This is my very first Criminal Minds fic, I hope I did the show some justice. I really tried to stay with the characters, sorry if I messed something up:)
This is set after 'Minimal Loss', season 4, episode three, wherein Prentiss and Reid are held hostage in a cult compound and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who felt some Emily/Spencer vibe going.
Anyway, enjoy.
It had been nearly three weeks. Three, agonizing, sleepless weeks. Twenty one days of a seemingly never-ending headache plaguing his mind, his highly intelligent, highly capable, mind. He punished himself more than anything. He should have been able to squelch the emotional fire, he should have been able to cope and move on, but something was preventing him from doing so.
He knew that he felt guilty. Immensely guilty. He was the reason Emily had blown her cover-for him, so that the gun held at his temporal would not go off. And as a result, in an act of sheer sacrifice, she had been beaten, abused. Her attractive face had been bloodied and bruised to the point that it resembled a child's watercolor painting, the purples and blues clouding over her eye and delicately carved cheek. He hoped she had witnessed the sincerity in his eyes as they met at the chapel the last time.
"It's not as bad as it looks." She claimed, avoiding his remorseful gaze. He wanted so badly to take it all back, to take the punishment for her. She did not deserve it.
However, he knew it was not entirely guilt. She had taken his hands on the plane-a bold act, as it was common knowledge that he did not like to be touched-and she had stated, reiterated, that it was in no way his fault. There was nothing he could have done. He should not feel guilty. He thumb rubbed slowly across the surface of his like a worry stone. It shot bolts of warmth, of comfort through him. He nodded, his Adam's apple bobbed slightly and he returned to his reading.
It was not solely the guilt that had kept him from moving on. For once in his life, Spencer Reid was without an answer- and that, more than anything, was what bothered him.
She was laid out on the couch holding a small glass half filled with some brown liquor. Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" floated softly through her stereo system and she was just beginning to doze off when the knock arrived at her door.
She opened it and greeted him with a tone that denoted pleasant surprise.
"Reid…What…what brings you here?" She asked the gangly man as she shifted her body to allow him entrance into the room. He obliged and slid past her, nodding.
"I, uh, I came to ask for your advice, actually." He explained, his hands jammed into the pockets of his cords, his gaze at a distinct downward angle. Prentiss nodded, heading into the kitchen to pour him a glass of water. Unsure how to act in such a situation as this, he followed her.
"Well go ahead, ask away." She gave a small, supportive smile as she handed him the cup. He accepted it passively, but made no motion to drink from it, instead, he took a seat at her small dining room table. She sat as well, not across from him, but rather beside him.
Spencer swallowed uncomfortably, pausing, trying to phrase his question correctly. Finally, he asked, in a voice so low that it seemed barely a whisper, in a small, scared tone,
"How do you do it?" His eyes met hers for the first time in three weeks. She was jolted by the sudden contact and the change of character. It was not like Spencer Reid to appear so shaken.
"How do I do what?" She solicited, her voice nearly as soft as his. For the first time since the incident, she took a good, hard look at his visage. He had always been thin, but now his cheekbones were sunken in, his skin was pallid and waxy, his eyes were covered and rimmed with the purple of sleep deprivation.
"What's wrong?" She inquired, laying her hands out on the table. He, again, looked directly into her eyes, the way that he looked into books, trying desperately to read her.
"How have you been able to sleep?" He asked, his voice was a cup, overflowing with stress and frustration and fear.
"What do you mean?" She encouraged him to continue. He shifted his body towards her slightly,
"How can you sleep at night? I try, I try so hard, but every time I close my eyes, I'm back at the compound and he's dragging you away by the hair and you're shrieking and terrified and your eyes are pleading and I can't do anything about it. How can you sleep after that?" He asked, his eyes wider than she'd ever seen them.
She stammered, unsure of what to say. He studied her face and silenced her by asking another question, phrased differently this time, in hopes that she would be able to answer him.
"What I'm trying to ask is, how can you cope? How can you just set aside your feelings and move on? That's what I can't do, I can't move on." His frustration was viable. She lifted her hand and placed it atop his, wondering how he would react-he did not like to be touched, after all. He glanced down at them and saw how her thumb ran soothingly down his knuckles. He felt something strange, something he had not felt since several moments after the chapel exploded: comfort.
He had squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded silently with whoever so controlled the universe, "Please, please, please. Protect us." The world around him erupted and yet, he remained, huddled on the floor. He lifted himself up and glanced around, Morgan was okay. That's all that mattered.
Then he stared straight ahead and saw her figure walking toward him through the flames, not towards Morgan, but to him. She came to him. She stood a few inches in front of him and her eyes were wet out of relief. She made a small noise that reminded him a bit of a whimper and flung her arms around his neck, her body covering his entire front side. His first instinct was not to shove her off and back away, as he normally did when someone tried to hug him like that, but rather to hug back, with all the force he had in his lanky body. He recalled that at that moment, all he wanted was to hold and be held for as long as possible. And he wanted her to be the one to do it. She let go after awhile, though her arm snaked its way behind his back and his over her shoulder, the way teenagers in "love" stood.
The sudden flood of memories startled him and his hands jumped, causing hers to retreat cautiously. She couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed that he did not want her to touch him. She had felt special when she hugged him after the blast, knowing she was one of the very few people on the Earth that could ever be that close to him.
"I wish I could give you the answer. I really do. But it's not something you can read in books and learn. It's not a jumble of facts it's…it's an ability that you develop over time. You just have to learn to push through things." She went to place a hand on his shoulder, but retracted. He glanced down at it,
"It's hard to push through things when I wake up from my terrors and I'm completely alone. I hate being alone. You guys make jokes about it-well, Morgan makes jokes about it, but it really…it really sucks. How can I possibly get through it alone, with no one to rely on to be there for me?" He questioned, his eyes no longer scanning hers for facts but rather surrendering to her, pleading for any scrap of information or advice.
"You're not alone. I was in that compound, too." She replied simply, her affirmative voice so soft that it seemed to caress his ears. At her surprise, it was his long, thin hand that held hers.
"I'm so sorry about what he did to you." Reid's mouth twitched apologetically, as it often did. She shook her head,
"It's not your fault." He intertwined his fingers with hers and gave a small, sweet squeeze. She lit up at the contact, Reid never connected with anyone on this level and she realized how special he must've found her. The thought made her heart sink into her stomach, as if her chest was a bottomless pit.
"What did he do to you? You never did say." He asked after a moment. This time, it was she who avoided eye contact, her gaze shifted slowly as she recollected the images. Emily Prentiss was by no means soft, but her eyes were slowly wetting.
Reid did not want to see her cry. It would only serve to make him hate himself more. And it would make him feel even more isolated and alone. He also did not know how to react to a crying woman, so he did what she had done for him.
Prentiss found herself being pulled into a tight, yet comforting, embrace. Her face fell over his shoulder, but she intentionally buried it into his neck. She'd always wanted to get an up close smell of Dr. Reid, ever since her fourth week on the job when he'd leaned over her to have a look at the computer virus that had popped up on her screen.
It was something distinctly male-musky. But also fresh, like the little pieces of sandal wood you'd find washed up on the shore of the beach. She took it in slowly, relishing the time she had to be held by Reid because chances were she'd never have it again. And she'd waited for this for a considerable amount of time.
He relinquished her and gave a weak smile.
"Sorry, I just didn't want you to cry. I'm the one who came to your house in the middle of the night being a baby." She shook her head and became aware that her eyes were lighting up.
"In that case, you're one fucking brilliant baby, Dr. Reid." They exchanged small smirks and fell silent once again, both of them deep in thought.
"You know, you don't have to be alone all of the time." She hinted after awhile. He furrowed his brows in confusion,
"What do you mean?" He asked, leaning back in his chair. She almost sighed at how incredibly clueless he was and then questioned her own sanity. Was she really about to do this?
"I mean…you could…you could stay here tonight," She stammered, then gained some confidence and continued almost breathlessly, "Then when you wake up from your nightmares I'll be there with you." She waited for a response and studied his face, which remained pinched and unreadable.
"It'll help you get some sleep-take away those dark circles and give you back that handsome face of yours." She added jokingly, as an afterthought. He did not respond. She accepted her defeat and flustered out of embarrassment.
"Then I guess you should-" She rose to her feet but Spencer grabbed her hands and pulled her to him. He was small enough that she could easily straddle him in the dining room chair. His eyes darted all around her face, unsure of what to do. He wasn't exactly experienced; all he knew was this beautiful girl that he had wanted for so long was offering to make him feel less alone, to be there with him when he was scared and plagued with the memories.
And with that he tilted his head like he'd seen in movies and slowly, cautiously, reached out until his lips met hers. Kissing was easier than he thought it'd be, in fact, it was all easier than he thought, really. She guided his hands along her body until he picked up on what to do, groping here and there, trying as hard as he could to remember the feel of her on his hands.
He kissed her in places he thought himself incapable of ever coming into contact with as she grinded up against his length, making him feel a sense of headiness that had, before then, only been aroused by his own hand. She shivered as his long fingers stroked her and explored her with such caution, but such a lack of inhibition.
He threw her down on her bed and she pulled him with her, rolling them over so that she was on top. They both paused a moment to catch their breath.
"You're okay with this?" She asked, leaning back so that her shapely butt was directly on top of his prominent erection. her eyes were full of sincerity. He swallowed hard and nodded. It would be stupid to turn down a night with Emily Prentiss-the girl he had only dreamed of being inside, and he was by no means stupid. She grinned devilishly as she hopped off of her spot on his pelvis and began to shuffle through her nightstand.
"Emily?" He asked, his voice no longer scared or innocent, and about an octave deeper.
"What?" She asked back as she tossed him her findings. He propped himself up on one elbow, and with his charcoal grey oxford halfway unbuttoned and exposing his surprisingly built chest, he was quite a site.
"This isn't just what Morgan calls a…a 'bootycall' or a...'one night stand', is it?" She noted the concern in his brown eyes and began to worry if she had come off that way, jumping him all of the sudden (though, realistically, he had been the one to pull her into his lap).
"No, of course not." She fretted, laying down next to him, pressing her lips, "Spencer, you know how everyone makes fun of how compartmentalized I am? How I don't feel…anything?" He nodded. "Well, I've been having nightmares, too. I close my eyes and I see the explosion. And Morgan walks out of it unscratched. But he comes to me and says, 'He didn't make it.' And I wake up hysterical. Bawling. Every time. Because that night, when the bomb went off, I thought I'd lost you. And I hadn't had the chance to show you how I feel about you yet. And I can't sleep, because without you I feel…alone."
Spencer used a long, thin finger to tuck a strand of her black hair behind her ear. She smiled through her misty eyes and helped him shrug his corduroys off, to reveal his Star Trek boxers. She laughed and he blushed as he flipped them over,
"Thank you." He said in a voice so low it seemed more like a growl.
It was a moment of release in a dark room, and all was forgotten except for the feeling of togetherness.
The terrors that plagued their sleep left with their gasps and exclamations of gratification.
They could finally shut their eyes again, for they were not alone.
"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone. "- Orson Welles
So how'd I do?
~Rhea