidential.
Being out of there should make me feel better. It doesn't. Instead I'm left with the feeling like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, liable to drop at any moment, but not having a clue when.
It brings to mind Emma.
It brings to mind *her*
The two are starting to merge, just another compartment that Emma has managed to infiltrate and make her own. Another place I can't escape from her. Only this place is bitter, toxic, poisoning even the good memories I have left of her.
On the bright side, it's becoming easier to cut her out of my heart, to treat Emma just like I treated *her*.
And it should be another bulwark against ever engaging in this damnable foolishness again, another way I can scar my heart to stop it ever loving.
But I'm full up. I need to let everything out, to release the tension.
And I have nothing. Emma left me with nothing.
I haven't even been able to face going to the club since...
Enough. I can try and deal with this after work.
I don't have time now, I don't have the energy. I don't have the composure.
And I *refuse* to show any cracks at work, especially now I'm under scrutiny, however peripherally.
* * * * * *
Corelli slapped a plastic folder on the table, disrupting my train of thought.
"Do you know what this is?" he growled.
I glanced at the cover of the folder. "It's the MacAndrews file. One of my current cases."
"What was it doing at your apartment?" Barnes leaped in.
I blinked at him. Oh god. "What do you mean?" I whispered, hoping I'd misheard.
"This was found in your apartment this morning. Why did you have it there?"
They'd searched my place. I couldn't believe it, but there it was.
They must have had reason. Good reason.
I just prayed that, somehow, that reason was something other than Amanda.
I just couldn't think of any other option.
And she *had* been around last night. She could easily have planted it then.
If she’d had reason.
Maybe, if she’d been directed. I’d heard of worse things happening, if not to fellow agents.
The room swam in front of my face.
This couldn't be happening.
It was.
I had to get my game face on, and try and fight my way out of this as best I could.
I was backed into a corner.
If only the truth would be my shield, but in this kind of battle it was a marginal ally, at best.
I just didn't have any other choice.
Conspirator. Liar. Traitor.
Those words would be my legacy within the bureau.
And I refused to let that happen.
* * * * * *
As I enter the office, Morgan gives me a glance, information passing wordlessly between us. A shared secret. I give him a small smile, what comfort I can muster. It isn't much - I'm too full up - but he seems to relax a little anyway. At least now he's not the only one around who knows. I can't imagine that he's taking this well either. He put so much work into the case. Maybe he knows more than me. Maybe not. Either way I won't find out until later, until the dust has settled a little bit.
I wish that there was more I could do, but there isn't. Not now.
* * * * * *
They didn't have enough to convict me. Not yet. The file wasn't enough, not by itself.
And everything else was circumstantial.
Not that it mattered. Just the rumours that I had been leaking information, overlooking suspects even deliberately fouling investigations would be enough to sink me without any kind of trial.
How do you disprove a negative?
No one was ever going to want to work with me again. Unless I somehow managed to prove my innocence, I was finished in the bureau.
The suspension without pay, pending the outcome of the internal affairs investigation, was really the least of my problems.
Naturally I wasn't even allowed to go back to my desk. They had someone go and collect my things -- well, those items I was allowed to take with me -- and then security escorted me off the premises. They'd taken my car for 'testing,' so I had to catch the bus.
It wasn't until I was perched on the worn seat, clutching my bag like a lifeline, that it started to hit me hard. This had been what I wanted for so long. Even if I managed to avoid prison, what was I going to do? Who'd want a fed thrown out for corruption? What would...?
No. I had to stop this now. These kind of thoughts were not only unproductive, they were actively harmful. But what could I actually do? Trust that the system would work? That the truth would out, and there'd be hugs and puppies and rainbows waiting at the end of the tunnel? That the light *wasn't* an oncoming train?
Somehow, I couldn't find it in myself to look on the bright side. But what I needed right now, much more than a positive mental attitude, was information. Why was IA investigating me in the first place?
The obvious answer: the same person who must have given them access to all that information. Access to my home. Access to my life. Except... Except I just couldn't believe it.
We may fight occasionally, we may have our problems, but Amanda and I loved each other. She wouldn't do this to me. To us. She wouldn’t tell IA anything unless she was under extreme duress.
Would she?
I couldn't believe it.
I had to believe that me, *us*, meant more to her than that.
I had to.
* * * * * *
The similarities are just too much.
It’s hitting me harder and harder now.
I need out... but I’ve got to get through the rest of the day first.
And I'm far too much of a selfish bitch to give Morgan much when I feel that I need everything I have for myself.
Except that...
Godammit, Morgan's a friend, and even I'm not that self centered.
This isn't the past, no matter how much it feels like a rerun at the moment.
Pulling myself together -- from the effort it takes, it almost feels like it's a physical process -- I take a detour by his desk.
"Hey," I say quietly.
"Hey Prentiss," he replies cautiously, noncommittally. "What's up?"
"Want to go grab a bite to eat?" He doesn't answer for a moment and so I clarify, "Somewhere that isn't here."
That's enough to tip the balance and he nods. "Sure thing."
Apparently both of us are feeling a little claustrophobic in this place.
I look at Morgan over the rim of my coffee cup, considering my next words carefully. Our sandwiches have been reduced to crumbs; our coffee mostly-drunk. We've done office gossip (excepting the obvious) and shooting the breeze. Our thoughts are starting to circle around the necessity of going back to the office, with all that entails. Now is the time.
In the end, I decide that simple and straightforward is the way to go.
"Want to talk about it?"
Morgan sighs, taking a sip of his coffee before looking up and meeting my gaze.
"We allowed to?" There's an ocean of bitterness lying beneath those words. "I don't know what they said to you, but they gave me the distinct impression that they'd throw the book at me if I so much as thought about discussing their little interrogation."
Sounds like he'd had a much harder time of it than I had. Not something I would be mentioning.
I shrug. "We both know already. I think they're more concerned about word getting out to the people they haven't questioned yet."
He fastens onto that point like it's a lifebelt.
"You think they're going to talk to everyone else, then? It's not just us?"
"That's the impression I got."
He taps his fingers on the table, drinks, looks away, looks back.
"Then yeah, I guess I do."
Like me, the IA interrogation was the first he'd heard about Alvarez no longer being an agent.
"I mean, he'd been incommunicado for a few days, but that's not exactly unusual for him. I never expected anything like *this*. I want to believe it's all a misunderstanding, but we all know how obsessed he is over that case. The number of times I had to pull him back from the edge of..." He shakes his head. "So I can believe he'd cut corners. But bringing IA down on his head? I don't know, Prentiss. I just wish I knew what's going on. And whether it's going to drag the rest of us down with it. All of us helped him out in one way or another. Hell, I even helped him persuade some of you. I mean, the guy's my friend, you know? He's one of the good guys. At least, I thought he was."
"You don't know that he isn't," I say softly. "Even if he did do something he shouldn't have, I'm sure his intentions were good."
"Yeah, well, you know what they say about good intentions."
"But wouldn't it make a difference? If he was trying to do the right thing in the wrong way, rather than..." I gesture vaguely, suddenly reluctant to even speak the alternative aloud.
He considers it. "I guess," he admits, grudgingly. "But we don't know *what* his intentions were. We don't even know what he did." A heavy sigh escapes his lips. "And that's the worst part."
"I know." I reach out my hand and rest it lightly on his forearm. "Look, Morgan, from what they said -- to both of us -- I don't get the impression that this is a general witch-hunt." My own hang-ups notwithstanding. "They're just trying to get all the facts."
"I... guess." His tone his grudging, but he's listening.
"And, whatever it turns out to be, you're not to blame. Alvarez is responsible for his own actions."
"But I..."
"You're a profiler, not a telepath. And, you said it yourself: he's one of the good guys. You couldn't have known."
He digests that in silence, but I think I've hit home. His shoulders are straighter, and guilt is no longer hanging around him like a cloud.
"You've got friends, Morgan. You're not on your own with this." Not like I am.
That gets a smile. "I know, Prentiss. And thank you."
I give him a grin. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel that difficult. “Any chance you could thank me by taking some of the reports off my desk?”
He laughs. “Not a chance.”
"Ah well. I thought it was worth a shot." I glance at my watch, then stand up and gather my things. "Now let's get back so I can do some of the work you refuse to free me from."
The laughter I shared with Morgan doesn’t last long.
The rest of the day goes almost smoothly, if you don't count the fact that I feel like I'm slowly falling apart. One by one, my other team-mates leave the bullpen and come back a little while later, the same slight traces of shame and confusion on their faces that I imagine were on my own. We're profilers. Knowing people is what we do for a living. How could we *not* have seen this, whatever 'this' is? Despite what I said to Morgan, we *all* feel that instinctive, irrational conviction that somehow, on some level, we *should*. *Have*. *Known*.
Just because it's irrational doesn't mean you can ignore it.
As each person returns, they look quickly around, to see who else is in on the dirty secret. With each new initiate, the overall tension decreases, just a little. No one seems unduly upset so, hopefully, whatever the inquisitors are looking for, they haven't found it amongst us.
I'm glad for the others, I really am, but I can't help feeling that this is all my fault, that everyone blames me for this. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help imagining *her* poison trickling into their ears, blackening me in their eyes.
It *is* stupid, I do *know* that, but I just need to get out of here as soon as possible.
I'm *not* going to be staying late tonight.