Falling part 2

[tamoline]

Title: Falling (part 2) 
Author: Louisa and Tamoline 
Thank you to nonpresence for looking it over and making it better
Rating: NC-17 
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds 
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/Emma Frost

Notes: This revolves around the events of Faces, told from Emily's point of view. (We really will get around to the sequel, but Falling is of sufficiently different form that we thought it best to make a seperate story for it.)

You will need to read Faces before reading this story:
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

The Hunt is suggested as well, as it deals with Emily prior to the events of Faces: 
Groundwork Interrogation Contact Aftermath

Part 1

The day after next, I return to work. I feel a certain amount of nervousness as I approach the office. I've exposed myself, broken cover, and there *will* be questions. It merely remains to be seen how many and how probing.

Knowing my colleagues and knowing the Game, I'm not optimistic.

I enter the room and immediately feel like all eyes are on me. Just great.

For some reason, I find myself thinking of those old cartoons where a predator looks at another character and sees them as a pork chop on legs. I feel like that pork chop.

Glancing around would be a tell, would show that I care. Of course, not glancing around is also a tell, but it fits my general attitude at work.

Moving as if I haven't a care in the world -- as if the wolves aren't circling -- I stick to my usual routine: dumping my coat and bag at my desk, I fire up my computer and check my e-mail. The subject lines, at least, skimming a couple of the urgent-looking mails in their entirety. Then, and most importantly, coffee. 'Coincidentally,' a not-insignificant number of my colleagues seem to either be heading in that direction themselves, or to have already ensconced themselves in the general vicinity. Within earshot, naturally.

And so it begins.

Morgan is strutting towards his goal on a vector that just happens to intersect mine. We fall into step. There's something knowing in his easy grin, his eyes glinting with predatory eagerness.

I'm pretty certain he's deliberately broadcasting.

"Prentiss."

"Morgan."

Maybe he just got lucky last night and is dying to tell me all about it. Actually, knowing Morgan, that probably is the case. It's just not the only thing he wants to talk to me about.

Reid and Garcia have pulled up a couple of chairs and are in a huddle, their mugs on the table in front of them. They're talking animatedly about something, hands flying every which way as they gesticulate for emphasis. They look up as I approach, their greetings overlapping each other.

"Hey Emz! Long time no see!"

"Hi Emily. Did you see my e-mail?"

I pause to greet them, letting Morgan go on ahead. "Hey Garcia. Hi Reid." I can't help but return Garcia's smile. She has that effect on people. To Reid, I say: "Yes, but I've only skimmed it. I'll look it over more thoroughly when I'm sufficiently caffeinated, but it looks good at first glance." I turn to Garcia. "New shirt?" It's gauzy and metallic, shimmering gently in the light. Her bronze nail polish complements the hue perfectly.

"Yep! You like it?"

"I do. Very cyberpunk."

"Thanks, sweetie." She dimples, pleased. "That's exactly what I was aiming for."

I nod to them, and continue in my epic quest for caffeine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see JJ emerge from her office and head this way. I suddenly recall a documentary I saw once, an image of a pack of coyotes surrounding a fresh kill. I wonder why.

Rationally, I know that they're not really just waiting to rip apart my facade and feed upon the viscera of my secrets. They're my colleagues and my friends, and I can't really begrudge them a little healthy curiosity. Especially when I'm usually so close-mouthed about my not-work life. But... But.

What can I say? I have privacy issues.

Anyway, I wonder which one of them is going to leap forward to take the first bite out of this juicy treat.

I sense a presence behind me as I pick up my freshly-poured coffee, turning to see a grinning face.

Et tu, Morgan?

Well, it has to be someone, I suppose. It might as well be him.

"So," he says, without preamble, setting his mug aside and leaning casually against the counter. "I heard an interesting rumour."

Ah. The direct approach.

"Oh?" I ask blandly, raising my eyebrows with just the right degree of polite interest. If that's the way he wants to play it, I'll oblige. For now. Settling into my own casual pose, I take a sip of my drink and let him respond.

(The coffee is passable this morning, which means someone other than Reid must have started the brew. Boy might be a certified genius and all, but he can't make coffee worth a damn.)

"Rumour has it," he continues, "that someone possesses an actual life outside these walls. A life that, perhaps, might even include a special *friend*." He pronounces the word with salacious relish, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

There's nothing like subtlety. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the BAU, is *nothing* like subtlety.

"Well, you know what they say about rumours," I observe, shrugging casually as I take another sip of coffee. My other colleagues have pretty much all abandoned their pretense of doing anything other than eavesdropping shamelessly. I hope they're enjoying the show. I intend to make Morgan work for this.

Time to go on the attack.

"For example, *I* heard a rumour that a someone standing not a million miles away from here recently had something of an embarrassment of riches on that front." I shake my head. "It must be tough when three of the women you're dating turn out to know each other. I bet they were surprised when they started comparing notes on their love lives."

Morgan just grins even wider. Damn. What did I miss? "Nice try, Prentiss, but I'm afraid the expiration date on that one's already passed by. If you'd been here yesterday, you would've known that. But of course you weren't."

Curses. I'd have to get the scoop from Garcia afterwards. In the meantime, maybe something work-related...

"True." A beat, and then: "So, I see there's been a break in Alvarez's case. He must be pleased." Dangling the bait in front of him, watching to see if he'll bite.

He does. "Ha! Yeah," he shakes his head, grinning. "Looks like he's finally going to be able to wrap this one up. He's already planning the celebration."

"Yeah, I saw." I hadn't actually read the relevant e-mail, but given the subject line ("Party-Time!!!!") and that Alvarez had been spending his nights and weekends on this case since forever, it wasn't too difficult to make the leap. Looks like I called it correctly.

"If that's true, he's really beaten the odds on this one," Reid observes thoughtfully. "That fraction of cases actually closed after so long without any leads is..."

"Unimportant," Morgan breaks in. "since this isn't going to be one of them."

"Do you know if it was your latest idea that pushed him over the edge?" Alvarez had a complete lack of shame when it came to begging for help with his project, including from various members of the team at different times. I'd seen some familiar looking files on Morgan's desk a few weeks ago, so it wasn't hard to guess that he'd been helping pursue Alvarez's white whale.

Though apparently it hadn't been that fruitless after all.

"Maybe," Morgan said. "I *did* work out a few profiles recently using my elite profiling skills, which could well have given him the edge he needs." He grins easily. "It certainly wouldn't be the first time I'd made the needed difference."

"So, no idea then," I translated. "Looks like I'll have to ask Alvarez myself."

"So you'll be coming to the party?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Emma and I may well have been living almost hand in pocket these last few days, but if I were any judge, we'd be scratching each other's faces off if we didn't have some time away from each other by that point.

'Sides, I was devilishly curious about Alvarez's story.

"Anyway," I tell him. "I've got work and a small flood of emails to catch up on." I turn and walk unhurriedly back to my desk, smiling to myself as I hear Morgan softly curse behind me.

Point to me, I do believe.

I settle down in my seat, and get my smartphone out. I may have plenty of things I should be doing right now, but this is the first time that I've had a chance to check out certain... details. I didn't really want to do this whilst Emma was around, just in case. She really has the most damnable habit of being able to read me at the most inconvenient times.

My research centres around the fact that Emma doesn't have the accent of someone who has been working outside the U.S. for a prolonged time. At least as best I can tell given her affected English accent. I can only think of one school domestically that has come under terrorist attack.

I may not be Garcia, but a few clicks later and I have the start of a new trail. I'm also really glad that I didn't use my work computer. It may not be against policy, but I'm fairly sure that I don't want to draw attention to the fact that I'm sort of dating a mutant.

So, Emma Frost, I now have your name. I wonder what your mutation is, if it still exists. If it does, it's not anything externally visible.

Garcia would either know or be able to find out, but I'm not ready for that yet. And I'm not sure that Garcia would favour me if I asked her. It might just push her away from me, and I don't really want to risk that.

So, put the new information together with what I already know, and what do we get?

She's strong willed, manipulative and likes to feel dominant in any given situation. Some memories surface, and I almost shiver. With absolutely no compunction against using sexual wiles, even in the most mundane of contests.

Not that I am exactly complaining about that.

I walk through her apartment in my mind. Entrance hall, living room, past the kitchen, to the bedroom.

Oh god, I'm following the path we went the first time I visited, aren't I?

Though I guess that was hardly the last time I used that particular route. And I definitely don't remember noticing that much detail the first time. Not on the way in, in any case. Emma's very good at distraction.

In any case, everything's new, everything's shiny. Even the things that look like antiques have that 'just brought from a dealer' look.

As I've noted before, that isn't normal. No matter how clean a break, people always keep something.

Except if that's not an option.

I had thought that she might be on the run, maybe from an ex. It had always seemed a little off - I couldn't imagine Emma running from anyone that she had power over.

But given what she had told me a couple of days ago, after the attack? I could believe that she'd run from herself.

And the things in her apartment, they're expensive, but not as expensive as the CEO of Frost International could afford, and Emma certainly didn't seem the type to revere frugality and not project the best image she could. Which implies that she doesn't have full access to her funds.

Which in turn means that whoever she doesn't want to find her could trace her if she used her normal funds.

The government or mutants seem the obvious answers to that question. But Emma didn't seem unduly fazed when she guess that I was an F.B.I. profiler, so government is unlikely. Mutants then.

Former friends or former foes? Probably both, I decide after a moment of contemplation. She wasn't ready to go back, and, from what she said, her compatriots would probably exert pressure upon her to return.

I did my best to bury the voice that said that I'd really like her to stay here. It wasn't a problem at the moment and... And that meant that I had time to see what she needed to do. And adjust myself and my hopes accordingly.

I shake my head free of my contemplation, clear the search and pocket my phone. I'm a few emails into my backlog when I feel the gaze of various colleagues of mine who seem to have taken to hovering nearby, as if by happenstance. Some happenstance. I make the strategic error of looking up and manage to catch Garcia's soulful eyes.

"Come on Emz. You're not going to hold out on us, are you?" Ouch. Low blow, Garcia. How am I supposed to resist that pleading expression?

Ah well. I guess I'm going to have to have to share the basics after all.

I shrug with reasonably good grace. "There isn't that much to tell. One of my friends was attacked on the street and ended up with a concussion. They had to stay in hospital overnight for observation and then needed help with getting home and grocery shopping and the like. There wasn't anyone else they could call. That's it."

"Ohmigosh! What happened? Was it a mugging? Are they okay? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Woah, slow down. One question at a time," I say, allowing a lopsided smile to form, then fade. "Someone hit them over the head. They don't really remember anything about the incident" -- well, at least she *said* she didn't -- "but it could well have been an attempted mugging. Luckily, the injury wasn't too serious and they seem to be recovering well. Thanks for the offer, Garcia. I don't think there is anything, but if there is I'll let you know."

Yeah, it's a touching offer, but I suspect that it's never going to happen. Whenever I so much as drift near the subject of the attack, Emma gets more than a little defensive.

She might talk to me about it, but not soon, not unless the counsellor I've managed to persuade her to see can work miracles.

"So, about this friend..." Morgan starts to resume the interrogation, but is interrupted by Hotch.

"Emily, can I have a quick word with you in my office?"

"Sure." I follow him up the stairs to his office, taking my coffee with me. I have the feeling I'm going to need it.

Saved by the boss, or out of the frying pan into the fire?

I know which one I'm betting on.

"Thanks again for letting me take the time off," I say, as I sit in the chair across from his. "I'm sorry about the short notice. I'll make sure I catch up with everything important."

"I know you will." He dismisses the subject with a slight, abbreviated movement of one hand. Evidently he isn't intending to chew me out for my attendance. Not that he would, but that would probably be better than what I suspect this is leading to. "How is your friend?"

"Recovering well, thank you," I say carefully. "It was just a mild concussion. The doctors at the hospital were really just being cautious by having them stay in for observation."

"Well, you never know with head injuries," he observes. "Even mild ones can potentially have major long-term consequences. And the immediate effects can be quite debilitating at the time." He pauses for a second, regarding me.

I nod in acknowledgement, hoping that he'll leave it there. But instinct tells me he's going somewhere with this, a conversational trap that I'll only avoid if I'm damned lucky.

Sometimes, he's far too good at this.

"People can do the strangest things while suffering from impaired consciousness," he muses thoughtfully, as if this is just idle reminiscing. "Most often -- at least, in my experience -- the concussed individual will focus on something with an almost maniacal intensity. Nothing else matters but this one thing." A wry smile lifts the corner of his mouth. "Around here, it's mostly about getting the job done."

"Mmm." I acknowledge the point, waiting for the other shoe to drop. No way is the interrogation over so easily. I don't have to wait long for my instincts to be proved right.

"Your friend was asking for you, you said," he says casually. Too casually. "Hmmm." He waits a beat, giving me a chance to respond. I don't, so he continues. "The two of you must be very close."

"We're good friends." Even as I speak the words, I wonder if they're true. *Are* we friends? We're passionate, certainly. We converse easily. We enjoy spending time together. We... I think there's trust there, of a sort. We've both revealed vulnerabilities to each other; both shared secrets. Is that friendship? If not, then what?

Uncharacteristically, my internal musings distract me so that it takes a moment for Hotch's next words to register.

"I look forward to meeting them at the next BAU dinner."

"Huh?" I say wittily, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Partners and... good friends are always welcome. Please feel free to extend the invitation to them."

Why does that last part sound like an order? And why do I have the feeling that Hotch is enjoying this?

"I'll have to see if they can make it," I temporise, hoping against hope that I can head this calamity off at the pass.

"Good," he says, nodding as if the matter is settled. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the same way they do when he's trusting one of his team to Get. The. Job. Done.

Damn.

That's the one ploy I can never resist, and I would wager dollars to donuts that if anyone knows that, it's Hotch.

Double damn.

It looks like I'll be introducing Emma to my colleagues.

Oh God.

Emma. And my colleagues. In the same room.

For hours.

I think I need something a little stronger than coffee. Celia is going to laugh her socks off at...

Oh God.

I haven't told Celia about Emma. If my colleagues meet Emma before she does, she's going to kill me. Slowly.

I have to tell her.

I have to tell her *tonight*.

I'll have to introduce Celia and Emma.

Oh God.

Why couldn't someone have hit *me* over the head?