Riding with the Tide, Prologue: The Reunion
Sequel to On the Watercourse; reading it first would help make sense of certain absences and probable question marks one might have while reading this story. Set in Season 7, about five months after the events of episode 6x18, Lauren. Spoilers for themes and events throughout Season 6. No warnings.
But rather turn the pipe and waters course
To serve thy sinnes, and furnish thee with store
Of sov'raigne tears, springing from true remorse:
That so in purenesse thou mayst him adore,
Who gives to man, as he sees fit, salvation/damnation
-George Herbert, The Water-course
~ * ~
Chapter One: The Reunion
It is a perfectly ordinary day at Washington Dulles International Airport.
Late in the August afternoon, buzzing crowds of people flow in and out of the gates as thick slices of sunlight pour in through the glass ceilings and bathe the halls in a lively orange color. A dark-skinned young man draws on a sketchpad; there's a smile on his face as his hand moves up and down on the paper in quick, sharp movements. The airport is the perfect place for a sketch artist, for all kinds of emotions can be seen here at all times.
There are tearful departures and joyful reunions at every gate. There is excitement on some faces; like the group of teenagers talking loudly as they keep bouncing on their feet, joking around, glancing at their tickets as though to convince themselves that this is real, that they really are taking this trip to Europe. There is reluctance and dread on some faces, like that of the balding man in a wrinked business suit who clenches his coffee cup with irritated fingers, or the old woman with enormous earrings who tells her grandson to stop bothering people or he will never see his PlayStation again.
For some, there are only one-way tickets. There are those who leave alone, and those who arrive alone. Those who don't expect a welcome where they're going to, and those who don't where they are returning to.
An ordinary day at the airport, for most of these people, is far from being ordinary.
The strange group of four lingering by Gate G3A is no exception to this. And neither is the person they are expecting.
But again, not many people welcome a friend back from the dead every day.
/
Each one of them is handling the tension in their own way.
Garcia is offering everyone a cup of coffee, nodding absently at their just as absent thanks and unceremoniously dropping one cup into the trash when Reid refuses it with a shake of his head. She starts pacing through an indeterminable lenght, clutching her blue beaded bag to her chest with one arm as she glomps down her coffee with the other, her gaze keeping up with the subconscious rhythm of her feet, watching her high-heeled shoes as she puts one foot in front of the other. Every now and then, she slows down to look at the red digits announcing arrival details of each flight, checks her watch, and resumes her stride.
Although quite still as opposed to Garcia's restlessness, Reid looks just as nervous as he chews on his fingernails and keeps craning his neck to keep the gates perfectly within his sight. His face is far too pale, his eyes sunken deeply into a pool of purple darkness. With a sigh, he wraps his arms around himself as though he's cold, which seems implausible, as despite the heat, he's wearing a cardigan over his shirt, and tucks his hands under his armpits. Studying him with a keen gaze, Rossi suspects he hasn't slept much since they've learned the truth three days ago.
The older profiler himself is seated on one of the hard, leather-covered benches. He's leaning back against his seat, legs crossed, and for any passer-by, he seems the perfect picture of a man who's used to waiting to welcome friends in airports. He sips his coffee with casual grace; there's even a folded newspaper lying just next to his knee. But when he's not watching the anxious technical-analyst, the sickly-looking genius, or the grim, motionless agent with a protective glance, his gaze falls on nothing particular, and his eyes become glassy as he entertains private thoughts.
The last one of the group is standing eract not far from Rossi, but in a casual distance from Reid and Garcia. Morgan is standing so rigidly that the tension in his muscles is almost palpable; his brow is furrowed in a troubled crease, and there's a defensive look in his dark eyes that puts a distance between himself and the rest of the world. Perhaps it is necessary, for what goes on behind the though posture is a raging conflict of emotions; the desire to leave struggling against the impossibility to do so; easy expectance of the familiar clashing against the difficult anticipation of the unfamiliar.
Overhead, an invisible pair of lips mechanically announce the timely landing of Flight Number 026 of Air France, departing from Paris and bound for Washington. The passangers will be arriving shortly through Gate G3A.
A course of energy travels through the waiting crowd. People move closer to the security tape before the doors, and it feels like the noise of the chatter has increased.
Between the four of them, the silence only thickens.
They watch the glass doors slide open, and the first passangers from Paris appear. Rossi rises to his feet; Garcia walks hastily towards the front. Morgan shifts closer to the others, and Reid pales even more.
With their hearts at their throats, they fix their gazes to the incoming crowd, and they wait.
/
A girl breaks free from the hand of a flight-attandant, and runs to her family with a squeal. Two slant-eyed men shake hands with a woman who's been holding up a card with names on it. A group of middle-aged tourists manouver around the crowd as they chat in unfamiliar tongues.
Impatience is in the air, as those who wait for their loved ones wish for the crowd to split up and reveal the familiar face.
At first, they nearly miss her.
They're looking for the tough woman with the raven hair and bangs, supporting black pants and jacket and boots, and they're not even aware of the absurdity of that expectation because Prentiss wouldn't wear a jacket and boots in a hot summer day.
Their eyes search for the one they thought they'd laid in a coffin and buried. It is not whom they find.
Among the newcomers, someone halts at a step, causing a momentary irritation in the flow of people still pouring in from behind. It's a tall woman with red hair with a pair of big sunglasses perched on the flocks. There's a leather-strapped backpack thrown over her shoulder, pulling the stylishly torn sleeve of her grey tee-shirt, baring a white, bony shoulder. Battered jeans and sandals carrying the dirt of the road, one small luggage in one hand, she seems the perfect definition of a globe-trotter.
No, it is not the Emily Prentiss they expect. But it is definitely her.
For what feels like a lifetime, they stare at each other. And then, Prentiss takes one step forward, and then another, and closes the distance.
It is not a very ordinary reunion.
/
It is not exactly joyful. Not exactly warm. Not very tearful. Not cold or reluctant, either.
Somehow, it is a mixture of all, and none at all at the same time.
If anything, it is genuine.
Garcia embraces Prentiss tightly, trembling as she fights against giving in to sobs. She doesn't even feel the slight dampness on her own shoulder.
Reid's lower lip is quivering, although there is no telling whether he's at the verge of tears or about to break into a smile. He hugs Prentiss. She whispers something in his ear, and he responds in kind.
Rossi smiles, eyes bright, and welcomes her home. Prentiss reaches for his hands and squeezes them with more gratitude than words can express.
Morgan doesn't move or smile. Neither does she. They share a long, wordless greeting.
Then, slowly, Morgan raises his hand, car keys dangling from his fingers like a peace offer, and with a slight curl of her lips, Prentiss nods.
It is not exactly homecoming.
But it certainly feels like it.
Part One: Face-Off
But rather turn the pipe and waters course
To serve thy sinnes, and furnish thee with store
Of sov'raigne tears, springing from true remorse:
That so in purenesse thou mayst him adore,
Who gives to man, as he sees fit, salvation/damnation
-George Herbert, The Water-course
~ * ~
Chapter One: The Reunion
It is a perfectly ordinary day at Washington Dulles International Airport.
Late in the August afternoon, buzzing crowds of people flow in and out of the gates as thick slices of sunlight pour in through the glass ceilings and bathe the halls in a lively orange color. A dark-skinned young man draws on a sketchpad; there's a smile on his face as his hand moves up and down on the paper in quick, sharp movements. The airport is the perfect place for a sketch artist, for all kinds of emotions can be seen here at all times.
There are tearful departures and joyful reunions at every gate. There is excitement on some faces; like the group of teenagers talking loudly as they keep bouncing on their feet, joking around, glancing at their tickets as though to convince themselves that this is real, that they really are taking this trip to Europe. There is reluctance and dread on some faces, like that of the balding man in a wrinked business suit who clenches his coffee cup with irritated fingers, or the old woman with enormous earrings who tells her grandson to stop bothering people or he will never see his PlayStation again.
For some, there are only one-way tickets. There are those who leave alone, and those who arrive alone. Those who don't expect a welcome where they're going to, and those who don't where they are returning to.
An ordinary day at the airport, for most of these people, is far from being ordinary.
The strange group of four lingering by Gate G3A is no exception to this. And neither is the person they are expecting.
But again, not many people welcome a friend back from the dead every day.
/
Each one of them is handling the tension in their own way.
Garcia is offering everyone a cup of coffee, nodding absently at their just as absent thanks and unceremoniously dropping one cup into the trash when Reid refuses it with a shake of his head. She starts pacing through an indeterminable lenght, clutching her blue beaded bag to her chest with one arm as she glomps down her coffee with the other, her gaze keeping up with the subconscious rhythm of her feet, watching her high-heeled shoes as she puts one foot in front of the other. Every now and then, she slows down to look at the red digits announcing arrival details of each flight, checks her watch, and resumes her stride.
Although quite still as opposed to Garcia's restlessness, Reid looks just as nervous as he chews on his fingernails and keeps craning his neck to keep the gates perfectly within his sight. His face is far too pale, his eyes sunken deeply into a pool of purple darkness. With a sigh, he wraps his arms around himself as though he's cold, which seems implausible, as despite the heat, he's wearing a cardigan over his shirt, and tucks his hands under his armpits. Studying him with a keen gaze, Rossi suspects he hasn't slept much since they've learned the truth three days ago.
The older profiler himself is seated on one of the hard, leather-covered benches. He's leaning back against his seat, legs crossed, and for any passer-by, he seems the perfect picture of a man who's used to waiting to welcome friends in airports. He sips his coffee with casual grace; there's even a folded newspaper lying just next to his knee. But when he's not watching the anxious technical-analyst, the sickly-looking genius, or the grim, motionless agent with a protective glance, his gaze falls on nothing particular, and his eyes become glassy as he entertains private thoughts.
The last one of the group is standing eract not far from Rossi, but in a casual distance from Reid and Garcia. Morgan is standing so rigidly that the tension in his muscles is almost palpable; his brow is furrowed in a troubled crease, and there's a defensive look in his dark eyes that puts a distance between himself and the rest of the world. Perhaps it is necessary, for what goes on behind the though posture is a raging conflict of emotions; the desire to leave struggling against the impossibility to do so; easy expectance of the familiar clashing against the difficult anticipation of the unfamiliar.
Overhead, an invisible pair of lips mechanically announce the timely landing of Flight Number 026 of Air France, departing from Paris and bound for Washington. The passangers will be arriving shortly through Gate G3A.
A course of energy travels through the waiting crowd. People move closer to the security tape before the doors, and it feels like the noise of the chatter has increased.
Between the four of them, the silence only thickens.
They watch the glass doors slide open, and the first passangers from Paris appear. Rossi rises to his feet; Garcia walks hastily towards the front. Morgan shifts closer to the others, and Reid pales even more.
With their hearts at their throats, they fix their gazes to the incoming crowd, and they wait.
/
A girl breaks free from the hand of a flight-attandant, and runs to her family with a squeal. Two slant-eyed men shake hands with a woman who's been holding up a card with names on it. A group of middle-aged tourists manouver around the crowd as they chat in unfamiliar tongues.
Impatience is in the air, as those who wait for their loved ones wish for the crowd to split up and reveal the familiar face.
At first, they nearly miss her.
They're looking for the tough woman with the raven hair and bangs, supporting black pants and jacket and boots, and they're not even aware of the absurdity of that expectation because Prentiss wouldn't wear a jacket and boots in a hot summer day.
Their eyes search for the one they thought they'd laid in a coffin and buried. It is not whom they find.
Among the newcomers, someone halts at a step, causing a momentary irritation in the flow of people still pouring in from behind. It's a tall woman with red hair with a pair of big sunglasses perched on the flocks. There's a leather-strapped backpack thrown over her shoulder, pulling the stylishly torn sleeve of her grey tee-shirt, baring a white, bony shoulder. Battered jeans and sandals carrying the dirt of the road, one small luggage in one hand, she seems the perfect definition of a globe-trotter.
No, it is not the Emily Prentiss they expect. But it is definitely her.
For what feels like a lifetime, they stare at each other. And then, Prentiss takes one step forward, and then another, and closes the distance.
It is not a very ordinary reunion.
/
It is not exactly joyful. Not exactly warm. Not very tearful. Not cold or reluctant, either.
Somehow, it is a mixture of all, and none at all at the same time.
If anything, it is genuine.
Garcia embraces Prentiss tightly, trembling as she fights against giving in to sobs. She doesn't even feel the slight dampness on her own shoulder.
Reid's lower lip is quivering, although there is no telling whether he's at the verge of tears or about to break into a smile. He hugs Prentiss. She whispers something in his ear, and he responds in kind.
Rossi smiles, eyes bright, and welcomes her home. Prentiss reaches for his hands and squeezes them with more gratitude than words can express.
Morgan doesn't move or smile. Neither does she. They share a long, wordless greeting.
Then, slowly, Morgan raises his hand, car keys dangling from his fingers like a peace offer, and with a slight curl of her lips, Prentiss nods.
It is not exactly homecoming.
But it certainly feels like it.
Part One: Face-Off