"Anger is not bad. Anger can be a very positive thing, the thing that moves us beyond the acceptance of evil." -Joan Chittister
It had been going great. Really. The training somehow seemed to make their relationship normal again. The playful banter, the jokes, the flirting, they all seemed to be back. And sometimes, in the middle of a joke, or when he looked at her laughing, he would forget. Forget the last 7 months, forget the day he'd watched her die in his arms.
Lately, he'd been forgetting more often. Things had been better; with her, with the team.
Their relationship wasn't awkward and tense like it had been the first few weeks. They were slowly slipping back into their familiar pattern, and it felt good. Familiar. Like that old, worn out, comfortable T-shirt that you just wouldn't throw away for the world.
He hadn't been getting angry lately, not at her, not at Hotch. It was good. It was progress. And they were convinced that the worst was over, that they had waited out the storm, and the only thing left was to rebuild. To rebuild the trust and friendship they all had, and they were well on their way.
Derek thought so too, until one thing changed everything.
Just a moment, a slip of the skin, a tug of her shirt in the wrong place. And the dam broke.
His anger and guilt rolled off him like a storm. Not one that'd been brewing, just sudden, like a summer thunderstorm that no one saw coming.
She, of course, blamed herself. She should've kept it covered up, she shouldn't have been so careless. Of course, she'd been hiding it, she probably would the rest of her life. But he saw anyway. And it seemed to send him over the edge.
It was pure, raw anger. Not at her, or Hotch or JJ. It was at Doyle, and himself. Mostly himself. He should've known, he was her partner. He should've pushed her to tell. She shouldn't have had to face him alone. She shouldn't have had to suffer. Wasn't it enough that he almost killed her? The bastard had to brand her too? Permanent; it stayed etched into her skin, and even the thought of it made his hand shake with anger. This was the piece he'd been needing for the dam to break. He'd wondered why he hadn't really felt angry before, when she came back. But here it was now.
Tears threatened to fall down her face as she watched him. Tears of shame, guilt. This was what she had done to them, what she'd let Doyle do to her. He marked her; now she was, as he said, his forever. Even now that he's dead, the clover would be a constant reminder of him. Of what she did with him. She was convinced she'd never let someone touch her again. Because then she'd have to explain, or lie. She was damaged property now, not good enough. He had broken her, and she wasn't sure anyone would be able to put her back together again.
He wasn't sure how long he punched at the punching bag, how many rounds he'd shot at the range that day. But when he felt so physically exhausted that he couldn't go on, he realized the anger was gone. Not completely; it was still there. But it was just an undertone, a part of his existence, not something he needed to let out. And that's when he noticed her there. Just standing, waiting.
She knew he needed this, so she just watched, occasionally stopping to wipe a tear away, not wanting him to see. He'd already seen her weak enough times.
The touch on her shoulder made her flinch, a reaction, almost an instinct, that had come from Doyle. She relaxed as the hand guided her to turn around looking at him.
His eyes looked like they had when she walked into the conference room that day, a month ago. They looked hurt, HE looked hurt. All the anger was gone, it was just pure hurt and guilt that were left.
So she did what she'd done that day, a month ago, and pulled him into a hug. But unlike last time, he responded. His arms tightened around her, like he didn't want to ever let go, his hand stroked her hair. She tried not to flinch at the contact, as much as her body was telling her to. So she just buried her face in his neck and held on, trying to feel normal again. Trying to make them normal. Now that he'd been angry, maybe acceptance would finally set in.
He wasn't sure how long they'd stood like that, neither of them wanting to let go.
When she finally pulled away, she looked at him, her eyes questioning. And he knew what they were asking. If they were okay. And he didn't know. Maybe now they would be. He hoped so.
"It's never coming off you know.", she said, turned away now, tears in her voice.
"It'll always be there, ugly, reminding me of him. He got just what he wanted, he branded me, so that no one could have me again.", she said, hurt in her voice. He bet she was crying, but he knew she wouldn't want him to see.
"You're beautiful Princess.", he said, gripping her shoulders and turning her around to face him. The tear tracks down her face were evident, she hadn't wiped them away. Her sadness was raw, her walls were down, and Derek was thankful. That she'd let him in, trusted him.
"You hear me? Even with your scars. They remind you of where you've been, not tell you where you're going."
And she realized he was right. It would take her time to believe it, and it still didn't make things better, but he was right. But best of all, they were finally okay. The anger was done, they were moving on into acceptance.
So Emily did something she hadn't done since she was a teenager. She stood up on her tippy toes and kissed him on the cheek, feeling the gentle scratch of his 5 o'clock shadow on her lips.
"Thank you.", she whispered in his ear.
In response, he just tucked his hand around her waist and led her to the car, knowing that they would be okay. Yes, it would take some time, for both of them, but eventually, they would. And that was all that mattered.
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