The Hunt, part 1 of 4
Title: The Hunt (part 1 of 4)
Author: Louisa and Tamoline
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/OFC
Notes: This is a little prelude we've written for Emily. (And by little, we mean about 19K words.) Part character piece (and the authors certainly learned some things about their characters on the way) and part world building for the companion piece/sequel to Faces. Hope you enjoy the ride!
Although Faces is technically a sequel to this story, you may want to read it first anyway:
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
I couldn't help a sigh of relief as I hit 'send'. There: another report done. Not precisely the sport of champions, except possibly in the opinion of JJ who seemed to actually thrive on the damned stuff. I knew it was important to document everything properly, but sometimes it seemed that we spent more time filling out forms than actually stopping bad guys. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the paperwork princess herself hurrying up the steps to Hotch's office, file in hand. Focussed expression. That probably meant something had come up that needed to have been dealt with yesterday. I surreptitiously kept an eye on Hotch's office door as I shuffled paper. Sure enough, no more than a minute or two after JJ had gone in, Hotch opened the door and leaned out.
"Briefing room, five minutes." Hotch then stepped back into his office and closed the door without so much as a backward glance as the team sprang into action.
"I wonder what kind of puzzle we're facing this time?" Reid flashed me a grin as he put his desk in order and hurried towards the briefing room. I gave him a smile in response as I stretched the kinks out before getting to my feet. An outside observer might say he looked eager. In a way, I thought that he was, twisted as it may sound. Everyone has their own way of coping with this job of ours, and this, as far as I could figure out, was his. Each case was an intellectual challenge, a puzzle to solve, a chance to match wits with someone who might just be an opponent worthy of his genius. Well, maybe he wasn't as pompous as that last part made him sound. But focusing on the case as some kind of chess match allowed him to, not forget, but at least not dwell on the fact that each new case meant at least one dead body. And we never can forget, not really.
As I said: everyone had their own ways of dealing with the job.
* * *
I kick the door shut and lean back against it, letting my bag drop from my fingers as I close my eyes and concentrate on just breathing for a minute or two. In and out, deep and even. My muscles relax and I let myself sag against the door, suddenly acutely aware of the headache spiking behind my eyes. A moment's consideration tells me it's nothing to be concerned about; it's not a migraine, just a common or garden tension headache. It'll fade soon enough, and even if it doesn't I won't let it get in my way. I have a little more focus, and a little more need, at the moment.
When I'm back on an even keel once more -- at least for now -- I push off and trudge wearily along the short hallway. Not bothering to wait until I reach the bathroom, I strip away the layers of my clothing as I go, letting them fall wherever they will. I can always pick them up later. It's been a long, long few days, and being neat and tidy is even lower on my list of priorities than usual. Right now, the urge to feel clean again is so strong it's almost painful, stronger even than hunger, or thirst, or tiredness. Or anything else. I can feel the other thing, deep in my gut, coiled and waiting like a big cat about to pounce. It stirs restlessly as I think about it, stretching beneath my skin until I feel swollen and overripe. Soon, soon, I promise, and it subsides a little, grumbling, only raking me lightly with its claws. The beast still needs to be fed, but it's content to wait for now. It knows I'll keep my promise.
It's not like I have a choice.
I dial the hot water up as high as it will go, luxuriating in the pins-and-needles sting of it on my skin. It hurts, of course, but only a little. I've had worse. Anyway, it's a good pain. It tells me that I'm still here, still alive. Still in control. Sometimes that helps. Sometimes it's necessary. I just stand under the spray for a while, not moving, just letting it wash over me. The water pounds my body, scouring it clean of the day's grit and grime. At least I can be spotless on the outside.
I showered afterwards, of course, and in the morning, and again at work, but that just isn't the same. It's good to be home. My home. My world. My sanctuary. The rest of the planet can go fuck itself. As for me... I have my own plans.
* * *
Morgan threw himself down in the seat next to me. "Sometimes I think this job is just one big cock-block," he grumbled.
I held in a smile, merely raising an eyebrow. "Hot date planned for this evening?"
"Two, actually." He grinned boyishly, then heaved a dramatic sigh. "Guess my girls are just going to have to entertain themselves without me." I rolled my eyes, but didn't say anything. Reid's brow creased in a puzzled frown. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but I caught his eye and shook my head.
"Don't bother," I advised. "You'll only feed his ego. The man's just looking for a chance to gloat."
A wounded expression on his face, Morgan pressed a hand to his chest. "That hurts me, Emily. It hurts me deeply. Why do you always have to be so cruel?" To look at him, you'd have thought I'd just kicked his puppy. He always did have a flair for the dramatic.
"That's just the way I roll, Morgan," I deadpanned.
"You are a cold, cold woman." He shook his head, miming a shiver.
"Yep." I nodded agreeably. "As ice." But I couldn't stop a smile from quirking the side of my mouth as we continued with the back-and-forth. Reid chipped in with a delightfully -- and possibly deliberately -- clueless comment, and Morgan and I smoothly turned from sniping at each other to ganging up on him. The banter was as familiar as it was welcome. I queried Morgan once about it, and he explained that it was his way of making sure that we didn't sit there imagining increasingly gruesome scenarios as we waited for the briefing to start. Besides, scoring points in these little matches was kind of fun.
"Hello, my lovelies!" Garcia made her entrance in a cloud of bright colours and bonhomie, her face illuminated as much by her smile as by the fluorescent lights that turned her hair into a candy-floss halo around her head.
"Hi Garcia." From the speed of Reid's response, I think he must have been glad of the reprieve.
Taking pity on him, I turned my attention to the new arrival. "Hey, Garcia. Love your hair." She'd dyed it again: bright pink this time, the kind you only find in cartoons and confectionery. It suited her, but then I'd yet to see a colour -- no matter how unnatural or sanity-blasting -- that she couldn't somehow make work for her. It was a real talent, though one I had no desire to emulate.
"Thanks, Emz!" She beamed at me, then plonked herself down next to Morgan, who welcomed her with open arms.
"Baby-Girl!" he proclaimed, hugging her fondly. "You know you just get more beautiful every time I see you."
"Oh, stop," she said with mock-shyness, pretending to hide behind her hands. After a moment, she peeked over the tips of her dark purple-painted nails. "By which I mean: do go on, you silver-tongued devil, you."
I'm sure Morgan would have obliged, but he was interrupted by the last member of our little group to walk through the door and take a seat. Snapping his phone shut, Rossi looked around at all of us and smiled affably. "Good afternoon, everyone. Do any of you know what this is about?"
We all turned to look expectantly at Garcia, who fluttered her eyelashes guilelessly at us. "Who, me?"
"You are the goddess of information," I pointed out. "It says so on your business card."
She grinned. "I need to get some more of those made up. I'm thinking of putting 'Empress of the Ether' on the next batch."
Reid sat up straight, his expression indignant. "Did Ms Grayson really let you put that as your title? She wouldn't even let me get my cards reprinted when they spelled my name wrong!"
"Well, no." Leaning forward, Garcia stage-whispered: "These aren't exactly official Bureau business cards, Sweetie-Pie."
"You can do that?" His expression was half-awed, half-horrified.
I decided to nudge the conversation back on track, overriding Reid's bemused question with. "So, Garcia: do you know anything about this new case?"
"Yeah, you're not holding out on us are you?" Morgan did a passable imitation of a soulful gaze.
"Oh, I'd never hold out on you, Handsome." She patted his arm fondly, then rested her chin on her hand, pouting. "But this time I'm afraid your deity is as much in the dark as her humble supplicants." She sighed heavily, then brightened. "Except..."
"Except?" Rossi raised an eyebrow, gesturing for her to continue.
"Except that JJ did just ask me to look up travel times and vital statistics for the township of Dodge, Boone County, Iowa."
"Then I suppose that's where we're going."
Reid looked thoughtful. "I wonder what we're going to find when we get there..."
* * *
The phone rings while I'm trying to decide what to wear. I wait a few moments for the voicemail to pick up the call, and Celia's familiar voice fills the air.
"Hi Emily, it's me. Pick up if you're there." A brief pause. "Hellooooooo," she trills. She never was very patient. But I'm already moving, a genuine smile curving my lips as I bring the handset to my ear.
"Hi Celia. I swear it's like you're psychic or something. I just got out of the shower."
"Or it's like you sent me a text message when you landed in DC. Just like you always do. Then you went into work. Like you always do. And then when they all-but ordered you to 'Just go home, dammit!' you eventually went home and showered. Like..."
"...I always do," I finish drily.
She laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver right through me. Her voice is like molasses, rich and dark and smooth. It was the first thing I noticed about her, all those years ago. I remember wondering how exactly a schoolgirl my age could manage that effect, but then she's always been special. I could lose myself in the depths of that voice. "That's my Em: regular as clockwork. You are such a stickler for your little routines. I could set my watch by you."
"Glad to know I'm good for something." I try to keep it light, but the darkness seeps into my voice, lending the words a hint of ice. This wouldn't have happened earlier. It won't happen later. But here and now is another country entirely. I'm in transition, neither one thing nor the other, my borders fuzzy and ill-defined. Things can slip through the cracks.
"Getting ready to go out?" she asks, correctly interpreting my mood, something which might be disapproval shading her voice.
"Yet another of my little routines," I say sharply.
She is quiet for a moment, letting her silence be reproof enough.
I break. "Augh! I'm sorry for snapping at you, alright?"
"If I couldn't handle a little thing like that, then I wouldn't be your oldest and dearest friend," she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
"You have me at that, I guess," I say, allowing her a smile from my private store.
"I'm just a little worried. It hasn't been that long since the last adventure."
There are whole other things I know she wants to say, but I take a moment to appreciate that she doesn't bring them up now. I really don't need it. Not right now.
"A really bad day at the office." To say the least.
"Want to talk about it?"
I want to tell her no, but I also know that that's probably just a function of my current mood. I really don't want to think of how much she's saved me in therapist's bills. She's far better for me than Roberts at the FBI. Not to mention much nicer to look at. "Tomorrow?" I offer.
"I'll save my tales of relationship woe until then."
I smile, even though she can't see me. "Some light entertainment to look forward to."
"Ouch! You have mortally wounded me, woman."
"Do you ever worry about the side effects from hanging around a geek like me?"
She considers for a moment. "Nah. And you make a convenient scapegoat, anyway."
"Thanks."
"Take care, Em."
"You too, Cee," I say and put the phone down.
* * *
Hotch and JJ entered the briefing room, cutting off any further speculation. JJ took a seat, while Hotch went to stand in front of the currently blank projector screen; our cue to shut up and listen. From now on, it was all business.
Without preamble, Hotch launched straight into the briefing. "The Boone County Sheriff's department has requested our help in tracking down a suspected serial killer. There are eight victims so far, and the unsub has left messages indicating that there will be more."
"Timeframe?" Morgan's smile was gone as if it had never been.
"One attack a week over the past four weeks, each time hitting a pair of victims. Week five has just begun, and we are on the clock. Tie up any loose ends and grab your go-bags: we're leaving now. Garcia, with me." On that note he strode purposefully from the room, Garcia scurrying at his heels.
"That's it?" Reid sounded nonplussed. I was a little surprised myself -- time was always of the essence in these situations, but even initial briefings were usually a little more detailed than that. The general philosophy was that knowing the salient facts before setting out meant we could prepare more effectively once we were actually in transit. Not to mention allowing us to raise questions that Garcia could start looking into right away. Maybe that's what Hotch was doing now. Even so, it was more than a little unusual.
With Hotch gone, Reid looked to JJ for answers. She smiled at him, but her heart wasn't in it. "Hotch and I will brief you all further when we're in the air."
"Yes, but..."
"Excuse me -- I need to get ready." And with that, she was out of the door.
"Huh. Must be a bad one," observed Rossi.
"I guess..." Reid still seemed disconcerted, but he shrugged it off and hurried off to grab his things.
As I made my own way out of the briefing room, I glanced in JJ's direction. Something was definitely up with her. Was it this case? Maybe the rest of the briefing would clear it up. Putting such thoughts aside for the moment, I reached beneath my desk and retrieved my bag. Clothes, check. Overnight supplies, check. Bulletproof vest, check. Gun... as was my habit, I took it out and gave it a quick lookover. Bullets in the magazine, no obvious problems with any of the mechanisms. I felt prepared and ready to take on the world.
* * *
After that conversation, I decide that I really need some coffee before I proceed much further. Not that it'd be a bad idea in any case -- my makeup tends to look so much better if I'm not nodding off whilst applying it. I lean back against the counter for a second whilst the coffee maker chortles and close my eyes, just briefly.
That's a mistake.
In my half awake state, images from the last case come far too easily, and that's not what I want now. Not what I need. I force my eyelids open again and splash my face with cold water.
Isn't the coffee maker done yet?
A glance shows me the unfortunate truth. I contemplate briefly visiting my library for a book but equally quickly discard that idea. I'm not at a place where that could offer me solace at the moment.
Finally, seemingly in slow motion, the coffee maker discharges its black gold and I slump against the counter clutching a cup to my chest with a sigh. That's better.
Thus fortified, I wander back towards the bedroom and make my preparations for the evening ahead. Things flow a lot better now that I'm a little more awake, and I emerge in only a little over half an hour.
Returning to the living room, I retrieve my handbag and go over my outfit one more time in the mirror near the front door. Clothes, check. The proper earrings, check. Hair, check. Face... as is my habit, I give my makeup a quick once-over. No smearing, nothing missed. I feel prepared and ready to take on the world.
* * *
It wasn't until JJ briefed us on the deaths to date that I realised what all the urgency was about. She only gave us the raw facts of the case -- no speculation or theorising; just the facts, Ma'am -- but, taken together, they pointed in a fairly clear direction. Cause of death: severe acid burns. Reptilian scales of some kind present at all the murder sites, scattered over the bodies and the ground, as if shed. And, perhaps most telling, certain well-known terrorist slogans spray-painted at the scenes. Glancing surreptitiously around at the other members of the team, I could see I wasn't the only one to make the connection. It remained to be seen who would be the first of us to state the obvious. My money was on Reid.
"So, the unsub's a freak?" Huh. Looked like Morgan won the prize. Well, he was my second choice. No real feeling behind the epithet, though. Interesting. I filed the information away in the mental box labelled 'Morgan'. The observation and its implications meant another point to me. I liked to think that I was way ahead in the Game by now, but I hadn't gotten there by forgetting that every little detail helped. Effortlessly maintaining my mask of neutrality, I cast a surreptitious glance around at the rest of the plane's occupants. I doubted I was only one: we all played the Game, after all, whether we realised it or not. Reid: oblivious. No surprise there. Morgan: casual, relaxed. Reaction -- or lack, thereof -- consistent with context. Rossi: no particular response. Hotch: a frown, but no force behind it. Not enough information to determine whether his expression was a specific or generic reaction. JJ was the only real surprise of the bunch.
"The local authorities believe the unsub to be a mutant, yes." Narrowed eyes, a definite edge to her voice. Sudden tension in her hands. Disapproval, most likely, plus some other strong feeling. Not enough time to identify what that might be before the telltales were smoothed away. I attached more mental notes to the file labelled JJ.
"Are there even that many of them left?" That was Reid: focusing on the numbers.
"The exact numbers are unknown, but certainly far fewer than there were." JJ was back to her usual calm professionalism. "There are a few known former mutants within the county, but no confirmed currently active ones." An understated shrug. "Just the usual rumours and hearsay. Here are the crime scene photos." As we passed the photos and notes around, we reviewed the facts of the case, tossing ideas back and forth as we worked up a preliminary profile and set of questions to answer.
I started the ball rolling. "So, eight victims so far, all killed in pairs."
"Preliminary investigation by local law enforcement has confirmed that two of the pairs were couples," JJ added. "Information on the others is sketchy, but it's possible that was also true for them." I glanced up to see her shooting me an assessing and perhaps slightly hostile look. Although momentarily puzzled, understanding dawned as soon as I actually examined the photo that Reid had just handed me. That particular pair of victims were both women.
Ah.
Irrationally, it stung for a moment before I dismissed the feeling with a mental shrug. In all honesty, I couldn't say that I was entirely surprised at JJ's reaction, but I trusted enough in her professionalism to leave it at nothing more than a look.
In any case, this didn't seem to have any bearing on the case, so I scanned the picture for any further details.
"All the victims were killed in remote or otherwise deserted areas," Rossi observed. "No one to hear any cries for help."
Reid had turned his attention back to the scant biographical details that were in the case file. "No obvious pattern to the victimology," he pronounced. "Different age ranges, economic strata, physical types..." He pursed his lips. "All caucasian, but that's no real surprise given the local population demographics."
"Garcia is looking into the victims' backgrounds," Hotch interjected. "For the moment, let's concentrate on reviewing the methodology."
"Cause of death in all cases was severe acid burns." I leafed quickly through the relevant pages of the coroner's reports. "Says here that the victims likely died relatively quickly: no evidence of prolonged torture or that any of them were physically restrained."
Morgan was frowning. "If the unsub took on multiple victims at once, he must have had some way of restraining or controlling them."
I agreed. "Something that didn't leave physical evidence."
"Threats?" Rossi suggested.
JJ nodded. "If they were all couples, he could have threatened one to force compliance from the other. We've certainly seen that before."
"Maybe the unsub has some kind of psychic or telekinetic power." We all looked at Reid. "What?" he said, a little defensively. "If this really a mutant, it's something we have to consider."
"So, we could be dealing with a telekinetic, acid-spitting lizard-man?" Morgan shook his head in disgust. "That's just great."
"Let's not speculate too much at this stage," Hotch cautioned.
"And please be aware that we're going to have to be doubly careful about this one," interjected JJ. "Vigilante action is unfortunately not uncommon when mutant involvement is suspected, and it's only gotten worse since the events of M-day."
Hotch nodded in agreement. "A significant degree of pre-existing resentment, combined with the removal of the fear of retaliation, makes for an ugly situation at the best of times."
"I suspect I'm going to have my hands full just dealing with the local press," JJ continued. "A careless remark from one of us could end up sparking a lynch mob. Just please be careful out there."
We all indicated our understanding and assent. Reid and Morgan looked a little embarrassed, but they shook it off quickly enough as we got back to business. We spent the rest of the journey putting together our preliminary profile.
And pointedly not thinking about telekinetic, acid-spitting lizard-men.
* * *
I can feel the bass resonating within me while I'm still outside on the pavement. When I pass through the doors, it's as if I'm entering a massive, many-chambered heart, the beat throbbing in my ears and my chest like it was my very own heartbeat. A delicious thrill of anticipation shivers through me, tightening muscles and prickling across my skin. Tonight will be a good night.
Tonight will make everything right again. At least until the next time.
The night is still young, but the club is jumping, the dancefloor a kaleidoscopic whirl of bodies in motion. I'll be joining them soon enough, but first things first. I make my way to the bar, nodding and waving greetings to some of the regulars as I cross the crowded space. The bartender is busy with other customers, so I pull up a stool as I wait for her attention, picking a spot where I can watch the dancers.
I end up waiting a couple of minutes for Di -- the bartender -- to make her way over to me. I take the opportunity to cast an appraising eye over my hunting grounds. Not a bad selection.
"What'll it be tonight?"
I resist the urge to reply: 'Perhaps a nice redhead. It's been a while since I've had one of those.' That would be a little crude even for me. Instead, I scan the many bottles and logos visible behind the bar, considering my choice.
"I think I'll start with a margarita and see where that takes me."
"You got it." Di mixes the drink with quick, efficient movements, her hands so familiar with the actions that she doesn't even need to watch what she's doing. It's almost hypnotic.
"So... busy night tonight?"
She snorts as she sets my drink in front of me. "You could say that. We got a good review in some magazine or other last week. Place has been rammed ever since. Speaking of which..." She nods at the giggling gaggle of girls gathering at the other end of the bar. "Better get back to it."
I raise my glass to her as she slouches off. "No rest for the wicked, Di."
Her eyes sparkle as she glances back over her shoulder at me, her laughter dark and rich. "Oh honey, you have no idea." And then she's all business once more. "So, ladies: what'll it be?"
I can't help but wonder what Di's story is. Apparently she considers me one of the regulars, which means she'll share the odd amusing anecdote from her colourful past, but nothing that might tell me who she really is. Which, honestly, it would be rather hypocritical of me to complain about. I just can't help being curious.
"Well, hello there." The familiar silken tones interrupt my musings.
Inwardly gritting my teeth, I turn and smile. "Hi Vivian. How's it going?"
Vivian pulls up a stool, turning to survey the room with the air of a lioness scoping out the bountiful savannah. "It's going pretty well, thank you. Lots of fresh meat in this evening. A perfect night for a hunt, wouldn't you say?" She turns to me and smiles, that knowing look in her eyes that always sets my teeth on edge. The one that says she and I are equals.
The worst part, of course, is that I can't even deny she's largely right.
Sometimes, refusing to lie to yourself is a real pain in the ass.
I content myself with replying "Indeed," before taking another sip of my drink.
With a nod that's both 'farewell' and 'good hunting', Vivian starts to move off, before stopping and lightly touching my shoulder. "Don't look now, but I spot a certain ex of yours coming in this direction."
"Mona?" I half groan.
"You got it," she says, resuming her prowl towards her prey. "Best of luck." I can hear the smirk in her voice. I can't blame her for that, though, because I would do exactly the same in her position.
I knock back my drink and proceed to use some of that FBI training to lose myself in the crowd. I'm fairly sure that my instructors back in the academy never considered this particular application.
* * *
"Hey there, Sweetness. You missing me yet?"
"Always, Sugar. It's lonely here without you."
I smirked at Morgan and Garcia's banter. "Enough with the foreplay, you two. Just move onto the main event."
Morgan shook his head. "You can't rush these things, Prentiss."
If we'd been back at the office, I'd have cut him down with: 'That's not what some of your ex-girlfriends have said.' But since we were in the field, I reined in the snark.
"Well, you'd better hurry it up this time," was what I actually said. "The sheriff's office is only a few minutes away."
"What do you need?" I could picture Garcia poised expectantly over her keyboard.
"Everything you've managed to dig up on those former fr-", he paused for a split second as JJ's admonition caught up with him before continuing: "mutants the mayor's had the sheriff haul in."
Silence. After a moment or two without a response, Morgan frowned. "Baby-Girl?" Still nothing. "Garcia? You still there?"
"Freaks?" I almost didn't recognise her voice. I'd heard her angry before, I'd heard her upset. I'd never heard her so... cold. Certainly not towards one of us, and especially not Morgan, her favourite member of our little family.
Morgan almost visibly checked himself, faint puzzlement in his eyes. "Talk to me, Garcia," he said softly. "What's wrong."
"Freaks, Morgan? Was that what you were going to say?"
"Slip of the tongue. I do know that we're supposed to refer them as mutants while we're here."
"That's not the point. They're people, Derek. Like you or me." Her voice cracked; now it sounded like she was on the verge of tears. "Just people who happen to be -- or to have been -- slightly different to your so-called average Joe."
"I think it goes a bit deeper than that." He took a deep breath, keeping his voice low and even. "We wouldn't have regs about them in government work otherwise."
"They didn't ask to be different! They didn't ask to be pointed at, or persecuted, or blown up! Most of them just want to live their lives in peace, like any reasonable person!" She heaved a deep, sobbing breath, continuing in a barely audible whisper. "They didn't ask to be called freaks."
Words seemed to fail her at that point. Morgan, too, seemed to be having trouble working out what to say. I stayed quiet as they both struggled, keeping well clear while I attempted to map this unsuspected minefield. Whilst personally I didn't have an opinion on the mutant question, it seemed that Garcia did; and a strong one at that. But I could see her point. I, of all people, knew that language was a powerful tool. Words of belonging and words of alienation; words to unite and words to divide. People like us and people like them: the different, the undesirable, the other.
Morgan took a deep breath, drawing my attention back to him. "I'm sorry, Garcia," he said. "I didn't mean anything by it. And I really didn't mean to upset you." Soothing words, calming words. Not necessarily the sign of a true change of heart, but he would at least think more carefully about his choice of words in future. The bond between them was strong enough that I couldn't imagine them not working it out.
There were a few moments of silence, which Garcia presumably used to recover her equilibrium. Certainly, she sounded much calmer when she next spoke. "I'll send everything I have through to you now. If I dig up anything else, you'll be the first to know." She hung up without saying goodbye.
True to her word, the files appeared almost as soon as the call disconnected. Morgan read out the salient points as I tried to locate the apparently well-hidden sheriff's office. After we'd finished going over the edited highlights he paused, looking pensive.
"So, did I piss you off too?"
I considered for a moment. "Not particularly," I said mildly. "But you better not make any more slips, given where we're going to be shortly."
"Yeah, I know. I'll be careful." Brows knitted together, he hesitated a little before asking: "We're still good, then?"
"Still good," I confirmed. Morgan seemed relieved. I shrugged my shoulders. "It's not a big thing for me. But I'd seriously suggest you start thinking of ways to make it up to Garcia."
"Already on it," he muttered. Wincing a little, he added: "I'm... guessing it's going to take a lot more than flowers and chocolates."
I nodded. "I'm guessing so."
Author: Louisa and Tamoline
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/OFC
Notes: This is a little prelude we've written for Emily. (And by little, we mean about 19K words.) Part character piece (and the authors certainly learned some things about their characters on the way) and part world building for the companion piece/sequel to Faces. Hope you enjoy the ride!
Although Faces is technically a sequel to this story, you may want to read it first anyway:
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
I couldn't help a sigh of relief as I hit 'send'. There: another report done. Not precisely the sport of champions, except possibly in the opinion of JJ who seemed to actually thrive on the damned stuff. I knew it was important to document everything properly, but sometimes it seemed that we spent more time filling out forms than actually stopping bad guys. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the paperwork princess herself hurrying up the steps to Hotch's office, file in hand. Focussed expression. That probably meant something had come up that needed to have been dealt with yesterday. I surreptitiously kept an eye on Hotch's office door as I shuffled paper. Sure enough, no more than a minute or two after JJ had gone in, Hotch opened the door and leaned out.
"Briefing room, five minutes." Hotch then stepped back into his office and closed the door without so much as a backward glance as the team sprang into action.
"I wonder what kind of puzzle we're facing this time?" Reid flashed me a grin as he put his desk in order and hurried towards the briefing room. I gave him a smile in response as I stretched the kinks out before getting to my feet. An outside observer might say he looked eager. In a way, I thought that he was, twisted as it may sound. Everyone has their own way of coping with this job of ours, and this, as far as I could figure out, was his. Each case was an intellectual challenge, a puzzle to solve, a chance to match wits with someone who might just be an opponent worthy of his genius. Well, maybe he wasn't as pompous as that last part made him sound. But focusing on the case as some kind of chess match allowed him to, not forget, but at least not dwell on the fact that each new case meant at least one dead body. And we never can forget, not really.
As I said: everyone had their own ways of dealing with the job.
* * *
I kick the door shut and lean back against it, letting my bag drop from my fingers as I close my eyes and concentrate on just breathing for a minute or two. In and out, deep and even. My muscles relax and I let myself sag against the door, suddenly acutely aware of the headache spiking behind my eyes. A moment's consideration tells me it's nothing to be concerned about; it's not a migraine, just a common or garden tension headache. It'll fade soon enough, and even if it doesn't I won't let it get in my way. I have a little more focus, and a little more need, at the moment.
When I'm back on an even keel once more -- at least for now -- I push off and trudge wearily along the short hallway. Not bothering to wait until I reach the bathroom, I strip away the layers of my clothing as I go, letting them fall wherever they will. I can always pick them up later. It's been a long, long few days, and being neat and tidy is even lower on my list of priorities than usual. Right now, the urge to feel clean again is so strong it's almost painful, stronger even than hunger, or thirst, or tiredness. Or anything else. I can feel the other thing, deep in my gut, coiled and waiting like a big cat about to pounce. It stirs restlessly as I think about it, stretching beneath my skin until I feel swollen and overripe. Soon, soon, I promise, and it subsides a little, grumbling, only raking me lightly with its claws. The beast still needs to be fed, but it's content to wait for now. It knows I'll keep my promise.
It's not like I have a choice.
I dial the hot water up as high as it will go, luxuriating in the pins-and-needles sting of it on my skin. It hurts, of course, but only a little. I've had worse. Anyway, it's a good pain. It tells me that I'm still here, still alive. Still in control. Sometimes that helps. Sometimes it's necessary. I just stand under the spray for a while, not moving, just letting it wash over me. The water pounds my body, scouring it clean of the day's grit and grime. At least I can be spotless on the outside.
I showered afterwards, of course, and in the morning, and again at work, but that just isn't the same. It's good to be home. My home. My world. My sanctuary. The rest of the planet can go fuck itself. As for me... I have my own plans.
* * *
Morgan threw himself down in the seat next to me. "Sometimes I think this job is just one big cock-block," he grumbled.
I held in a smile, merely raising an eyebrow. "Hot date planned for this evening?"
"Two, actually." He grinned boyishly, then heaved a dramatic sigh. "Guess my girls are just going to have to entertain themselves without me." I rolled my eyes, but didn't say anything. Reid's brow creased in a puzzled frown. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but I caught his eye and shook my head.
"Don't bother," I advised. "You'll only feed his ego. The man's just looking for a chance to gloat."
A wounded expression on his face, Morgan pressed a hand to his chest. "That hurts me, Emily. It hurts me deeply. Why do you always have to be so cruel?" To look at him, you'd have thought I'd just kicked his puppy. He always did have a flair for the dramatic.
"That's just the way I roll, Morgan," I deadpanned.
"You are a cold, cold woman." He shook his head, miming a shiver.
"Yep." I nodded agreeably. "As ice." But I couldn't stop a smile from quirking the side of my mouth as we continued with the back-and-forth. Reid chipped in with a delightfully -- and possibly deliberately -- clueless comment, and Morgan and I smoothly turned from sniping at each other to ganging up on him. The banter was as familiar as it was welcome. I queried Morgan once about it, and he explained that it was his way of making sure that we didn't sit there imagining increasingly gruesome scenarios as we waited for the briefing to start. Besides, scoring points in these little matches was kind of fun.
"Hello, my lovelies!" Garcia made her entrance in a cloud of bright colours and bonhomie, her face illuminated as much by her smile as by the fluorescent lights that turned her hair into a candy-floss halo around her head.
"Hi Garcia." From the speed of Reid's response, I think he must have been glad of the reprieve.
Taking pity on him, I turned my attention to the new arrival. "Hey, Garcia. Love your hair." She'd dyed it again: bright pink this time, the kind you only find in cartoons and confectionery. It suited her, but then I'd yet to see a colour -- no matter how unnatural or sanity-blasting -- that she couldn't somehow make work for her. It was a real talent, though one I had no desire to emulate.
"Thanks, Emz!" She beamed at me, then plonked herself down next to Morgan, who welcomed her with open arms.
"Baby-Girl!" he proclaimed, hugging her fondly. "You know you just get more beautiful every time I see you."
"Oh, stop," she said with mock-shyness, pretending to hide behind her hands. After a moment, she peeked over the tips of her dark purple-painted nails. "By which I mean: do go on, you silver-tongued devil, you."
I'm sure Morgan would have obliged, but he was interrupted by the last member of our little group to walk through the door and take a seat. Snapping his phone shut, Rossi looked around at all of us and smiled affably. "Good afternoon, everyone. Do any of you know what this is about?"
We all turned to look expectantly at Garcia, who fluttered her eyelashes guilelessly at us. "Who, me?"
"You are the goddess of information," I pointed out. "It says so on your business card."
She grinned. "I need to get some more of those made up. I'm thinking of putting 'Empress of the Ether' on the next batch."
Reid sat up straight, his expression indignant. "Did Ms Grayson really let you put that as your title? She wouldn't even let me get my cards reprinted when they spelled my name wrong!"
"Well, no." Leaning forward, Garcia stage-whispered: "These aren't exactly official Bureau business cards, Sweetie-Pie."
"You can do that?" His expression was half-awed, half-horrified.
I decided to nudge the conversation back on track, overriding Reid's bemused question with. "So, Garcia: do you know anything about this new case?"
"Yeah, you're not holding out on us are you?" Morgan did a passable imitation of a soulful gaze.
"Oh, I'd never hold out on you, Handsome." She patted his arm fondly, then rested her chin on her hand, pouting. "But this time I'm afraid your deity is as much in the dark as her humble supplicants." She sighed heavily, then brightened. "Except..."
"Except?" Rossi raised an eyebrow, gesturing for her to continue.
"Except that JJ did just ask me to look up travel times and vital statistics for the township of Dodge, Boone County, Iowa."
"Then I suppose that's where we're going."
Reid looked thoughtful. "I wonder what we're going to find when we get there..."
* * *
The phone rings while I'm trying to decide what to wear. I wait a few moments for the voicemail to pick up the call, and Celia's familiar voice fills the air.
"Hi Emily, it's me. Pick up if you're there." A brief pause. "Hellooooooo," she trills. She never was very patient. But I'm already moving, a genuine smile curving my lips as I bring the handset to my ear.
"Hi Celia. I swear it's like you're psychic or something. I just got out of the shower."
"Or it's like you sent me a text message when you landed in DC. Just like you always do. Then you went into work. Like you always do. And then when they all-but ordered you to 'Just go home, dammit!' you eventually went home and showered. Like..."
"...I always do," I finish drily.
She laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver right through me. Her voice is like molasses, rich and dark and smooth. It was the first thing I noticed about her, all those years ago. I remember wondering how exactly a schoolgirl my age could manage that effect, but then she's always been special. I could lose myself in the depths of that voice. "That's my Em: regular as clockwork. You are such a stickler for your little routines. I could set my watch by you."
"Glad to know I'm good for something." I try to keep it light, but the darkness seeps into my voice, lending the words a hint of ice. This wouldn't have happened earlier. It won't happen later. But here and now is another country entirely. I'm in transition, neither one thing nor the other, my borders fuzzy and ill-defined. Things can slip through the cracks.
"Getting ready to go out?" she asks, correctly interpreting my mood, something which might be disapproval shading her voice.
"Yet another of my little routines," I say sharply.
She is quiet for a moment, letting her silence be reproof enough.
I break. "Augh! I'm sorry for snapping at you, alright?"
"If I couldn't handle a little thing like that, then I wouldn't be your oldest and dearest friend," she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
"You have me at that, I guess," I say, allowing her a smile from my private store.
"I'm just a little worried. It hasn't been that long since the last adventure."
There are whole other things I know she wants to say, but I take a moment to appreciate that she doesn't bring them up now. I really don't need it. Not right now.
"A really bad day at the office." To say the least.
"Want to talk about it?"
I want to tell her no, but I also know that that's probably just a function of my current mood. I really don't want to think of how much she's saved me in therapist's bills. She's far better for me than Roberts at the FBI. Not to mention much nicer to look at. "Tomorrow?" I offer.
"I'll save my tales of relationship woe until then."
I smile, even though she can't see me. "Some light entertainment to look forward to."
"Ouch! You have mortally wounded me, woman."
"Do you ever worry about the side effects from hanging around a geek like me?"
She considers for a moment. "Nah. And you make a convenient scapegoat, anyway."
"Thanks."
"Take care, Em."
"You too, Cee," I say and put the phone down.
* * *
Hotch and JJ entered the briefing room, cutting off any further speculation. JJ took a seat, while Hotch went to stand in front of the currently blank projector screen; our cue to shut up and listen. From now on, it was all business.
Without preamble, Hotch launched straight into the briefing. "The Boone County Sheriff's department has requested our help in tracking down a suspected serial killer. There are eight victims so far, and the unsub has left messages indicating that there will be more."
"Timeframe?" Morgan's smile was gone as if it had never been.
"One attack a week over the past four weeks, each time hitting a pair of victims. Week five has just begun, and we are on the clock. Tie up any loose ends and grab your go-bags: we're leaving now. Garcia, with me." On that note he strode purposefully from the room, Garcia scurrying at his heels.
"That's it?" Reid sounded nonplussed. I was a little surprised myself -- time was always of the essence in these situations, but even initial briefings were usually a little more detailed than that. The general philosophy was that knowing the salient facts before setting out meant we could prepare more effectively once we were actually in transit. Not to mention allowing us to raise questions that Garcia could start looking into right away. Maybe that's what Hotch was doing now. Even so, it was more than a little unusual.
With Hotch gone, Reid looked to JJ for answers. She smiled at him, but her heart wasn't in it. "Hotch and I will brief you all further when we're in the air."
"Yes, but..."
"Excuse me -- I need to get ready." And with that, she was out of the door.
"Huh. Must be a bad one," observed Rossi.
"I guess..." Reid still seemed disconcerted, but he shrugged it off and hurried off to grab his things.
As I made my own way out of the briefing room, I glanced in JJ's direction. Something was definitely up with her. Was it this case? Maybe the rest of the briefing would clear it up. Putting such thoughts aside for the moment, I reached beneath my desk and retrieved my bag. Clothes, check. Overnight supplies, check. Bulletproof vest, check. Gun... as was my habit, I took it out and gave it a quick lookover. Bullets in the magazine, no obvious problems with any of the mechanisms. I felt prepared and ready to take on the world.
* * *
After that conversation, I decide that I really need some coffee before I proceed much further. Not that it'd be a bad idea in any case -- my makeup tends to look so much better if I'm not nodding off whilst applying it. I lean back against the counter for a second whilst the coffee maker chortles and close my eyes, just briefly.
That's a mistake.
In my half awake state, images from the last case come far too easily, and that's not what I want now. Not what I need. I force my eyelids open again and splash my face with cold water.
Isn't the coffee maker done yet?
A glance shows me the unfortunate truth. I contemplate briefly visiting my library for a book but equally quickly discard that idea. I'm not at a place where that could offer me solace at the moment.
Finally, seemingly in slow motion, the coffee maker discharges its black gold and I slump against the counter clutching a cup to my chest with a sigh. That's better.
Thus fortified, I wander back towards the bedroom and make my preparations for the evening ahead. Things flow a lot better now that I'm a little more awake, and I emerge in only a little over half an hour.
Returning to the living room, I retrieve my handbag and go over my outfit one more time in the mirror near the front door. Clothes, check. The proper earrings, check. Hair, check. Face... as is my habit, I give my makeup a quick once-over. No smearing, nothing missed. I feel prepared and ready to take on the world.
* * *
It wasn't until JJ briefed us on the deaths to date that I realised what all the urgency was about. She only gave us the raw facts of the case -- no speculation or theorising; just the facts, Ma'am -- but, taken together, they pointed in a fairly clear direction. Cause of death: severe acid burns. Reptilian scales of some kind present at all the murder sites, scattered over the bodies and the ground, as if shed. And, perhaps most telling, certain well-known terrorist slogans spray-painted at the scenes. Glancing surreptitiously around at the other members of the team, I could see I wasn't the only one to make the connection. It remained to be seen who would be the first of us to state the obvious. My money was on Reid.
"So, the unsub's a freak?" Huh. Looked like Morgan won the prize. Well, he was my second choice. No real feeling behind the epithet, though. Interesting. I filed the information away in the mental box labelled 'Morgan'. The observation and its implications meant another point to me. I liked to think that I was way ahead in the Game by now, but I hadn't gotten there by forgetting that every little detail helped. Effortlessly maintaining my mask of neutrality, I cast a surreptitious glance around at the rest of the plane's occupants. I doubted I was only one: we all played the Game, after all, whether we realised it or not. Reid: oblivious. No surprise there. Morgan: casual, relaxed. Reaction -- or lack, thereof -- consistent with context. Rossi: no particular response. Hotch: a frown, but no force behind it. Not enough information to determine whether his expression was a specific or generic reaction. JJ was the only real surprise of the bunch.
"The local authorities believe the unsub to be a mutant, yes." Narrowed eyes, a definite edge to her voice. Sudden tension in her hands. Disapproval, most likely, plus some other strong feeling. Not enough time to identify what that might be before the telltales were smoothed away. I attached more mental notes to the file labelled JJ.
"Are there even that many of them left?" That was Reid: focusing on the numbers.
"The exact numbers are unknown, but certainly far fewer than there were." JJ was back to her usual calm professionalism. "There are a few known former mutants within the county, but no confirmed currently active ones." An understated shrug. "Just the usual rumours and hearsay. Here are the crime scene photos." As we passed the photos and notes around, we reviewed the facts of the case, tossing ideas back and forth as we worked up a preliminary profile and set of questions to answer.
I started the ball rolling. "So, eight victims so far, all killed in pairs."
"Preliminary investigation by local law enforcement has confirmed that two of the pairs were couples," JJ added. "Information on the others is sketchy, but it's possible that was also true for them." I glanced up to see her shooting me an assessing and perhaps slightly hostile look. Although momentarily puzzled, understanding dawned as soon as I actually examined the photo that Reid had just handed me. That particular pair of victims were both women.
Ah.
Irrationally, it stung for a moment before I dismissed the feeling with a mental shrug. In all honesty, I couldn't say that I was entirely surprised at JJ's reaction, but I trusted enough in her professionalism to leave it at nothing more than a look.
In any case, this didn't seem to have any bearing on the case, so I scanned the picture for any further details.
"All the victims were killed in remote or otherwise deserted areas," Rossi observed. "No one to hear any cries for help."
Reid had turned his attention back to the scant biographical details that were in the case file. "No obvious pattern to the victimology," he pronounced. "Different age ranges, economic strata, physical types..." He pursed his lips. "All caucasian, but that's no real surprise given the local population demographics."
"Garcia is looking into the victims' backgrounds," Hotch interjected. "For the moment, let's concentrate on reviewing the methodology."
"Cause of death in all cases was severe acid burns." I leafed quickly through the relevant pages of the coroner's reports. "Says here that the victims likely died relatively quickly: no evidence of prolonged torture or that any of them were physically restrained."
Morgan was frowning. "If the unsub took on multiple victims at once, he must have had some way of restraining or controlling them."
I agreed. "Something that didn't leave physical evidence."
"Threats?" Rossi suggested.
JJ nodded. "If they were all couples, he could have threatened one to force compliance from the other. We've certainly seen that before."
"Maybe the unsub has some kind of psychic or telekinetic power." We all looked at Reid. "What?" he said, a little defensively. "If this really a mutant, it's something we have to consider."
"So, we could be dealing with a telekinetic, acid-spitting lizard-man?" Morgan shook his head in disgust. "That's just great."
"Let's not speculate too much at this stage," Hotch cautioned.
"And please be aware that we're going to have to be doubly careful about this one," interjected JJ. "Vigilante action is unfortunately not uncommon when mutant involvement is suspected, and it's only gotten worse since the events of M-day."
Hotch nodded in agreement. "A significant degree of pre-existing resentment, combined with the removal of the fear of retaliation, makes for an ugly situation at the best of times."
"I suspect I'm going to have my hands full just dealing with the local press," JJ continued. "A careless remark from one of us could end up sparking a lynch mob. Just please be careful out there."
We all indicated our understanding and assent. Reid and Morgan looked a little embarrassed, but they shook it off quickly enough as we got back to business. We spent the rest of the journey putting together our preliminary profile.
And pointedly not thinking about telekinetic, acid-spitting lizard-men.
* * *
I can feel the bass resonating within me while I'm still outside on the pavement. When I pass through the doors, it's as if I'm entering a massive, many-chambered heart, the beat throbbing in my ears and my chest like it was my very own heartbeat. A delicious thrill of anticipation shivers through me, tightening muscles and prickling across my skin. Tonight will be a good night.
Tonight will make everything right again. At least until the next time.
The night is still young, but the club is jumping, the dancefloor a kaleidoscopic whirl of bodies in motion. I'll be joining them soon enough, but first things first. I make my way to the bar, nodding and waving greetings to some of the regulars as I cross the crowded space. The bartender is busy with other customers, so I pull up a stool as I wait for her attention, picking a spot where I can watch the dancers.
I end up waiting a couple of minutes for Di -- the bartender -- to make her way over to me. I take the opportunity to cast an appraising eye over my hunting grounds. Not a bad selection.
"What'll it be tonight?"
I resist the urge to reply: 'Perhaps a nice redhead. It's been a while since I've had one of those.' That would be a little crude even for me. Instead, I scan the many bottles and logos visible behind the bar, considering my choice.
"I think I'll start with a margarita and see where that takes me."
"You got it." Di mixes the drink with quick, efficient movements, her hands so familiar with the actions that she doesn't even need to watch what she's doing. It's almost hypnotic.
"So... busy night tonight?"
She snorts as she sets my drink in front of me. "You could say that. We got a good review in some magazine or other last week. Place has been rammed ever since. Speaking of which..." She nods at the giggling gaggle of girls gathering at the other end of the bar. "Better get back to it."
I raise my glass to her as she slouches off. "No rest for the wicked, Di."
Her eyes sparkle as she glances back over her shoulder at me, her laughter dark and rich. "Oh honey, you have no idea." And then she's all business once more. "So, ladies: what'll it be?"
I can't help but wonder what Di's story is. Apparently she considers me one of the regulars, which means she'll share the odd amusing anecdote from her colourful past, but nothing that might tell me who she really is. Which, honestly, it would be rather hypocritical of me to complain about. I just can't help being curious.
"Well, hello there." The familiar silken tones interrupt my musings.
Inwardly gritting my teeth, I turn and smile. "Hi Vivian. How's it going?"
Vivian pulls up a stool, turning to survey the room with the air of a lioness scoping out the bountiful savannah. "It's going pretty well, thank you. Lots of fresh meat in this evening. A perfect night for a hunt, wouldn't you say?" She turns to me and smiles, that knowing look in her eyes that always sets my teeth on edge. The one that says she and I are equals.
The worst part, of course, is that I can't even deny she's largely right.
Sometimes, refusing to lie to yourself is a real pain in the ass.
I content myself with replying "Indeed," before taking another sip of my drink.
With a nod that's both 'farewell' and 'good hunting', Vivian starts to move off, before stopping and lightly touching my shoulder. "Don't look now, but I spot a certain ex of yours coming in this direction."
"Mona?" I half groan.
"You got it," she says, resuming her prowl towards her prey. "Best of luck." I can hear the smirk in her voice. I can't blame her for that, though, because I would do exactly the same in her position.
I knock back my drink and proceed to use some of that FBI training to lose myself in the crowd. I'm fairly sure that my instructors back in the academy never considered this particular application.
* * *
"Hey there, Sweetness. You missing me yet?"
"Always, Sugar. It's lonely here without you."
I smirked at Morgan and Garcia's banter. "Enough with the foreplay, you two. Just move onto the main event."
Morgan shook his head. "You can't rush these things, Prentiss."
If we'd been back at the office, I'd have cut him down with: 'That's not what some of your ex-girlfriends have said.' But since we were in the field, I reined in the snark.
"Well, you'd better hurry it up this time," was what I actually said. "The sheriff's office is only a few minutes away."
"What do you need?" I could picture Garcia poised expectantly over her keyboard.
"Everything you've managed to dig up on those former fr-", he paused for a split second as JJ's admonition caught up with him before continuing: "mutants the mayor's had the sheriff haul in."
Silence. After a moment or two without a response, Morgan frowned. "Baby-Girl?" Still nothing. "Garcia? You still there?"
"Freaks?" I almost didn't recognise her voice. I'd heard her angry before, I'd heard her upset. I'd never heard her so... cold. Certainly not towards one of us, and especially not Morgan, her favourite member of our little family.
Morgan almost visibly checked himself, faint puzzlement in his eyes. "Talk to me, Garcia," he said softly. "What's wrong."
"Freaks, Morgan? Was that what you were going to say?"
"Slip of the tongue. I do know that we're supposed to refer them as mutants while we're here."
"That's not the point. They're people, Derek. Like you or me." Her voice cracked; now it sounded like she was on the verge of tears. "Just people who happen to be -- or to have been -- slightly different to your so-called average Joe."
"I think it goes a bit deeper than that." He took a deep breath, keeping his voice low and even. "We wouldn't have regs about them in government work otherwise."
"They didn't ask to be different! They didn't ask to be pointed at, or persecuted, or blown up! Most of them just want to live their lives in peace, like any reasonable person!" She heaved a deep, sobbing breath, continuing in a barely audible whisper. "They didn't ask to be called freaks."
Words seemed to fail her at that point. Morgan, too, seemed to be having trouble working out what to say. I stayed quiet as they both struggled, keeping well clear while I attempted to map this unsuspected minefield. Whilst personally I didn't have an opinion on the mutant question, it seemed that Garcia did; and a strong one at that. But I could see her point. I, of all people, knew that language was a powerful tool. Words of belonging and words of alienation; words to unite and words to divide. People like us and people like them: the different, the undesirable, the other.
Morgan took a deep breath, drawing my attention back to him. "I'm sorry, Garcia," he said. "I didn't mean anything by it. And I really didn't mean to upset you." Soothing words, calming words. Not necessarily the sign of a true change of heart, but he would at least think more carefully about his choice of words in future. The bond between them was strong enough that I couldn't imagine them not working it out.
There were a few moments of silence, which Garcia presumably used to recover her equilibrium. Certainly, she sounded much calmer when she next spoke. "I'll send everything I have through to you now. If I dig up anything else, you'll be the first to know." She hung up without saying goodbye.
True to her word, the files appeared almost as soon as the call disconnected. Morgan read out the salient points as I tried to locate the apparently well-hidden sheriff's office. After we'd finished going over the edited highlights he paused, looking pensive.
"So, did I piss you off too?"
I considered for a moment. "Not particularly," I said mildly. "But you better not make any more slips, given where we're going to be shortly."
"Yeah, I know. I'll be careful." Brows knitted together, he hesitated a little before asking: "We're still good, then?"
"Still good," I confirmed. Morgan seemed relieved. I shrugged my shoulders. "It's not a big thing for me. But I'd seriously suggest you start thinking of ways to make it up to Garcia."
"Already on it," he muttered. Wincing a little, he added: "I'm... guessing it's going to take a lot more than flowers and chocolates."
I nodded. "I'm guessing so."