Nothing So Simple, for wojelah, Rossi/Prentiss, PG
Title: Nothing So Simple
Author: innerslytherin
Recipient: wojelah
Pairing: Rossi/Prentiss
Rating: PG
Word Count: 9,500
Warning/spoiler: Angsty
Summary/Prompt: Dave and Emily want each other. But wanting each other isn't enough to make a relationship work.
A/N: Title adapted from Susan Cooper's Silver on the Tree.
"[A]ll love has great value. Every human being who loves another loves imperfection, for there is no perfect being on this earth - nothing is so simple as that." -- Susan Cooper, Silver on the Tree
i. now
It's snowing. Emily stands at the window, forehead pressed against glass so cold it makes her skin ache. She stares at the fat, white flakes rioting down from the sky, her vision unfocusing just a little. The echoes of angry words still ring in her ears, but the asphalt is gray with the accumulation, and all she can think is, He'll drive too fast and kill himself.
The corners of her mouth draw down, her control wavering. She squeezes her eyes shut and opens her mouth, forcing in a sharp breath. The tears retreat.
She shivers and hugs her arms around herself. Her house feels colder since the door slammed behind him. She thinks about the glass of port she set down on the coffee table during the argument. It's still mostly full, and it would warm her up nicely. But after hurling around words like 'chauvinist' and 'asshole', she thinks maybe she doesn't deserve to be warm.
He gave back as good as he got, no question. She could live to be ninety and never forget the punch to the solar plexus she felt when he called her paranoid and emotionally distant. The accusations on both parts are not entirely fair, but not entirely untrue. That might be the worst part about it.
They both know the best way possible to hurt each other.
****
Dave's driving too fast for the road conditions and he knows it, but he's pissed and he's hurting, and at the moment he'd like nothing better than to total his car, because why the hell not? He's already totaled his relationship. Might as well make the Mercedes match.
Of course, the cop who pulls him over doesn't think that's a very good excuse, but once he sees the name on the license, once he realizes Dave's a Fed, he stammers an apology. Dave's wavering between being sheepish and being an asshole. The cop collects himself after a moment and gives him a warning to be more careful.
Dave promises to slow down. The cop has snowflakes dusting the brim of his cap, and he is shivering just a little as he turns to get back in his car. The wipers swipe across the Mercedes windshield, pause for a few seconds, and swipe across again. Dave looks down at his cell phone. The screen is dark, no calls missed while he was James Deaning it across the city.
He puts the car in gear and holds it to a staid thirty miles an hour most of the way home. He parks in the garage and stands looking around him, to the pickup on his left, to the empty bay on his right, which he cleaned out this fall for Emily's ridiculous little hybrid. His chest aches.
He goes inside and pours himself a double.
****
She calls her mother.
Emily and Elizabeth Prentiss don't have a warm relationship by any means, but Emily has always admired her mother's strength and resolve, even though she scorns her mother's cold aloofness.
Ironic, considering Emily has apparently turned out just like her.
Maybe it's the two glasses of port she drank before calling. Maybe it's the glass of Woodford Reserve currently in her hand. But for some reason, her mother's voice sounds warmer than usual as she asks what's wrong.
"Why does something have to be wrong for me to call my mother?" Emily says.
There's a silence, and Emily knows her mother could point out that she never calls unless she's RSVPing to some family obligation. But instead of the nagging mother, Emily gets the diplomat. "Of course nothing has to be wrong," Elizabeth said. "But ten is a little late for you to be calling for a social reason."
Emily swallows against a tightness in her throat. She could tell her mother that her boyfriend wants to meet the parents. She could say how scared she is to acknowledge their relationship to anyone who knows her well. She could ask how her mother knew she wanted to marry her father, or why her mother didn't argue when he left them fifteen years later.
Instead she plays the diplomat's daughter and says, "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't realize how long I'd stayed at work. I just wanted to know what you'd like for Christmas."
****
Rob seems to think it's just another call to chat, because he's settled into a story about Roger, who's in his junior year of Chemical Engineering at Purdue. Something about a fraternity brother and the drum kit from Saint Thomas Aquinas and the fountain on the engineering mall, but Dave doesn't have the patience or the sobriety to hear him out.
"How did you stay married to Karen all those years?" he interrupts.
Rob pauses, and Dave can almost hear his older brother regrouping. Dave takes a reckless gulp of his scotch and looks at one white sock against Muchie's chocolate fur. The lab looks at him without lifting his muzzle from where it rests on Dave's toes. His tail thumps against the floor and Dave has a moment of fierce gratitude that at least his dog seems to like him.
"Well, I made a promise, Davey." Rob's voice is apologetic. The last of the three marriages ended more because of his wife's actions than Dave's, but the first one was all on him, and the second wasn't much better, even if he screwed up differently the second time around. Still, Rob's always been careful not to be too judgmental, which is why he's the only family member Dave spoke to for three years after his first divorce.
"There's gotta be more to it than that," Dave protests. He's never asked this question before. He should have asked it three weddings ago, but as much as he regrets the divorces, he's never regretted that they led him to Emily Prentiss. Not until tonight, at least.
Hell, not even tonight.
Rob sighs, the sound echoing loudly across the lines from Chicago to Virginia. "God, Davey, that's too complicated a question to answer at ten o'clock at night." Still, he tries. "Okay, I made her a promise, and I wanted to honor both her and God by keeping that promise. And when things got tough, I made a decision to love her. I didn't just expect to feel it. I worked at it. And I listened to her. And I asked her what she needed from me. And she did the same. And eventually there was Roger, and yeah, okay, when he was eight we were staying together just for his sake."
"I didn't know that," Dave blurts.
"Yeah, well. Karen had just had the third miscarriage, and we'd decided to quit trying, and we were fighting a lot." Rob's voice is thick. "It was hard on her. Hard on me, too, but I didn't think I had a right to feel bad, considering it was her body."
Dave stares at the half-inch of scotch in his glass. "You had a right to grieve."
"Yeah," Rob agrees. "But I didn't know that then. And I was taking it out on her, when she was the person I felt like I oughta be protecting. And that made me feel guilty, so I got defensive, and for weeks she was just sleeping all the damn time, and..." Another explosive sigh rattles in Dave's ear. "Anyway. We got help. We made it through. And by the time we'd made it through that, we could make it through anything."
Anything but cancer, anyway. Dave's chest feels tight. "I wish I coulda been more like you," he says softly. He wishes he hadn't let Marie down, or Julie, or even Gretchen, who had let him down too. He wishes to Christ he hadn't accused Emily of not trusting him, of being afraid to commit.
"Who you are is good, Davey," Rob says finally. His voice is as soft as Dave's. "You just got lost for a while. It happens. You got yourself found again."
Dave finishes the scotch and doesn't answer.
ii. before
This is how they met, then. A woman was given a job she knew she deserved, but it was twisted to fit someone's politics. She resigned and was reinstated, but there was always that doubt afterwards.
A man came back to an institution he'd started, but discovered it had changed in the ten years he'd been gone. He screwed up and was absolved, but he couldn't help feeling like an outsider in what ought to be his own place.
Emily was grateful to have discovered loyalty where she had feared none existed. But sometimes she almost wished Hotch hadn't talked her into going to Milwaukee for one last case. If she hadn't gone to Milwaukee, she wouldn't have stayed with the BAU, and she never would have met David Rossi.
Sometimes, she thought it would have been better if they'd never met.
****
She followed him to Indianapolis. That wasn't what made him notice her. Hell, he'd seen that she had great legs the day they met. But it was what made him realize she didn't give a damn about David Rossi, legendary profiler. None of them did, not even Dr. Reid, who'd been over-awed and annoying for a while. But Prentiss was the ringleader in this instance, the one who'd talked Garcia into telling them where he'd gone, the one who'd talked Morgan and JJ into making his business their business. Prentiss was the one who'd said it.
Why do you care? he'd demanded. And her reply had shocked him to the core. Because you do.
She drove him nuts trying to figure her out after that. She'd as much as said she cared about him, but after the case, she'd given him no indication she'd meant that any differently than she cared about Hotch or JJ. She was cool as ice, this diplomat's daughter, and it was only much later that he realized she was protecting herself, fearing that she'd admitted too much.
The day Dave first realized he had any hope was a Thursday. A really shitty Thursday. He'd lost his keys for a good twenty minutes before finding them in the round table room, then he'd fielded a nasty phone call from someone who didn't like the consultation he'd provided. On his way for a refill, he dropped his favorite coffee mug, which shattered into pieces. In exasperation he growled, "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."
A woman's voice behind him said, "It doesn't matter so much if you know where your towel is." And there was Emily Prentiss, holding out a hand towel from the kitchenette, an awkward smile on her face. He should have known she would be a fan of the Hitchhiker's Guide.
Dave took the towel, giving her a crooked smile in return.
iii. now
There's a case. There are always cases, usually in the most inconvenient times--halfway through Haley Hotchner's funeral, in the middle of a fundraiser for homeless vets where he was the keynote speaker, while he and his lover and coworker are in the middle of a cold war. It's the job. So the call from Hotch doesn't surprise him, but it still makes him swear and slam drawers as he grabs a few extra pairs of underwear for his ready bag.
They manage a détente. Barely. Neither he nor Emily are meeting each other's gazes, and he wonders if she's spent the past three nights drinking and moping as much as he has. Or maybe she's already written him off and called Mick Rawson or that guy in New York who liked her or some senator's son her mother introduced her to. Or maybe--
"Dave, are you with us?" Hotch's voice is mild in correction, as always, but Dave stops frowning at Emily's hands folded on the table, and clears his throat.
"They're all single parents," he says, and the conversation returns to the case.
****
She knows Dave is watching her. She's watching him, in between interviewing family members of victims and visiting crime scenes. But she can't bring herself to meet his gaze full on, can't bring herself to speak and possibly voice the regrets and hurts that well against her teeth. She gets herself paired off with Reid for the duration of the case, and does her best to ignore the ache she sees--or imagines she sees--in Dave's eyes.
Then there's Victoria Snyder, who fights her attacker off, and she's the first good lead they have. She's in the hospital, she's been raped and brutalized, but she's still alive, and her six-year-old daughter is safe in the grandmother's care. Hotch sends Emily and Reid. Emily makes it to the hospital room door, then stumbles into the door frame. She hadn't seen Victoria's age. The other victims had been in their late twenties or early thirties. Victoria isn't.
The black-eyed girl in the hospital bed is barely out of her teens.
Emily's gut clenches, but she has a job to do, and this girl needs her help. She calls Victoria's name, making her voice as gentle as she can. She does it the way she always does in situations like this; she pretends she's talking to her fifteen-year-old self in that abortion clinic outside Rome. Victoria responds, her dull eyes easing a little, her fingers uncurling from fists. She won't tell them anything until Emily promises that her daughter is safe, then she tells them everything.
Thanks to Victoria, they find the unsub. Thanks to Victoria, Emily sits alone on the jet home, gazing out the window and wondering if she would have ended up like Victoria if she'd kept her baby. The others know the case hit her hard, so none of them approach her. She dozes for a while, and when she wakes, there's a cup of coffee on the table in front of her, sweetened to her taste. She looks for Dave, but he's engrossed in a book at the other end of the table, and really any of them could order coffee for the whole team.
Part of her wishes she had strong arms to curl up in tonight. Part of her hates that she's weak enough to wish it.
iv. before
The mystery that was Emily Prentiss continued to intrigue him. They worked cases all over the States, and Dave had never seen anyone compartmentalize as well as Hotch, but she did. Maybe it was because she grew up the daughter of a diplomat, but Dave had seen the way she responded to teenaged girls. He'd seen her compassion for the sex workers and addicts they met. He'd seen how tough she was on power-assertive rapists and how she could cut an alpha male to shreds with her words.
When it all came together in a deserted lot in Georgetown, he felt like he'd always known.
It was all too obvious to him how much she hated herself for the choice she'd made in Rome. It had been an impossible choice, and who was he to say what he would have done in her place? He knew she was expecting condemnation from him, a fellow Catholic, but he had three failed marriages under his belt. No way was he going to cast the first stone.
Jimmy had told Dave to watch out for her. Dave hadn't needed to be told.
He could have replied that Emily Prentiss knew how to watch out for herself. He could have replied that she wouldn't appreciate having a man, any man, watch out for her. He could have replied that Jimmy had got it all wrong. Instead he just pointed his forefinger in a pretend gun, because as usual, Jimmy had hit the target dead center.
Her strength and vulnerability and fierceness and sorrow had swept him head over heels, and he wasn't even trying to fight it.
****
For weeks after Matthew's death, Emily had watched Dave for signs that he looked at her differently. He knew her darkest secrets. From them he could easily extrapolate her deepest desires and deepest fears. She knew he would. There might be a tacit rule against intrateam profiling, but considering she'd been part of breaking that rule practically on his first day, she couldn't begrudge him the chance to return the favor.
But the thing was, he didn't treat her any differently.
She'd expected him to be a little more distant, a little less friendly. They were both Catholics, they both believed that life began at conception. He might be unconventional in a lot of ways, but he was devout, and she knew it. When she didn't see any cooling off, she decided maybe he felt sorry for her. But he didn't coddle her, either, didn't act as if she were damaged somehow by her past. His voice was warm when he asked how she was doing, but there was nothing to indicate he was motivated by pity.
It intrigued her against her will.
She'd been fighting an attraction to him from the moment they met, of course. He was just the brash, arrogant type of alpha male she went for. He wore his confidence like a superhero's cape and moved forward without hesitation, even when subtlety would be a better approach. But there was a tender side to David Rossi, one that shone through in the most unexpected moments.
She found herself sitting next to him on the jet, seeking out his opinion when she had a sticky consult to work on. He started loaning her books when he thought she might enjoy them--Ken Follett once, Michael Connelly another time. He got past her defenses before she really noticed, and when he invited her to go to a museum opening with him, she found herself accepting without even meaning to.
She'd spent three days wondering if it was a date, agonizing over what to wear and how to do her hair. At work she'd spilled her coffee in front of him and laughed too loudly and tried too hard. In the end she'd decided it wasn't a date, but dressed up anyway.
When he walked her to her door afterwards, he kissed her. She stepped on his toe and got her key stuck in the lock, but he just laughed and kissed her again, and said he would see her at work on Monday.
It had left her wondering all weekend if she'd been right about it not being a date, but of course it had made her want to be wrong.
v. now
Dave's been actively trying to apologize for over a week. It's almost two months since they argued, and Christmas felt like a hard freeze without her, when he'd actually been looking forward to it for the first time in twenty years. He has a velvet box that he hopes will make up for his being an asshole. But Emily is avoiding him, and he's gone through frustrated and is edging on pissed off. He gets nothing but formal words exchanged at work and oblique looks.
They've worked another case, both of them professional and on their best behavior around the team. She looks tired, though, little lines showing at the corners of her eyes. And he spends a lot of his time feeling sad and unable to do anything to push it away.
He puts up with it for a while, but one Friday night he goes to her house, determined to make her listen to him. He deserves to be heard out, for God's sake. She deserves to have him hear her out, too, and he knows it. He'll admit it, if she'll hold still long enough.
He parks the Mercedes in front of a hydrant, knowing it'll cause problems later and not giving a damn. He can see his breath as he strides up the walk. He reaches the door and pauses. The fingers of his right hand curl around the velvet box in his coat pocket. He lifts his left hand and hammers on the door.
****
Emily isn't expecting anyone to knock on her door. She's curled up on the couch, halfway through a bottle of Traminette. Her eyes are burning even though she hasn't cried in three days. Maybe because she hasn't cried in three days. She hates David Rossi for making her cry like this. She hates David Rossi for making her miss him.
They aren't well-suited. He's too old-fashioned to deal with a woman like her. She's too gun-shy to be as open about their relationship as he wants. Her mother will hate him. His ex-wives...hell, he has ex-wives, that's enough.
When she lets herself into a cold, empty house tonight, she has decided again to end it. Everyone talks about finding the perfect mate, but there's nothing perfect about their relationship. She is jealous of his three ex-wives, and she wants to ask about them, and she doesn't want to know about them. He's been going crazy keeping their relationship a secret, and no man likes wearing condoms all the time. He's right, she is paranoid, but she knows he doesn't want children, and there's no way in hell she's getting herself pregnant with another unwanted baby.
She would want the baby. She does want a baby. But Dave wouldn't want to be a father at his age, and she wouldn't be able to handle being rejected like that a second time. Even worse if he 'did the right thing' and took care of her, even though he didn't want it.
So ending it is the right thing to do.
She's told herself that at least half a dozen times since the fight, and every time she does, the bottom drops out of her stomach and her mouth goes dry and her heart pounds and she ends up fighting off tears. The damnable truth is that she can't end it with Dave Rossi. She loves him. She needs him. And every time she admits that to herself, she's seized with a paralyzing fear that he will be the one to come to his senses, that he'll get tired of the silence between them, that he'll decide to find a woman who's easier to deal with.
She's been avoiding him ever since they got home from the last case. The pounding on her door signals the end of that.
****
She looks like hell when she opens the door. She's wearing sweatpants and one of his old flannel shirts, which makes his heart do something that ought to feel unpleasant but doesn't. Her hair is messy and her eyes bloodshot. He wants to pull her into his arms and hug her.
She just stands in the doorway, her lips parted slightly, her gaze on his nose. She's practically vibrating with tension. The fingers of one hand are curled around the cuff of her sleeve. She doesn't speak.
The urge to take her in his arms compels him forward a step, but before he's even finished moving, he can see her pulling back into herself. It makes him want to puke, it hurts so much, but he tries not to let it show.
"I came to apologize," he says, his voice rough. She's beautiful and hurting, and he knows it's partly because of him and partly because of her own fears, and he just wants to make it better. Why can't she trust him enough to let him do that?
She presses her lips together, then says, "Come in." Her voice is tight and gives nothing away. The diplomat's daughter, he thinks, and it's half fondness and half frustration.
He steps inside and she reaches for his coat. He panics for a second, then manages to shove the velvet-covered box into his jeans pocket before surrendering the coat.
"Would you like a drink?"
"Sure." He clears his throat. "Whiskey?"
"I have Woodford Reserve," she says. "No scotch." He can't tell if there's any hint of apology to her tone, or if she's merely informing him.
"Bourbon's fine." It's not his favorite, but it's still good for his nerves, even if it won't do his churning stomach any favors.
She drapes his coat on the back of a chair, nods. He can see an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, but there's only one glass. Not that he expected her to have company, but it's still a relief. She pours his drink and brings it over to him. She isn't giving anything away, and Dave wants to shake her. He sips the whiskey instead. It's good. Woodford Reserve has always been his favorite bourbon, and he supposes she knows that.
He sees her shoulders move, though he doesn't hear her sigh. "Sit down, Dave," she says, and for the first time in three damn weeks she sounds almost normal.
He sits. He wants to tug her in next to him, but he watches her settle at the other end of the couch. He still has making up to do. If he's honest with himself, and he tries to be, he's still smarting a lot from some of the things she said. He's hoping she'll apologize too, if he starts it. He hasn't let himself think about the alternative, that she might not accept his apology.
It's been practically all he's thought about.
"I was an asshole," he begins. He sees her lips twitch, and it encourages him. "I'm an asshole a lot," he admits. It's true, and he knows it. "I've always taken pride in it, really. I can get away with being an asshole. I don't pull any punches. I shoot from the hip." Not with women, of course, or at least, not the one's he's been involved with. With them, he's been the smooth guy who's used to having money and nice things and likes sharing them. But no matter how hard he tries, he always screws up.
Emily's expression has softened just a little. It makes her look younger, and even though he's not done apologizing, it kind of turns him on. He sips his bourbon and holds her gaze.
"The thing is, I didn't set out to be this guy. It's just that somewhere along the line, it got to be easier being the asshole, and for a long time--right up until I came back to the BAU, really--it became my default operating system." He stumbles to a halt, trying to figure out what to say next.
Emily has changed that. She makes him want to be the better man again. She makes him see himself the way he could be, instead of the way other people see him. She treats him like he is the guy he wants to be, and it's changed his life.
He just isn't sure how to put that into words. So finally he gives up and pulls the box out of his pocket. "I--these are--I'm sorry," he says, shoving the box into her hand.
She stares down at the box. Her eyebrows draw together, making a vertical line in her forehead. Dave knows that isn't a good sign, but she hasn't even opened the box yet. How can she be upset about it?
"Open it," he urges, but she doesn't open it. She doesn't even look up at him. The silence between them feels thick, like the air right before a thunderstorm, even though it's January. Shit. This isn't going right.
In desperation, Dave takes the box back out of her hand and opens it for her. When he holds it out again, he can see his hand is shaking, but he can't pull it back without withdrawing the gift, so he just lets her see it.
The earrings are gorgeous if he does say so himself. He has thought about diamonds, but Emily looks good in red, so he's gone with rubies instead. He wants to see their deep fire against her porcelain skin and coal-dust hair. He wants to watch the light glint off them and know they're from him. He wants her to love them and love him and for everything to be all right again.
The noise she makes in her throat doesn't sound much like she loves them.
"You think I want jewelry?" Her voice is low and very dangerous. It's the tone he remembers her using on Joe Belser, for Christ's sake, and Besler was a fucking unsub. "You think I was...was holding out for expensive presents? You think you can buy your damn forgiveness? What the hell do you think of me, Rossi?"
Her voice is rising with every word, but it's when she calls him Rossi that he knows he's stepped in shit up to his waist. If only he knew how. "I--I wanted--I thought--" he stammers, reaching for the things he'd thought about her porcelain skin and wanting her to love him and things to be okay.
"You didn't think at all," she sneers. He never knew until now that a woman in sweatpants and flannel can sound so cold and scornful all at once. "Your checkbook isn't the answer to all of the problems in life."
She stands up, and it's a clear invitation--hell, an order--for him to leave. He'll be damned if he leaves, but he stands up too.
"I was trying to show you how I feel about you," he protests, and finally he manages to sound assertive. God, what has this woman done to him? "I wanted you to know how sorry I am."
"Oh, you showed me how you feel about me all right," she says. Her cheeks have flushed. "But no matter what you think of me, I'm not a cheap whore you can buy with trinkets."
Enough is enough. Dave snaps the box shut and puts the whiskey on the coffee table. He strides to the door, but he's forgotten his coat. He thinks about leaving it, but it's damned cold out there, so he goes back for it. "I should have known you would think you're too good for a nouveau-riche Italian guy," he bites out. "Poor little rich girl, no one understands her, but she doesn't let anyone in, so why would they?"
He regrets the words as soon as they're out, but he's hurled them at her with such venom that there's no taking them back. He jerks his coat on and walks out, and tries not to think of the way she looks, standing rigid and pale in her living room, tears glittering in her dark eyes.
vi. before
He wanted her at his house for Thanksgiving. He'd invited his brother and nephew out from Chicago, and they were all he had left of his immediate family, so she knew it was important. She'd been terrified of meeting Rob and his son. She was fifteen years younger than Dave and she knew she could be off-putting. Rob at least had known Dave's wives. Roger might not remember them, since he would have been about ten when Dave divorced for the third time. But Rob would be comparing her to the women who had come before her. It was inevitable, because it was human nature.
But Emily couldn't say no. She saw the warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his brother, and she didn't know how to deny him. She burned the pumpkin pie she made and had to throw it out and start again. She wore a black skirt and the green sweater Dave liked so much (probably because of the way it clung to her breasts), and when she got to his house she was completely overdressed. Dave and his nephew were in jeans, his brother in khakis and a button-down. Muchie, not used to her in skirts, had jumped up on her and scratched her knees before Dave called him down.
Trying to help, Rob had taken the pie from her hands so she could fend off the dog, but he didn't have a good grip. The pie she'd labored and sworn and cried over went crashing to the floor, orange pie filling splattering over the wood floor and all their shoes and Muchie's coat. Emily had stared down at it in shock, aware that Rob and Roger and Dave were doing the exact same thing. Then Muchie pounced, his long tongue lapping eagerly at the ruined dessert. On the verge of humiliated tears, Emily had found herself laughing instead, and pretty soon the others were laughing too. Twenty minutes later her ruined nylons were in the trash, she was wearing a pair of jeans she'd left at Dave's weeks ago, and they were all sitting in front of the fire with a glass of wine.
She liked Rob. She could see why Dave admired him so much. She hoped she lived up to his idea of what his brother's girlfriend ought to be like. But meeting Rob was one thing. Introducing Dave to her mother and father was a completely different prospect. And Dave wanted to have her parents over for Christmas?
Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss had always had certain expectations for her daughter's boyfriends. Emily had always done her best to defy as many of those expectations as possible, and the more unsuitable the boy, the more likely Emily was to flaunt him in front of her mother. But she wasn't that girl any more, and she'd never cared for any of those boys the way she cared for Dave. How could Emily expose him to her mother's criticism and carefully-veiled insults? How could she introduce him to her father, who would be distant and vaguely disapproving?
It wasn't possible that they would like Dave. He was Catholic, which was in his favor, but he was divorced. Not just once, but three times. He was rich, but he was an immigrant's grandson. No matter what her mother might say about equality, there was no question that someone whose parents had spoken Italian at home could never be an appropriate match for Ambassador Prentiss' daughter. Emily didn't want to do that to Dave, either. She cared about him too much. And, if she was honest, she was afraid that once he met her mother, he would bring this to an end.
So they'd argued, and he'd told her she was paranoid and held everyone at a distance, and she called him an asshole and told him not to be such a chauvinist, and he'd slammed out of her house to drive his Mercedes away too fast in the snow.
vi. now
Dave is still pissed off when he wakes up the day after apologizing. He's hung over and doesn't want to move, but he can hear Muchie whimpering to go out, so he stumbles to the kitchen to let the dog out. He manages to pour himself a cup of coffee only because the machine is on a timer. Then he shuffles back to bed and flops down, slopping coffee over his hand and swearing loudly, but not bothering to get up again.
He's sulking and he knows he's too old for this, but damn it, he did his best to apologize, and she threw it right back in his face! How could she possibly be insulted by him giving her jewelry? He thought women liked jewelry!
He's working himself into a real brood, and he really isn't in the mood to deal with people, so when the phone rings he picks it up and snaps, "What?" without looking to see who it is.
He's probably lucky it doesn't turn out to be Strauss or Hotch, but when he hears his nephew's voice, he wishes it was anyone but Roger.
"Uncle Dave? I'm sorry to call, but I'm stuck in Orlando and I don't know what to do." His nephew is a capable young man, an engineer in the making. The last time Dave heard Roger sound like this was when he'd asked Dave if he believed in heaven. That was when Karen died six years ago, and Roger was still young enough to need reassurance from his uncle. Hearing this tone now scares the shit out of Dave.
"What is it?" he barks, his voice harsher than he means it to be.
"Dad's in the hospital," Roger blurts. "I can't get a flight back because my credit card won't go through. I can't get to my dad."
"What happened?" Dave's chest feels like it's being squeezed. He's already sitting up and reaching for his wallet. He'll get Roger a ticket if he has to go to Orlando himself to do it, but Rob is hurt, and Dave needs to be there.
"He's been having chest pains," Roger says. "He just told me about it at Christmas. He didn't think it was anything, but..." Dave hears a little hiccup and realizes his nephew is crying. "He had a heart attack, Uncle Dave. I'm at fucking Disney World when my dad's having a heart attack, and I can't even get back to him!"
"I've got you, kiddo," Dave says. He's standing on one foot, tugging on his jeans from the night before. "You go to the Northwest counter and I'll have a first-class ticket waiting for you. And when you get to Chicago I'll be there with your dad. He's gonna be fine. What hospital?"
Roger tells him, and Dave tries to soothe him a little, but Dave's mind is racing so fast he can barely do it. How bad is it? Why didn't Rob tell him? What will he do if he loses his brother? They get off the phone and Dave manages to arrange a seat for Roger, then he calls and gets himself a seat on a flight leaving BWI in forty minutes.
He calls Hotch from the car and explains the situation in as few words as possible. Hotch promises to contact Dave's dog-walking service and take care of leave time. By the time Dave gets to the airport, he has to run to catch his flight, but once he's seated, there's some sort of delay--there always is, when you're flying commercial--and he has time to flip his phone open and scroll to Emily's number. He stares at it, aching to hear her voice and have her promise everything will be all right. He thinks about how she once told him she cared because he did. He remembers the way she dropped everything and flew across the country to be at his side.
But that was a thousand nights and a hundred hurtful words ago.
His stomach jumping, his hands shaking, he flips the phone shut and powers it off.
****
Emily spends the weekend storming around her house like a tornado. She gathers up all the reminders of David Rossi and throws them in the trash, then she pulls them out again. She cleans the bathroom, even using a toothbrush to scrub the stubborn mildew off the grout under the sink. She reorganizes her spice rack, because Dave alphabetizes them when he cooks at her place, but she likes them grouped by flavor. She does all her laundry except the shirt he left here the last time they slept together. It doesn't smell like him anymore, but it still feels like his arms wrapped around her.
She sleeps in it Sunday night. Monday morning she wakes up feeling surprisingly calm.
She loves him. There are a dozen reasons why they shouldn't work, but there are a hundred reasons--a thousand reasons--why they do.
Of course they know the exact ways to hurt each other. If they didn't, it would be proof that they aren't close. And Dave's fussiness drives her crazy, but she's started taking her shoes off at the front door because she knows he prefers that. And her emotional hesitance drives him crazy, but he never pushes her beyond what she's ready for.
Besides, he's right. She is paranoid and emotionally distant. She has spent so much time distrusting people because of the way John and Father Gamino and her mother hurt her, because of the way people judge her by her mother's reputation instead of her own merit, that she's forgotten there are plenty of people who take her for who she is. The team doesn't know about her past. They don't care who her mother is. They love her anyway, and that isn't an exaggeration. The team is a family. And Dave...he knows her past, and he loves her too.
The earrings did make her angry, but she isn't even sure why now. Of course forgiveness and love and absolution can't be bought. But for all that Dave has written six best-sellers and three mid-list books, he isn't good at putting his feelings into words. Time and again she's seen him fumble that, from paying for Zoe Hawkes' funeral to the check he sent for a little girl's First Communion. Those were people he barely knew. How much harder must it be for him when it's someone he knows as well as he knows her?
She'll apologize, she decides. This morning, before this gets any further out of hand than it already is. After all, Christmas was miserable without him, and now it's almost Valentine's Day, and they've been separated over this whole thing for too long now.
She picks out her clothes carefully, the green sweater he likes and black slacks instead of a skirt, since the temperatures have been in the teens for a week. She stops for coffee and a muffin at his favorite bakery. But when she gets to Quantico, Dave's office is dark, the door shut tight. She stands in front of his door, clutching the bakery bag and balancing two coffees as her bag slides off her shoulder and bangs against her leg.
"Are you looking for Dave?" Hotch's voice makes her jump, but she just nods.
"He won't be in this week." Hotch's voice is level, his face expressionless as only Hotch can do. But in his eyes, she sees concern. "He'll be in Chicago for a while. His brother's not well."
If she were another woman, she would gasp or drop the coffee or maybe even swoon. She knew a girl in Rome who was good at swooning on demand. Instead Emily swallows against the sudden sickness inside her, but her voice is calm when she asks, "What happened?"
Hotch is silent for a moment, maybe judging if it's her business, maybe figuring it all out. But he says, "Rob had a heart attack this weekend. Dave got a call Saturday morning and flew out to be with him."
Emily wishes suddenly that she were another woman. She wants to swoon or throw something or...anything but nodding. She takes a breath, and it shocks her to hear what sounds like a sob. She isn't going to cry in front of Hotch. She might want to, but she won't. She doesn't do that.
She looks away. Reid is at his desk, watching them avidly. Of course her conference with Hotch hasn't gone unnoticed.
"He didn't tell me," she says. Her voice doesn't sound like her.
Hotch takes one of the coffee cups from her, then the other. "Should he have?" His voice is gentle. Too gentle, from Hotch to her. It's his victim voice, and it threatens to break her.
She takes a shaky breath. "Yes." It's all she can get out for a minute. Heat is flooding through her, followed by a sharp wave of cold. It's a physiological fear reaction, she knows, the sensation of adrenaline rushing through the body. It's that rush, more than anything, that tells her what she's going to do.
She meets Hotch's gaze. "He should have told me. I should be with him. We've been together for almost two years." She falters, because Hotch isn't reacting at all. "Until I messed it up at Thanksgiving," she adds, because she needs to be all the way honest if she's going to tell them. "Because I wouldn't tell you."
"It's about time," pipes up Reid's voice from behind her. Emily tenses her shoulders. She hadn't heard him approach, even though she knows his curiosity wouldn't let him stay away. "We've known forever, Emily."
She looks over at him then, because she'd thought they were doing a good job of hiding it. Of course, JJ had thought so too, but still. Reid takes the bakery bag from her and peers inside, then makes a delighted noise. She supposes Dave doesn't need the muffin right now anyway.
"I shouldn't have told you like this," she says. "I--he should--we..." She trails off, picking at a fingernail now that her hands are free. "Dave didn't like that we were hiding it. I didn't like lying, but..."
Garcia's voice is shrill and makes her jump. "Oh my God, you and Dave?" Emily widens her eyes in a shocked, silent threat, but Garcia is not to be silenced. "Oh, it's too perfect! Of course you and Dave! If he hurts you, I'll hack into his IRAs and ruin him."
"Garcia, shhh," Emily hisses, because there are people around besides their team, and she really doesn't need this getting back to Strauss. Not before Dave knows what she's done, at least. And not before she finds out if there really is a her-and-Dave to get in trouble over. But when Garcia hugs her, her resistance crumbles. "Besides, I'm more likely to hurt him," she confesses.
Garcia squeezes her again and lets her go. "If you do, I'll ruin you in some other way," she says cheerfully.
Derek is standing behind Garcia. His gaze is on Emily's, and he doesn't say anything, but after a long moment he nods, and even though he doesn't accept changes like this well, she can tell he won't argue against it.
Hotch's voice breaks through the clamor of the team. "Go to Chicago, Prentiss," he says quietly. "We're due for some stand down time anyway."
It's not just permission, it's his blessing, and the tears actually spill over. Emily catches them and doesn't allow more than a few, but despite her concern for Dave and Rob, her heart is lighter when she leaves the FBI Academy less than half an hour after she got there.
vii. chicago
Dave's heart is heavy, but he imagines it's not as heavy as Rob's must feel right now. His brother has been through emergency surgery, but he's in for more when he's stronger, and Dave can't help but pay close attention to the monitor that beeps on the other side of the bed.
The light in the bathroom is on, and light comes in from the open door to the hallway. The room itself is dim. Rob is going to be okay. He's had a serious wakeup call when it comes to his cholesterol and exercise habits, but it's treatable. Roger has been sent home to feed the dog (Muchie's littermate) once he's all lectured out. The snow has been swirling down for the past hour, and Dave is trying to settle in.
He can't pretend he doesn't miss Emily. The first words out of Rob's mouth, after "Damn it, I told Roger not to tell you," are "Where's Emily?" Dave has already confessed his transgressions to his brother, and confessed his bewilderment about how things got so bad.
He's never wanted to work for a relationship as much as he wants to work for this one. He wants to listen to her and ask what she wants and what she needs from him. He wants to tell her what he wants and needs from her. He wants to make her promises and keep those promises. And however he screwed up when he tried to apologize, he wants to make it right.
Emily has a tattoo on her stomach right by her left hip. Dave never thought he'd end up with a woman who is such a study in contradictions as Emily Prentiss is -- proper and collected in the workplace, but a hard drinking woman with a tattoo at home; a smart, capable agent, but a vulnerable woman who wants to be liked; a passionate feminist who wants to be a wife and mother. She perplexes him and fascinates him and knocks him end over end.
He wants to marry her, but he doesn't know how she'll react to that idea, for a number of reasons. And for some reason his hands start shaking whenever he thinks about bringing the topic up.
Talking about it now, in this darkened room, with no one but Rob to hear, Dave pours out his heart, and the words rush out like a dam has crumbled inside him. He talks about how broken Em is, and how strong she is, stronger in the broken places. He talks about how beautiful she is, and how insightful she is, and what a hurt little girl she had been, and how, hell, she's even got him thinking about kids like that wouldn't be a bad thing.
When he's done talking, Rob says, "It's obvious how in love with her you are, Davey. You just...you need to tell her what you told me, instead of giving her expensive things."
"But I want her to have expensive things," Dave protests.
Rob chuckles. "That's not the point, idiot. She can buy herself expensive things. She can't buy herself you."
"But--" Dave pauses, thinking about that. "But the earrings were supposed to show that she has me."
"No, the earrings were to melt her into forgiving you," Rob corrects.
That isn't it. Dave has thought and thought about it, about why the earrings made her mad, and he's inspected his motivations and intentions. And okay, maybe he's been stupid, but it isn't because he thinks he can 'melt her'. He tells Rob as much. "I wanted her to have them. I would have wanted her to have them even if we hadn't fought. She's beautiful, and she should have beautiful things."
Rob is silent for a while. "Maybe your intentions were good, but you messed up, Davey. When you want to apologize, especially to Emily, don't do it by giving her things you've bought. She obviously doesn't want that."
"I figured that much out for myself," Dave says sourly. His brother snorts.
"Just...do something from the heart. It doesn't matter how grand a gesture it is or how much you spend. What matters is that you think about her and what she wants."
Dave runs a hand through his hair. "Fine, fine, I get it." He does understand what Rob is saying, and he can even admit Rob might have a point. It makes sense that Emily would place more importance on something that wasn't expensive but meant he knew her better than anyone. And he'd just gone and screwed that up too. "God, I'm hopeless," he mutters, and buries his face in his hands.
"Oh, not quite hopeless," Rob says. His voice is odd, almost strangled, and Dave jerks his head up, afraid that Rob is hurting or needs help.
But his brother is looking at the door to the hallway, and there's a smile on his face. Dave's heart lurches in his chest and he turns to follow his brother's gaze.
Emily is standing in the door, her coat and hair liberally dusted with snow. She's picking her nails, which drives him nuts, but with the light behind her, he can't see her expression. Her go-bag is on the floor by her feet.
He stands. "Emily." His voice is hoarse. He can't go on, but it doesn't matter, because she holds up a hand to silence him.
****
Emily's flight is the last one allowed to land at O'Hare. She's been through three Chicago winters, since it was her first field office, and remembers lake effect snow. She breathes a prayer of thanks that she has made it into town ahead of the storm.
It takes her a long time to get a cab, since so many flights have been cancelled. At first she doesn't care. She's dreading the hospital and what will happen there. She doesn't bother booking a room at a hotel, though. She'll have time for that once she's seen Dave. She finally snatches a taxi from under the nose of a businessman who is occupied with his cell phone.
When she gets to the hospital she looks around the gift shop for a while. She buys a get well card and flowers for Rob. Finally she can't put it off any longer. She gets directions to Rob's ward and takes the elevator up.
She doesn't hear everything Dave says about her. In fact she almost blunders in and interrupts, before she realizes what she's hearing. Then she knows she shouldn't eavesdrop, and Dave obviously doesn't know she's there, but she physically can't move her feet or open her mouth. Well, she can open her mouth, because it's hanging open as she listens to the way he sees her, to how wonderful she sounds when he describes her. But she can't force a single sound out of her gaping mouth.
When Dave calls himself hopeless, she takes a step forward without meaning to. She can't stand to hear him say that about himself, especially not about this. She's been impossible and scared and even though she's had reasons for it, she needs to let them go now and make him understand how much she loves him.
Rob sees her when she moves, and then Dave sees her, and he says her name, but she can't, she can't, make him say all that again. She didn't hear it all, but she heard enough.
"I'm sorry," she blurts, and then she sucks in a breath. "Rob, how are you?"
She knows what Hotch has told her, but she wants to hear it firsthand. "I'm okay, and I appreciate that you care, Emily, but don't talk to me. Talk to him."
So she turns to Dave, who's watching her with such undisguised need that she wants to cry. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, and that's enough to get him to cross the room, banging into the bathroom door on the way. Then his arms are around her, and she's hugging him harder than she can remember ever hugging someone.
Her blood is rushing in her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. She's not sure how much time passes, but after a while Dave says, "Let's go talk for a few minutes."
She nods and lets him guide her to the elevators. When they get downstairs, he leads her past the emergency entrance and out the automatic glass doors. A blast of cold air hits them, then there's snow swirling around them and crunching underfoot.
He's in his shirt sleeves, she realizes. "You'll freeze."
He shakes his head and moves around behind her, wrapping his arms around her. There are at least six inches on the ground already, and there will be at least six more before it's done. She doesn't care about being snowbound in Chicago. She slips her gloves out of her coat pockets and puts them on, then spreads her hands against Dave's arms to keep them warm.
He suggested they come outside and talk, but neither of them are saying anything. They will say it, later, she knows. There are apologies to be made and compromises to be reached and meetings to plan. They're definitely due some fantastic makeup sex, though that'll take some figuring out, since she doesn't have a hotel room. But right now, they're together, and it's obvious they want to stay together. It's enough for right now, and Emily finds she doesn't need any words.
It doesn't take long in the snowstorm for Dave to start shivering. He presses his face against her neck. It makes her shiver. She rubs her hands against his arms. "We should go in," she whispers.
He ignores her. "You know, a lot of our relationship seems to consist of me going to the Midwest and you following me. You trying to tell me something?" His breath gusts against her hair. She smiles.
"Yeah." Standing in the cold snow on the sidewalk outside the hospital isn't exactly the perfect place to say this for the first time, but she knows this is the perfect time. She brushes her nose against his jaw. "I'm trying to tell you I kind of love you, but don't know how to say it."
They kiss for a long time before they get too cold to stay outside.
****
Dave takes Emily to dinner in Chicago on Valentine's Day. They have meatloaf and mashed potatoes and coined carrots from the hospital cafeteria, under paper hearts that hang from the ceiling. He gives her the earrings again, and this time she puts them in. They hold hands under the table and Dave asks her if he'll be allowed to buy her a ring, or if she'll yell at him. She manages to laugh even though it's still a little raw for joking, and even though they have a lot to work out before they talk about marriage. The fact is, she wants desperately to work things out and marry him. She's never been so happy and scared at the same time.
After dinner they go upstairs to the cardiac ward. He kisses her in the elevator and when the doors slide open they're still kissing and two nurses catch them. They don't apologize, even though Emily's cheeks are burning. Rob's roommate has gone home, so Dave and Emily snuggle together on the empty hospital bed. They watch a Three Stooges marathon with Roger and Rob. It's the weirdest Valentine's Day date Emily had ever heard of.
And it's perfect.
Author: innerslytherin
Recipient: wojelah
Pairing: Rossi/Prentiss
Rating: PG
Word Count: 9,500
Warning/spoiler: Angsty
Summary/Prompt: Dave and Emily want each other. But wanting each other isn't enough to make a relationship work.
A/N: Title adapted from Susan Cooper's Silver on the Tree.
"[A]ll love has great value. Every human being who loves another loves imperfection, for there is no perfect being on this earth - nothing is so simple as that." -- Susan Cooper, Silver on the Tree
i. now
It's snowing. Emily stands at the window, forehead pressed against glass so cold it makes her skin ache. She stares at the fat, white flakes rioting down from the sky, her vision unfocusing just a little. The echoes of angry words still ring in her ears, but the asphalt is gray with the accumulation, and all she can think is, He'll drive too fast and kill himself.
The corners of her mouth draw down, her control wavering. She squeezes her eyes shut and opens her mouth, forcing in a sharp breath. The tears retreat.
She shivers and hugs her arms around herself. Her house feels colder since the door slammed behind him. She thinks about the glass of port she set down on the coffee table during the argument. It's still mostly full, and it would warm her up nicely. But after hurling around words like 'chauvinist' and 'asshole', she thinks maybe she doesn't deserve to be warm.
He gave back as good as he got, no question. She could live to be ninety and never forget the punch to the solar plexus she felt when he called her paranoid and emotionally distant. The accusations on both parts are not entirely fair, but not entirely untrue. That might be the worst part about it.
They both know the best way possible to hurt each other.
****
Dave's driving too fast for the road conditions and he knows it, but he's pissed and he's hurting, and at the moment he'd like nothing better than to total his car, because why the hell not? He's already totaled his relationship. Might as well make the Mercedes match.
Of course, the cop who pulls him over doesn't think that's a very good excuse, but once he sees the name on the license, once he realizes Dave's a Fed, he stammers an apology. Dave's wavering between being sheepish and being an asshole. The cop collects himself after a moment and gives him a warning to be more careful.
Dave promises to slow down. The cop has snowflakes dusting the brim of his cap, and he is shivering just a little as he turns to get back in his car. The wipers swipe across the Mercedes windshield, pause for a few seconds, and swipe across again. Dave looks down at his cell phone. The screen is dark, no calls missed while he was James Deaning it across the city.
He puts the car in gear and holds it to a staid thirty miles an hour most of the way home. He parks in the garage and stands looking around him, to the pickup on his left, to the empty bay on his right, which he cleaned out this fall for Emily's ridiculous little hybrid. His chest aches.
He goes inside and pours himself a double.
****
She calls her mother.
Emily and Elizabeth Prentiss don't have a warm relationship by any means, but Emily has always admired her mother's strength and resolve, even though she scorns her mother's cold aloofness.
Ironic, considering Emily has apparently turned out just like her.
Maybe it's the two glasses of port she drank before calling. Maybe it's the glass of Woodford Reserve currently in her hand. But for some reason, her mother's voice sounds warmer than usual as she asks what's wrong.
"Why does something have to be wrong for me to call my mother?" Emily says.
There's a silence, and Emily knows her mother could point out that she never calls unless she's RSVPing to some family obligation. But instead of the nagging mother, Emily gets the diplomat. "Of course nothing has to be wrong," Elizabeth said. "But ten is a little late for you to be calling for a social reason."
Emily swallows against a tightness in her throat. She could tell her mother that her boyfriend wants to meet the parents. She could say how scared she is to acknowledge their relationship to anyone who knows her well. She could ask how her mother knew she wanted to marry her father, or why her mother didn't argue when he left them fifteen years later.
Instead she plays the diplomat's daughter and says, "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't realize how long I'd stayed at work. I just wanted to know what you'd like for Christmas."
****
Rob seems to think it's just another call to chat, because he's settled into a story about Roger, who's in his junior year of Chemical Engineering at Purdue. Something about a fraternity brother and the drum kit from Saint Thomas Aquinas and the fountain on the engineering mall, but Dave doesn't have the patience or the sobriety to hear him out.
"How did you stay married to Karen all those years?" he interrupts.
Rob pauses, and Dave can almost hear his older brother regrouping. Dave takes a reckless gulp of his scotch and looks at one white sock against Muchie's chocolate fur. The lab looks at him without lifting his muzzle from where it rests on Dave's toes. His tail thumps against the floor and Dave has a moment of fierce gratitude that at least his dog seems to like him.
"Well, I made a promise, Davey." Rob's voice is apologetic. The last of the three marriages ended more because of his wife's actions than Dave's, but the first one was all on him, and the second wasn't much better, even if he screwed up differently the second time around. Still, Rob's always been careful not to be too judgmental, which is why he's the only family member Dave spoke to for three years after his first divorce.
"There's gotta be more to it than that," Dave protests. He's never asked this question before. He should have asked it three weddings ago, but as much as he regrets the divorces, he's never regretted that they led him to Emily Prentiss. Not until tonight, at least.
Hell, not even tonight.
Rob sighs, the sound echoing loudly across the lines from Chicago to Virginia. "God, Davey, that's too complicated a question to answer at ten o'clock at night." Still, he tries. "Okay, I made her a promise, and I wanted to honor both her and God by keeping that promise. And when things got tough, I made a decision to love her. I didn't just expect to feel it. I worked at it. And I listened to her. And I asked her what she needed from me. And she did the same. And eventually there was Roger, and yeah, okay, when he was eight we were staying together just for his sake."
"I didn't know that," Dave blurts.
"Yeah, well. Karen had just had the third miscarriage, and we'd decided to quit trying, and we were fighting a lot." Rob's voice is thick. "It was hard on her. Hard on me, too, but I didn't think I had a right to feel bad, considering it was her body."
Dave stares at the half-inch of scotch in his glass. "You had a right to grieve."
"Yeah," Rob agrees. "But I didn't know that then. And I was taking it out on her, when she was the person I felt like I oughta be protecting. And that made me feel guilty, so I got defensive, and for weeks she was just sleeping all the damn time, and..." Another explosive sigh rattles in Dave's ear. "Anyway. We got help. We made it through. And by the time we'd made it through that, we could make it through anything."
Anything but cancer, anyway. Dave's chest feels tight. "I wish I coulda been more like you," he says softly. He wishes he hadn't let Marie down, or Julie, or even Gretchen, who had let him down too. He wishes to Christ he hadn't accused Emily of not trusting him, of being afraid to commit.
"Who you are is good, Davey," Rob says finally. His voice is as soft as Dave's. "You just got lost for a while. It happens. You got yourself found again."
Dave finishes the scotch and doesn't answer.
ii. before
This is how they met, then. A woman was given a job she knew she deserved, but it was twisted to fit someone's politics. She resigned and was reinstated, but there was always that doubt afterwards.
A man came back to an institution he'd started, but discovered it had changed in the ten years he'd been gone. He screwed up and was absolved, but he couldn't help feeling like an outsider in what ought to be his own place.
Emily was grateful to have discovered loyalty where she had feared none existed. But sometimes she almost wished Hotch hadn't talked her into going to Milwaukee for one last case. If she hadn't gone to Milwaukee, she wouldn't have stayed with the BAU, and she never would have met David Rossi.
Sometimes, she thought it would have been better if they'd never met.
****
She followed him to Indianapolis. That wasn't what made him notice her. Hell, he'd seen that she had great legs the day they met. But it was what made him realize she didn't give a damn about David Rossi, legendary profiler. None of them did, not even Dr. Reid, who'd been over-awed and annoying for a while. But Prentiss was the ringleader in this instance, the one who'd talked Garcia into telling them where he'd gone, the one who'd talked Morgan and JJ into making his business their business. Prentiss was the one who'd said it.
Why do you care? he'd demanded. And her reply had shocked him to the core. Because you do.
She drove him nuts trying to figure her out after that. She'd as much as said she cared about him, but after the case, she'd given him no indication she'd meant that any differently than she cared about Hotch or JJ. She was cool as ice, this diplomat's daughter, and it was only much later that he realized she was protecting herself, fearing that she'd admitted too much.
The day Dave first realized he had any hope was a Thursday. A really shitty Thursday. He'd lost his keys for a good twenty minutes before finding them in the round table room, then he'd fielded a nasty phone call from someone who didn't like the consultation he'd provided. On his way for a refill, he dropped his favorite coffee mug, which shattered into pieces. In exasperation he growled, "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."
A woman's voice behind him said, "It doesn't matter so much if you know where your towel is." And there was Emily Prentiss, holding out a hand towel from the kitchenette, an awkward smile on her face. He should have known she would be a fan of the Hitchhiker's Guide.
Dave took the towel, giving her a crooked smile in return.
iii. now
There's a case. There are always cases, usually in the most inconvenient times--halfway through Haley Hotchner's funeral, in the middle of a fundraiser for homeless vets where he was the keynote speaker, while he and his lover and coworker are in the middle of a cold war. It's the job. So the call from Hotch doesn't surprise him, but it still makes him swear and slam drawers as he grabs a few extra pairs of underwear for his ready bag.
They manage a détente. Barely. Neither he nor Emily are meeting each other's gazes, and he wonders if she's spent the past three nights drinking and moping as much as he has. Or maybe she's already written him off and called Mick Rawson or that guy in New York who liked her or some senator's son her mother introduced her to. Or maybe--
"Dave, are you with us?" Hotch's voice is mild in correction, as always, but Dave stops frowning at Emily's hands folded on the table, and clears his throat.
"They're all single parents," he says, and the conversation returns to the case.
****
She knows Dave is watching her. She's watching him, in between interviewing family members of victims and visiting crime scenes. But she can't bring herself to meet his gaze full on, can't bring herself to speak and possibly voice the regrets and hurts that well against her teeth. She gets herself paired off with Reid for the duration of the case, and does her best to ignore the ache she sees--or imagines she sees--in Dave's eyes.
Then there's Victoria Snyder, who fights her attacker off, and she's the first good lead they have. She's in the hospital, she's been raped and brutalized, but she's still alive, and her six-year-old daughter is safe in the grandmother's care. Hotch sends Emily and Reid. Emily makes it to the hospital room door, then stumbles into the door frame. She hadn't seen Victoria's age. The other victims had been in their late twenties or early thirties. Victoria isn't.
The black-eyed girl in the hospital bed is barely out of her teens.
Emily's gut clenches, but she has a job to do, and this girl needs her help. She calls Victoria's name, making her voice as gentle as she can. She does it the way she always does in situations like this; she pretends she's talking to her fifteen-year-old self in that abortion clinic outside Rome. Victoria responds, her dull eyes easing a little, her fingers uncurling from fists. She won't tell them anything until Emily promises that her daughter is safe, then she tells them everything.
Thanks to Victoria, they find the unsub. Thanks to Victoria, Emily sits alone on the jet home, gazing out the window and wondering if she would have ended up like Victoria if she'd kept her baby. The others know the case hit her hard, so none of them approach her. She dozes for a while, and when she wakes, there's a cup of coffee on the table in front of her, sweetened to her taste. She looks for Dave, but he's engrossed in a book at the other end of the table, and really any of them could order coffee for the whole team.
Part of her wishes she had strong arms to curl up in tonight. Part of her hates that she's weak enough to wish it.
iv. before
The mystery that was Emily Prentiss continued to intrigue him. They worked cases all over the States, and Dave had never seen anyone compartmentalize as well as Hotch, but she did. Maybe it was because she grew up the daughter of a diplomat, but Dave had seen the way she responded to teenaged girls. He'd seen her compassion for the sex workers and addicts they met. He'd seen how tough she was on power-assertive rapists and how she could cut an alpha male to shreds with her words.
When it all came together in a deserted lot in Georgetown, he felt like he'd always known.
It was all too obvious to him how much she hated herself for the choice she'd made in Rome. It had been an impossible choice, and who was he to say what he would have done in her place? He knew she was expecting condemnation from him, a fellow Catholic, but he had three failed marriages under his belt. No way was he going to cast the first stone.
Jimmy had told Dave to watch out for her. Dave hadn't needed to be told.
He could have replied that Emily Prentiss knew how to watch out for herself. He could have replied that she wouldn't appreciate having a man, any man, watch out for her. He could have replied that Jimmy had got it all wrong. Instead he just pointed his forefinger in a pretend gun, because as usual, Jimmy had hit the target dead center.
Her strength and vulnerability and fierceness and sorrow had swept him head over heels, and he wasn't even trying to fight it.
****
For weeks after Matthew's death, Emily had watched Dave for signs that he looked at her differently. He knew her darkest secrets. From them he could easily extrapolate her deepest desires and deepest fears. She knew he would. There might be a tacit rule against intrateam profiling, but considering she'd been part of breaking that rule practically on his first day, she couldn't begrudge him the chance to return the favor.
But the thing was, he didn't treat her any differently.
She'd expected him to be a little more distant, a little less friendly. They were both Catholics, they both believed that life began at conception. He might be unconventional in a lot of ways, but he was devout, and she knew it. When she didn't see any cooling off, she decided maybe he felt sorry for her. But he didn't coddle her, either, didn't act as if she were damaged somehow by her past. His voice was warm when he asked how she was doing, but there was nothing to indicate he was motivated by pity.
It intrigued her against her will.
She'd been fighting an attraction to him from the moment they met, of course. He was just the brash, arrogant type of alpha male she went for. He wore his confidence like a superhero's cape and moved forward without hesitation, even when subtlety would be a better approach. But there was a tender side to David Rossi, one that shone through in the most unexpected moments.
She found herself sitting next to him on the jet, seeking out his opinion when she had a sticky consult to work on. He started loaning her books when he thought she might enjoy them--Ken Follett once, Michael Connelly another time. He got past her defenses before she really noticed, and when he invited her to go to a museum opening with him, she found herself accepting without even meaning to.
She'd spent three days wondering if it was a date, agonizing over what to wear and how to do her hair. At work she'd spilled her coffee in front of him and laughed too loudly and tried too hard. In the end she'd decided it wasn't a date, but dressed up anyway.
When he walked her to her door afterwards, he kissed her. She stepped on his toe and got her key stuck in the lock, but he just laughed and kissed her again, and said he would see her at work on Monday.
It had left her wondering all weekend if she'd been right about it not being a date, but of course it had made her want to be wrong.
v. now
Dave's been actively trying to apologize for over a week. It's almost two months since they argued, and Christmas felt like a hard freeze without her, when he'd actually been looking forward to it for the first time in twenty years. He has a velvet box that he hopes will make up for his being an asshole. But Emily is avoiding him, and he's gone through frustrated and is edging on pissed off. He gets nothing but formal words exchanged at work and oblique looks.
They've worked another case, both of them professional and on their best behavior around the team. She looks tired, though, little lines showing at the corners of her eyes. And he spends a lot of his time feeling sad and unable to do anything to push it away.
He puts up with it for a while, but one Friday night he goes to her house, determined to make her listen to him. He deserves to be heard out, for God's sake. She deserves to have him hear her out, too, and he knows it. He'll admit it, if she'll hold still long enough.
He parks the Mercedes in front of a hydrant, knowing it'll cause problems later and not giving a damn. He can see his breath as he strides up the walk. He reaches the door and pauses. The fingers of his right hand curl around the velvet box in his coat pocket. He lifts his left hand and hammers on the door.
****
Emily isn't expecting anyone to knock on her door. She's curled up on the couch, halfway through a bottle of Traminette. Her eyes are burning even though she hasn't cried in three days. Maybe because she hasn't cried in three days. She hates David Rossi for making her cry like this. She hates David Rossi for making her miss him.
They aren't well-suited. He's too old-fashioned to deal with a woman like her. She's too gun-shy to be as open about their relationship as he wants. Her mother will hate him. His ex-wives...hell, he has ex-wives, that's enough.
When she lets herself into a cold, empty house tonight, she has decided again to end it. Everyone talks about finding the perfect mate, but there's nothing perfect about their relationship. She is jealous of his three ex-wives, and she wants to ask about them, and she doesn't want to know about them. He's been going crazy keeping their relationship a secret, and no man likes wearing condoms all the time. He's right, she is paranoid, but she knows he doesn't want children, and there's no way in hell she's getting herself pregnant with another unwanted baby.
She would want the baby. She does want a baby. But Dave wouldn't want to be a father at his age, and she wouldn't be able to handle being rejected like that a second time. Even worse if he 'did the right thing' and took care of her, even though he didn't want it.
So ending it is the right thing to do.
She's told herself that at least half a dozen times since the fight, and every time she does, the bottom drops out of her stomach and her mouth goes dry and her heart pounds and she ends up fighting off tears. The damnable truth is that she can't end it with Dave Rossi. She loves him. She needs him. And every time she admits that to herself, she's seized with a paralyzing fear that he will be the one to come to his senses, that he'll get tired of the silence between them, that he'll decide to find a woman who's easier to deal with.
She's been avoiding him ever since they got home from the last case. The pounding on her door signals the end of that.
****
She looks like hell when she opens the door. She's wearing sweatpants and one of his old flannel shirts, which makes his heart do something that ought to feel unpleasant but doesn't. Her hair is messy and her eyes bloodshot. He wants to pull her into his arms and hug her.
She just stands in the doorway, her lips parted slightly, her gaze on his nose. She's practically vibrating with tension. The fingers of one hand are curled around the cuff of her sleeve. She doesn't speak.
The urge to take her in his arms compels him forward a step, but before he's even finished moving, he can see her pulling back into herself. It makes him want to puke, it hurts so much, but he tries not to let it show.
"I came to apologize," he says, his voice rough. She's beautiful and hurting, and he knows it's partly because of him and partly because of her own fears, and he just wants to make it better. Why can't she trust him enough to let him do that?
She presses her lips together, then says, "Come in." Her voice is tight and gives nothing away. The diplomat's daughter, he thinks, and it's half fondness and half frustration.
He steps inside and she reaches for his coat. He panics for a second, then manages to shove the velvet-covered box into his jeans pocket before surrendering the coat.
"Would you like a drink?"
"Sure." He clears his throat. "Whiskey?"
"I have Woodford Reserve," she says. "No scotch." He can't tell if there's any hint of apology to her tone, or if she's merely informing him.
"Bourbon's fine." It's not his favorite, but it's still good for his nerves, even if it won't do his churning stomach any favors.
She drapes his coat on the back of a chair, nods. He can see an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, but there's only one glass. Not that he expected her to have company, but it's still a relief. She pours his drink and brings it over to him. She isn't giving anything away, and Dave wants to shake her. He sips the whiskey instead. It's good. Woodford Reserve has always been his favorite bourbon, and he supposes she knows that.
He sees her shoulders move, though he doesn't hear her sigh. "Sit down, Dave," she says, and for the first time in three damn weeks she sounds almost normal.
He sits. He wants to tug her in next to him, but he watches her settle at the other end of the couch. He still has making up to do. If he's honest with himself, and he tries to be, he's still smarting a lot from some of the things she said. He's hoping she'll apologize too, if he starts it. He hasn't let himself think about the alternative, that she might not accept his apology.
It's been practically all he's thought about.
"I was an asshole," he begins. He sees her lips twitch, and it encourages him. "I'm an asshole a lot," he admits. It's true, and he knows it. "I've always taken pride in it, really. I can get away with being an asshole. I don't pull any punches. I shoot from the hip." Not with women, of course, or at least, not the one's he's been involved with. With them, he's been the smooth guy who's used to having money and nice things and likes sharing them. But no matter how hard he tries, he always screws up.
Emily's expression has softened just a little. It makes her look younger, and even though he's not done apologizing, it kind of turns him on. He sips his bourbon and holds her gaze.
"The thing is, I didn't set out to be this guy. It's just that somewhere along the line, it got to be easier being the asshole, and for a long time--right up until I came back to the BAU, really--it became my default operating system." He stumbles to a halt, trying to figure out what to say next.
Emily has changed that. She makes him want to be the better man again. She makes him see himself the way he could be, instead of the way other people see him. She treats him like he is the guy he wants to be, and it's changed his life.
He just isn't sure how to put that into words. So finally he gives up and pulls the box out of his pocket. "I--these are--I'm sorry," he says, shoving the box into her hand.
She stares down at the box. Her eyebrows draw together, making a vertical line in her forehead. Dave knows that isn't a good sign, but she hasn't even opened the box yet. How can she be upset about it?
"Open it," he urges, but she doesn't open it. She doesn't even look up at him. The silence between them feels thick, like the air right before a thunderstorm, even though it's January. Shit. This isn't going right.
In desperation, Dave takes the box back out of her hand and opens it for her. When he holds it out again, he can see his hand is shaking, but he can't pull it back without withdrawing the gift, so he just lets her see it.
The earrings are gorgeous if he does say so himself. He has thought about diamonds, but Emily looks good in red, so he's gone with rubies instead. He wants to see their deep fire against her porcelain skin and coal-dust hair. He wants to watch the light glint off them and know they're from him. He wants her to love them and love him and for everything to be all right again.
The noise she makes in her throat doesn't sound much like she loves them.
"You think I want jewelry?" Her voice is low and very dangerous. It's the tone he remembers her using on Joe Belser, for Christ's sake, and Besler was a fucking unsub. "You think I was...was holding out for expensive presents? You think you can buy your damn forgiveness? What the hell do you think of me, Rossi?"
Her voice is rising with every word, but it's when she calls him Rossi that he knows he's stepped in shit up to his waist. If only he knew how. "I--I wanted--I thought--" he stammers, reaching for the things he'd thought about her porcelain skin and wanting her to love him and things to be okay.
"You didn't think at all," she sneers. He never knew until now that a woman in sweatpants and flannel can sound so cold and scornful all at once. "Your checkbook isn't the answer to all of the problems in life."
She stands up, and it's a clear invitation--hell, an order--for him to leave. He'll be damned if he leaves, but he stands up too.
"I was trying to show you how I feel about you," he protests, and finally he manages to sound assertive. God, what has this woman done to him? "I wanted you to know how sorry I am."
"Oh, you showed me how you feel about me all right," she says. Her cheeks have flushed. "But no matter what you think of me, I'm not a cheap whore you can buy with trinkets."
Enough is enough. Dave snaps the box shut and puts the whiskey on the coffee table. He strides to the door, but he's forgotten his coat. He thinks about leaving it, but it's damned cold out there, so he goes back for it. "I should have known you would think you're too good for a nouveau-riche Italian guy," he bites out. "Poor little rich girl, no one understands her, but she doesn't let anyone in, so why would they?"
He regrets the words as soon as they're out, but he's hurled them at her with such venom that there's no taking them back. He jerks his coat on and walks out, and tries not to think of the way she looks, standing rigid and pale in her living room, tears glittering in her dark eyes.
vi. before
He wanted her at his house for Thanksgiving. He'd invited his brother and nephew out from Chicago, and they were all he had left of his immediate family, so she knew it was important. She'd been terrified of meeting Rob and his son. She was fifteen years younger than Dave and she knew she could be off-putting. Rob at least had known Dave's wives. Roger might not remember them, since he would have been about ten when Dave divorced for the third time. But Rob would be comparing her to the women who had come before her. It was inevitable, because it was human nature.
But Emily couldn't say no. She saw the warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his brother, and she didn't know how to deny him. She burned the pumpkin pie she made and had to throw it out and start again. She wore a black skirt and the green sweater Dave liked so much (probably because of the way it clung to her breasts), and when she got to his house she was completely overdressed. Dave and his nephew were in jeans, his brother in khakis and a button-down. Muchie, not used to her in skirts, had jumped up on her and scratched her knees before Dave called him down.
Trying to help, Rob had taken the pie from her hands so she could fend off the dog, but he didn't have a good grip. The pie she'd labored and sworn and cried over went crashing to the floor, orange pie filling splattering over the wood floor and all their shoes and Muchie's coat. Emily had stared down at it in shock, aware that Rob and Roger and Dave were doing the exact same thing. Then Muchie pounced, his long tongue lapping eagerly at the ruined dessert. On the verge of humiliated tears, Emily had found herself laughing instead, and pretty soon the others were laughing too. Twenty minutes later her ruined nylons were in the trash, she was wearing a pair of jeans she'd left at Dave's weeks ago, and they were all sitting in front of the fire with a glass of wine.
She liked Rob. She could see why Dave admired him so much. She hoped she lived up to his idea of what his brother's girlfriend ought to be like. But meeting Rob was one thing. Introducing Dave to her mother and father was a completely different prospect. And Dave wanted to have her parents over for Christmas?
Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss had always had certain expectations for her daughter's boyfriends. Emily had always done her best to defy as many of those expectations as possible, and the more unsuitable the boy, the more likely Emily was to flaunt him in front of her mother. But she wasn't that girl any more, and she'd never cared for any of those boys the way she cared for Dave. How could Emily expose him to her mother's criticism and carefully-veiled insults? How could she introduce him to her father, who would be distant and vaguely disapproving?
It wasn't possible that they would like Dave. He was Catholic, which was in his favor, but he was divorced. Not just once, but three times. He was rich, but he was an immigrant's grandson. No matter what her mother might say about equality, there was no question that someone whose parents had spoken Italian at home could never be an appropriate match for Ambassador Prentiss' daughter. Emily didn't want to do that to Dave, either. She cared about him too much. And, if she was honest, she was afraid that once he met her mother, he would bring this to an end.
So they'd argued, and he'd told her she was paranoid and held everyone at a distance, and she called him an asshole and told him not to be such a chauvinist, and he'd slammed out of her house to drive his Mercedes away too fast in the snow.
vi. now
Dave is still pissed off when he wakes up the day after apologizing. He's hung over and doesn't want to move, but he can hear Muchie whimpering to go out, so he stumbles to the kitchen to let the dog out. He manages to pour himself a cup of coffee only because the machine is on a timer. Then he shuffles back to bed and flops down, slopping coffee over his hand and swearing loudly, but not bothering to get up again.
He's sulking and he knows he's too old for this, but damn it, he did his best to apologize, and she threw it right back in his face! How could she possibly be insulted by him giving her jewelry? He thought women liked jewelry!
He's working himself into a real brood, and he really isn't in the mood to deal with people, so when the phone rings he picks it up and snaps, "What?" without looking to see who it is.
He's probably lucky it doesn't turn out to be Strauss or Hotch, but when he hears his nephew's voice, he wishes it was anyone but Roger.
"Uncle Dave? I'm sorry to call, but I'm stuck in Orlando and I don't know what to do." His nephew is a capable young man, an engineer in the making. The last time Dave heard Roger sound like this was when he'd asked Dave if he believed in heaven. That was when Karen died six years ago, and Roger was still young enough to need reassurance from his uncle. Hearing this tone now scares the shit out of Dave.
"What is it?" he barks, his voice harsher than he means it to be.
"Dad's in the hospital," Roger blurts. "I can't get a flight back because my credit card won't go through. I can't get to my dad."
"What happened?" Dave's chest feels like it's being squeezed. He's already sitting up and reaching for his wallet. He'll get Roger a ticket if he has to go to Orlando himself to do it, but Rob is hurt, and Dave needs to be there.
"He's been having chest pains," Roger says. "He just told me about it at Christmas. He didn't think it was anything, but..." Dave hears a little hiccup and realizes his nephew is crying. "He had a heart attack, Uncle Dave. I'm at fucking Disney World when my dad's having a heart attack, and I can't even get back to him!"
"I've got you, kiddo," Dave says. He's standing on one foot, tugging on his jeans from the night before. "You go to the Northwest counter and I'll have a first-class ticket waiting for you. And when you get to Chicago I'll be there with your dad. He's gonna be fine. What hospital?"
Roger tells him, and Dave tries to soothe him a little, but Dave's mind is racing so fast he can barely do it. How bad is it? Why didn't Rob tell him? What will he do if he loses his brother? They get off the phone and Dave manages to arrange a seat for Roger, then he calls and gets himself a seat on a flight leaving BWI in forty minutes.
He calls Hotch from the car and explains the situation in as few words as possible. Hotch promises to contact Dave's dog-walking service and take care of leave time. By the time Dave gets to the airport, he has to run to catch his flight, but once he's seated, there's some sort of delay--there always is, when you're flying commercial--and he has time to flip his phone open and scroll to Emily's number. He stares at it, aching to hear her voice and have her promise everything will be all right. He thinks about how she once told him she cared because he did. He remembers the way she dropped everything and flew across the country to be at his side.
But that was a thousand nights and a hundred hurtful words ago.
His stomach jumping, his hands shaking, he flips the phone shut and powers it off.
****
Emily spends the weekend storming around her house like a tornado. She gathers up all the reminders of David Rossi and throws them in the trash, then she pulls them out again. She cleans the bathroom, even using a toothbrush to scrub the stubborn mildew off the grout under the sink. She reorganizes her spice rack, because Dave alphabetizes them when he cooks at her place, but she likes them grouped by flavor. She does all her laundry except the shirt he left here the last time they slept together. It doesn't smell like him anymore, but it still feels like his arms wrapped around her.
She sleeps in it Sunday night. Monday morning she wakes up feeling surprisingly calm.
She loves him. There are a dozen reasons why they shouldn't work, but there are a hundred reasons--a thousand reasons--why they do.
Of course they know the exact ways to hurt each other. If they didn't, it would be proof that they aren't close. And Dave's fussiness drives her crazy, but she's started taking her shoes off at the front door because she knows he prefers that. And her emotional hesitance drives him crazy, but he never pushes her beyond what she's ready for.
Besides, he's right. She is paranoid and emotionally distant. She has spent so much time distrusting people because of the way John and Father Gamino and her mother hurt her, because of the way people judge her by her mother's reputation instead of her own merit, that she's forgotten there are plenty of people who take her for who she is. The team doesn't know about her past. They don't care who her mother is. They love her anyway, and that isn't an exaggeration. The team is a family. And Dave...he knows her past, and he loves her too.
The earrings did make her angry, but she isn't even sure why now. Of course forgiveness and love and absolution can't be bought. But for all that Dave has written six best-sellers and three mid-list books, he isn't good at putting his feelings into words. Time and again she's seen him fumble that, from paying for Zoe Hawkes' funeral to the check he sent for a little girl's First Communion. Those were people he barely knew. How much harder must it be for him when it's someone he knows as well as he knows her?
She'll apologize, she decides. This morning, before this gets any further out of hand than it already is. After all, Christmas was miserable without him, and now it's almost Valentine's Day, and they've been separated over this whole thing for too long now.
She picks out her clothes carefully, the green sweater he likes and black slacks instead of a skirt, since the temperatures have been in the teens for a week. She stops for coffee and a muffin at his favorite bakery. But when she gets to Quantico, Dave's office is dark, the door shut tight. She stands in front of his door, clutching the bakery bag and balancing two coffees as her bag slides off her shoulder and bangs against her leg.
"Are you looking for Dave?" Hotch's voice makes her jump, but she just nods.
"He won't be in this week." Hotch's voice is level, his face expressionless as only Hotch can do. But in his eyes, she sees concern. "He'll be in Chicago for a while. His brother's not well."
If she were another woman, she would gasp or drop the coffee or maybe even swoon. She knew a girl in Rome who was good at swooning on demand. Instead Emily swallows against the sudden sickness inside her, but her voice is calm when she asks, "What happened?"
Hotch is silent for a moment, maybe judging if it's her business, maybe figuring it all out. But he says, "Rob had a heart attack this weekend. Dave got a call Saturday morning and flew out to be with him."
Emily wishes suddenly that she were another woman. She wants to swoon or throw something or...anything but nodding. She takes a breath, and it shocks her to hear what sounds like a sob. She isn't going to cry in front of Hotch. She might want to, but she won't. She doesn't do that.
She looks away. Reid is at his desk, watching them avidly. Of course her conference with Hotch hasn't gone unnoticed.
"He didn't tell me," she says. Her voice doesn't sound like her.
Hotch takes one of the coffee cups from her, then the other. "Should he have?" His voice is gentle. Too gentle, from Hotch to her. It's his victim voice, and it threatens to break her.
She takes a shaky breath. "Yes." It's all she can get out for a minute. Heat is flooding through her, followed by a sharp wave of cold. It's a physiological fear reaction, she knows, the sensation of adrenaline rushing through the body. It's that rush, more than anything, that tells her what she's going to do.
She meets Hotch's gaze. "He should have told me. I should be with him. We've been together for almost two years." She falters, because Hotch isn't reacting at all. "Until I messed it up at Thanksgiving," she adds, because she needs to be all the way honest if she's going to tell them. "Because I wouldn't tell you."
"It's about time," pipes up Reid's voice from behind her. Emily tenses her shoulders. She hadn't heard him approach, even though she knows his curiosity wouldn't let him stay away. "We've known forever, Emily."
She looks over at him then, because she'd thought they were doing a good job of hiding it. Of course, JJ had thought so too, but still. Reid takes the bakery bag from her and peers inside, then makes a delighted noise. She supposes Dave doesn't need the muffin right now anyway.
"I shouldn't have told you like this," she says. "I--he should--we..." She trails off, picking at a fingernail now that her hands are free. "Dave didn't like that we were hiding it. I didn't like lying, but..."
Garcia's voice is shrill and makes her jump. "Oh my God, you and Dave?" Emily widens her eyes in a shocked, silent threat, but Garcia is not to be silenced. "Oh, it's too perfect! Of course you and Dave! If he hurts you, I'll hack into his IRAs and ruin him."
"Garcia, shhh," Emily hisses, because there are people around besides their team, and she really doesn't need this getting back to Strauss. Not before Dave knows what she's done, at least. And not before she finds out if there really is a her-and-Dave to get in trouble over. But when Garcia hugs her, her resistance crumbles. "Besides, I'm more likely to hurt him," she confesses.
Garcia squeezes her again and lets her go. "If you do, I'll ruin you in some other way," she says cheerfully.
Derek is standing behind Garcia. His gaze is on Emily's, and he doesn't say anything, but after a long moment he nods, and even though he doesn't accept changes like this well, she can tell he won't argue against it.
Hotch's voice breaks through the clamor of the team. "Go to Chicago, Prentiss," he says quietly. "We're due for some stand down time anyway."
It's not just permission, it's his blessing, and the tears actually spill over. Emily catches them and doesn't allow more than a few, but despite her concern for Dave and Rob, her heart is lighter when she leaves the FBI Academy less than half an hour after she got there.
vii. chicago
Dave's heart is heavy, but he imagines it's not as heavy as Rob's must feel right now. His brother has been through emergency surgery, but he's in for more when he's stronger, and Dave can't help but pay close attention to the monitor that beeps on the other side of the bed.
The light in the bathroom is on, and light comes in from the open door to the hallway. The room itself is dim. Rob is going to be okay. He's had a serious wakeup call when it comes to his cholesterol and exercise habits, but it's treatable. Roger has been sent home to feed the dog (Muchie's littermate) once he's all lectured out. The snow has been swirling down for the past hour, and Dave is trying to settle in.
He can't pretend he doesn't miss Emily. The first words out of Rob's mouth, after "Damn it, I told Roger not to tell you," are "Where's Emily?" Dave has already confessed his transgressions to his brother, and confessed his bewilderment about how things got so bad.
He's never wanted to work for a relationship as much as he wants to work for this one. He wants to listen to her and ask what she wants and what she needs from him. He wants to tell her what he wants and needs from her. He wants to make her promises and keep those promises. And however he screwed up when he tried to apologize, he wants to make it right.
Emily has a tattoo on her stomach right by her left hip. Dave never thought he'd end up with a woman who is such a study in contradictions as Emily Prentiss is -- proper and collected in the workplace, but a hard drinking woman with a tattoo at home; a smart, capable agent, but a vulnerable woman who wants to be liked; a passionate feminist who wants to be a wife and mother. She perplexes him and fascinates him and knocks him end over end.
He wants to marry her, but he doesn't know how she'll react to that idea, for a number of reasons. And for some reason his hands start shaking whenever he thinks about bringing the topic up.
Talking about it now, in this darkened room, with no one but Rob to hear, Dave pours out his heart, and the words rush out like a dam has crumbled inside him. He talks about how broken Em is, and how strong she is, stronger in the broken places. He talks about how beautiful she is, and how insightful she is, and what a hurt little girl she had been, and how, hell, she's even got him thinking about kids like that wouldn't be a bad thing.
When he's done talking, Rob says, "It's obvious how in love with her you are, Davey. You just...you need to tell her what you told me, instead of giving her expensive things."
"But I want her to have expensive things," Dave protests.
Rob chuckles. "That's not the point, idiot. She can buy herself expensive things. She can't buy herself you."
"But--" Dave pauses, thinking about that. "But the earrings were supposed to show that she has me."
"No, the earrings were to melt her into forgiving you," Rob corrects.
That isn't it. Dave has thought and thought about it, about why the earrings made her mad, and he's inspected his motivations and intentions. And okay, maybe he's been stupid, but it isn't because he thinks he can 'melt her'. He tells Rob as much. "I wanted her to have them. I would have wanted her to have them even if we hadn't fought. She's beautiful, and she should have beautiful things."
Rob is silent for a while. "Maybe your intentions were good, but you messed up, Davey. When you want to apologize, especially to Emily, don't do it by giving her things you've bought. She obviously doesn't want that."
"I figured that much out for myself," Dave says sourly. His brother snorts.
"Just...do something from the heart. It doesn't matter how grand a gesture it is or how much you spend. What matters is that you think about her and what she wants."
Dave runs a hand through his hair. "Fine, fine, I get it." He does understand what Rob is saying, and he can even admit Rob might have a point. It makes sense that Emily would place more importance on something that wasn't expensive but meant he knew her better than anyone. And he'd just gone and screwed that up too. "God, I'm hopeless," he mutters, and buries his face in his hands.
"Oh, not quite hopeless," Rob says. His voice is odd, almost strangled, and Dave jerks his head up, afraid that Rob is hurting or needs help.
But his brother is looking at the door to the hallway, and there's a smile on his face. Dave's heart lurches in his chest and he turns to follow his brother's gaze.
Emily is standing in the door, her coat and hair liberally dusted with snow. She's picking her nails, which drives him nuts, but with the light behind her, he can't see her expression. Her go-bag is on the floor by her feet.
He stands. "Emily." His voice is hoarse. He can't go on, but it doesn't matter, because she holds up a hand to silence him.
****
Emily's flight is the last one allowed to land at O'Hare. She's been through three Chicago winters, since it was her first field office, and remembers lake effect snow. She breathes a prayer of thanks that she has made it into town ahead of the storm.
It takes her a long time to get a cab, since so many flights have been cancelled. At first she doesn't care. She's dreading the hospital and what will happen there. She doesn't bother booking a room at a hotel, though. She'll have time for that once she's seen Dave. She finally snatches a taxi from under the nose of a businessman who is occupied with his cell phone.
When she gets to the hospital she looks around the gift shop for a while. She buys a get well card and flowers for Rob. Finally she can't put it off any longer. She gets directions to Rob's ward and takes the elevator up.
She doesn't hear everything Dave says about her. In fact she almost blunders in and interrupts, before she realizes what she's hearing. Then she knows she shouldn't eavesdrop, and Dave obviously doesn't know she's there, but she physically can't move her feet or open her mouth. Well, she can open her mouth, because it's hanging open as she listens to the way he sees her, to how wonderful she sounds when he describes her. But she can't force a single sound out of her gaping mouth.
When Dave calls himself hopeless, she takes a step forward without meaning to. She can't stand to hear him say that about himself, especially not about this. She's been impossible and scared and even though she's had reasons for it, she needs to let them go now and make him understand how much she loves him.
Rob sees her when she moves, and then Dave sees her, and he says her name, but she can't, she can't, make him say all that again. She didn't hear it all, but she heard enough.
"I'm sorry," she blurts, and then she sucks in a breath. "Rob, how are you?"
She knows what Hotch has told her, but she wants to hear it firsthand. "I'm okay, and I appreciate that you care, Emily, but don't talk to me. Talk to him."
So she turns to Dave, who's watching her with such undisguised need that she wants to cry. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, and that's enough to get him to cross the room, banging into the bathroom door on the way. Then his arms are around her, and she's hugging him harder than she can remember ever hugging someone.
Her blood is rushing in her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. She's not sure how much time passes, but after a while Dave says, "Let's go talk for a few minutes."
She nods and lets him guide her to the elevators. When they get downstairs, he leads her past the emergency entrance and out the automatic glass doors. A blast of cold air hits them, then there's snow swirling around them and crunching underfoot.
He's in his shirt sleeves, she realizes. "You'll freeze."
He shakes his head and moves around behind her, wrapping his arms around her. There are at least six inches on the ground already, and there will be at least six more before it's done. She doesn't care about being snowbound in Chicago. She slips her gloves out of her coat pockets and puts them on, then spreads her hands against Dave's arms to keep them warm.
He suggested they come outside and talk, but neither of them are saying anything. They will say it, later, she knows. There are apologies to be made and compromises to be reached and meetings to plan. They're definitely due some fantastic makeup sex, though that'll take some figuring out, since she doesn't have a hotel room. But right now, they're together, and it's obvious they want to stay together. It's enough for right now, and Emily finds she doesn't need any words.
It doesn't take long in the snowstorm for Dave to start shivering. He presses his face against her neck. It makes her shiver. She rubs her hands against his arms. "We should go in," she whispers.
He ignores her. "You know, a lot of our relationship seems to consist of me going to the Midwest and you following me. You trying to tell me something?" His breath gusts against her hair. She smiles.
"Yeah." Standing in the cold snow on the sidewalk outside the hospital isn't exactly the perfect place to say this for the first time, but she knows this is the perfect time. She brushes her nose against his jaw. "I'm trying to tell you I kind of love you, but don't know how to say it."
They kiss for a long time before they get too cold to stay outside.
****
Dave takes Emily to dinner in Chicago on Valentine's Day. They have meatloaf and mashed potatoes and coined carrots from the hospital cafeteria, under paper hearts that hang from the ceiling. He gives her the earrings again, and this time she puts them in. They hold hands under the table and Dave asks her if he'll be allowed to buy her a ring, or if she'll yell at him. She manages to laugh even though it's still a little raw for joking, and even though they have a lot to work out before they talk about marriage. The fact is, she wants desperately to work things out and marry him. She's never been so happy and scared at the same time.
After dinner they go upstairs to the cardiac ward. He kisses her in the elevator and when the doors slide open they're still kissing and two nurses catch them. They don't apologize, even though Emily's cheeks are burning. Rob's roommate has gone home, so Dave and Emily snuggle together on the empty hospital bed. They watch a Three Stooges marathon with Roger and Rob. It's the weirdest Valentine's Day date Emily had ever heard of.
And it's perfect.