TITLE: In the Mourning
RATING: FRT
CHARACTER: The Whole Damn Team / J. Jareau / E. Prentiss
SUMMARY: That was how our days used to begin...
WARNINGS: Character death.
NOTES: It's my first CM fic, so don't be too hopeful. But JJ and Prentiss are definitely my favorite pair so I had to sit down and come up with a story involving those two. It's only a one-shot, but I hope you like it.

She was always Em to me - just Em in the mornings - standing naked with her hip against the bathroom door-frame and chuckling at my forgotten dirty sock, dangling loosely on one thin finger. She was Prentiss at the office or when she was being devious, she was Emily everywhere else. But at the crack of dawn, when the new sun streaked through the open blinds and made her hair shine like the feathers on a raven's back, she was always Em. Lithe and weary at my door, brandishing my sock and wiggling those dark eyebrows at me like two smug caterpillars. I melted against her pseudo-glare, I always did. I knew it was all in good fun, knew she was only testing me. I sighed as I turned in bed, my brittle back to her, and I smiled to myself when I pretended not to care.

"Hey, you," she said coarsely, but I could hear the mirth hiding beneath it.

"Hm...?" I feigned going back to sleep. It was all part of the game. Every morning, it was the same thing.

"I showed you where the hamper was, right?"

Keeping my eyes closed, I replied through a forced yawn, "Huh? Oh, yeah. Guess I forgot."

I knew she sensed the smirk creeping up at the corners of my mouth, even with my back turned - she was just that good. Then she pounced on me and I knew it was all over. She tossed the sock at my head and laughed as she dove beneath the covers, fingernails scraping for my bare sides because she knew that's where I'm most ticklish.

"Dammit, that's not fair," I whined, seizing her wrists through mouthfuls of laughter. She froze when the words left my mouth. Her shady eyes locked onto mine when she saw the lightning flash through them like a flat streak in a blue sky. This meant war. I managed to pin her underneath me and I kissed her combatively, slowly running my hands up to touch her porcelain face which was moaning back at me like a possessed doll. I floated my lips across her forehead and grinned when she sighed peacefully beneath me, closing her eyes. I layed my head down on her breastbone, wanting to just get inside her skin which was still damp and fragrant from her shower.

"We should get going," I whispered against her warm chest and I felt her groan.

"Let's not. Why can't we just tell them that we can't be bothered with murder today?"

Chuckling, "Because I don't want to have to look for a new job. I'm not as good with a deep-fat fryer as you might think..."

I felt her chest sink as she laughed at this and a warm tingle shot down my spine. I loved hearing her laugh; it always sounded so warm and easy; it always echoed and was always real and always comfortable. Always.

"I could see you working a fryer. That would be sexy...especially if you were naked. It's probably not such a safe idea, though."

One single index finger trailed the length of my arm, and I shuddered as I pulled her closer.

That was how our days used to begin. Now, my mornings are empty without her there to remind me that my socks smell and could I please put them in the laundry basket next time. The office is quiet, too quiet in her absence. The dynamic has shifted; Reid no longer spouts off random statistics or long-winded facts about Star Trek. Just occasionally I'll catch him glancing toward her empty desk with soft eyes, the pained look of knowing that he wants to cry but he can't. It's all too obvious. There is no more light-hearted banter with Garcia. She simply comes in, does her job, and leaves. Sometimes I walk in on her crying at her desk, and she looks at me with such sad eyes. I give her a hug and lie to her when I say that it's going to be okay. Morgan doesn't smile anymore, that alleviating trillion-watt grin was quickly replaced with a murky frown that never left. No one can remember the last time Hotchner spoke about anything other than whatever current case we happened to be working on, and he's been wearing the same tie for weeks now - the same tie he was wearing that day. Rossi closes his office door and sits in the dark sometimes after everyone else has scattered, slowly sipping whiskey out of a coffee mug. We pretend not to notice, but all of us do.

He was the one to last see her; he was the one who had to watch her blood spill out before him. The unsub got to her before she could get to him. We tracked down his location to a warehouse some thirty miles out of Texas, sending in Rossi and Prentiss. But only Rossi came out, shaking, stumbling toward us and the police cruisers and pointing toward the building. Everything slowed down, everything. And then I saw the blood on his hands.

We all know what happened, we saw the coroner's report. We know that he sneaked up behind her after Rossi and her split up; he slit her throat and then stabbed her twice in the back. Rossi caught up to them just as he was pulling the knife out of her kidney, and he unloaded his clip into the bastard's skull. But Dave won't speak about it. It's the infected wound that just won't heal.

And as for me, I always remember to toss my socks in the hamper from now on.

THE END