even in the earlier seasons, Emily Prentiss had a lot of potential in being a leader, and she even proved herself multiple times that she can work side by side with these incredible men with the same tenacity and mastery
warnings: death, maeve’s death, (kind of) nsfw, flashback to the night in alaska
author’s note: chapter three and four are hand in hand!
Spencer Reid, to no avail, loathed the thought of an undercover marriage with Freya Bryn. Hotch had brought Spencer and the Freya to his office, and to say the least, it hadn’t gone as Hotch had wished.
“What?!” Spencer had said, furious. He’s furious that Hotch, that Freya, had thought a cliché undercover marriage would lure in a notorious unsub, and that it’d mend the broken relationship they had.
“No, I don’t consent, I won’t consent.” He said. Hotch sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Spencer, I hate you more than you hate me, and if I thought that this undercover marriage wasn’t worth it, I wouldn’t even have bothered to ask.” She said, and Spencer felt his anger rise.
“Oh, you didn’t hate me when you were pretending to be Maeve in bed!” He said, forcing a defense mechanism.
“Spencer.” She said, and brought her lips to his cheeks, and shivers travelled down his back.
“Perhaps, you’re not as good in bed as you think you are?” She asked in a whisper.
“That I faked the pleasure, the orgasm, the pretending to be Maeve. Spencer, you imagined yourself in bed with your dead girlfriend, is that the only way you can get it up, huh?” She said, and Spencer’s cheeks flushed a dark blush, speechless.
Spencer thought back to that night in Alaska, where she’d lay under him, her hands tangled in his hair. He’d kissed bruises to her that she’d hide with concealer, and whispered sweet nothings to her that she’d remember.
And then, he said her name. Maeve.
He’d whispered it softly, “Maeve,” so softly, that he thought she hadn’t heard, but oh, she had.
“Spencer Reid, love me, hate me, you’re my husband.” She whispered, and kissed his cheek.
“Why don’t you have a thought about that, Spencer?” She asked, standing.
And Spencer Reid had a thought about that, for sure.
After Freya’s threat to Spencer, Hotch led them to the conference room, where the rest of the team sat, waiting.
“Alright, let’s get started.” Hotch said, and gestured for the liaison to take charge of the presentation.
“As I said, I waitressed at The Top of the Hub in Boston, and two couples were found murdered on Boylston Street in the last forty-eight hours.” She said, and gestured to the case files on the table.
“The first couple, Lauren and Ren, had dinner at the restaurant, celebrating their five year anniversary. They were there from five-o’-clock to seven-o’-clock, and were found dead within twelve hours. The second couple, Rochelle and Drey, had dinner, celebrating their one year anniversary. Again, they were there from five-o’-clock to seven-o’-clock, and were found dead within ten hours.” She said, and Spencer traced the file, reading.
“So, he’s out for a young, married couple celebrating their anniversary, there’s a chance a girlfriend broke up with him at that restaurant on their anniversary.” He said, and Rossi hummed in agreement.
“Oh, Caroline broke up with me on an anniversary.” Rossi said, and the liaison raised her eyebrow.
“No one cares, David.” She said, and placed the case file on the table.
“Spencer and I are undercover, a young married couple who’s celebrating their third anniversary.” She said, and glanced at Spencer.
“Thirty hours, fifty-nine minutes, and ten seconds til the unsub’s at The Top of The Hub.” She said, and regarded Hotch, Rossi, Jennifer, Emily, Derek, and Spencer.
The New England weather had changed from rain to sunshine in minutes, as had Spencer’s behavior to Freya. What she had said had given him a thought, a thought that he’s afraid of her.
Spencer and Freya were at the conference table in the Boston Police Department, reading through the case files, cold and bitter coffee in their hands.
She gathered her hair in a bun, her cashmere sweater travelled from her hips to her breasts, and Spencer glanced at her delicate, porcelain skin. The bruises from where he’d held her as she cradled his face had faded, but the thought of her, with her head thrown back, and her hair framing her face, hadn’t.
“The unsub’s in his twenties.” Spencer said, the remembrance had given him an epiphany. Freya tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and read Spencer’s case file.
“Why’d you say that?” She asked, her brows furrowed. Spencer gestured to the paragraph, where he’d made thousands of annotations.
“The unsub strangled the first couple, the woman had “whore” written on her cheeks in lipstick, but he stabbed, and eviscerated the second couple, with the lipstick in the wife, after the evisceration.” He said, and Freya gasped.
“The first couple, it’s his first, and with the second, he’s decided his preferred method.” She said, and gathered the case files.
“Let’s deliver the profile.”
Spencer and Freya had gathered with the others in the conference room, the annotations and notes written from the board, to the sticky notes in Spencer’s pocket.
“The unsub’s a white male in his twenties, he probably had a wife, or fiancé who broke up with him at The Top of the Hub on an anniversary, and has thought that if he can’t celebrate an anniversary, no one can.” Spencer said, and gestured for Freya to continue.
“The unsub strangled the first couple, and wrote “whore” on the wife, that presents the thought that he hasn’t murdered before, and the wife is the primary victim, the husband is murdered because he’s a witness, but he’s aroused from that as much as he is from the wife’s murder.” She said, and placed her hands on the table.
“There’s fifteen hours, twenty-one minutes, and thirty seconds til he’s going to attempt to murder me and Spencer.”
warnings: descriptions of blood, emily got shot, some (very likely inaccurate) medical speak, hotch gets scary for a sec, cw hospitals, very slight suicidal ideation (reader would rather die with emily than to leave her alone to die), crying. lots of crying and pleading
word count: 1.28k
a/n: hi everyone, first emily fic !! i’m a slut for a good angsty story so uh here i wrote one. and yes the title is named after a harry styles song
and in the moonlight, even in the dark — there’s a trail in the snow. a bright, crimson trail that's hypnotically mesmerizing.
her soft groans are the thing that pull you out of the grip of the sight before you.
and there she is, your soulmate and girlfriend emily prentiss, lying in the snow with a puddle of blood around her. it seeps into the snow like poison and makes it a horribly gaudy colour that makes your eyes water.
you rush to her and fall onto your knees. you can feel it soak through your pants but you don’t care.
you pressed two fingers to her wrist to feel her pulse. it’s weak but it’s there.
her eyes find yours. they’re wide with terror and something else. something like regret.
she tries to speak but the words die out in her throat and all she wants is to bring a hand to your face and let you know she’s okay and you’re okay and you’ll both be okay.
she wants to, she tries to, but instead, her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut.
you scream in agony -- a bloodcurdling scream -- as a beam of light descends on you. you look towards it.
you sob and plead to her to wake up, to do anything but leave you.
and suddenly a strong voice calls out to you and for a second, you think you’re both dying. you hope you’re both dying.
but then derek morgan’s muscular arms haul you away. you’re kicking and screaming and the ache in your heart is so strong you’d rather rip it out than feel this way.
“let go of me!”
tears cover the bottom half of your face and he’d also be lying if he said he wasn’t crying at least a little bit.
“you know i can’t.”
your elbows are jabbing back at him, anything to get him to drop you so you can get to her but jj joins too.
“i’ve got this,” she says to derek. she shoots him a look, i know what i'm doing.
his arms loosen their grip on you and you fall again, knees first. you’re cold and shivering now and if you weren’t so scared you’d be happy.
who doesn’t love snow, after all?
jj’s arms now find you in a less aggressive embrace and her motherly instincts kick in. you’re sobbing into her neck as you see red and blue lights flash and go further and further into the horizon before you can’t see them at all.
your throat is raw, your body cold and numb.
you need a friend, you needed a little solace, and your unconscious wish is granted in this moment of desperation and urgency.
his fingers are nimble as they find your shoulder. you look up through teary eyes seeing spencer, a sorrowful look on his face.
jj lets you go and spencer gets down into the snow with you, wrapping a blanket over your shoulders.
his hands, unnaturally warm for this weather, were placed on your cheeks. his eyes, honeyed are filled with anguish as they meet yours.
“i assure you everything will be fine, but we have to get you to the car, okay? she'll be fine -- she's taken a bullet or two before -- but you won't unless we get you warmed up. and then we can go see emily. is that what you want?”
you nod repeatedly and let him help you up in your soaking clothes.
you hold his hand — all the way to the car, in the backseat, to your apartment and then to the hospital back again when you’re at a stable temperature again.
he brings you to the hospital where the rest of the team are waiting, crammed in the small room.
including penelope, who’d usually jump you and try her best to restore any sense of ease to you. but right now she knows what you really need is space. instead, her hand gives you a small wave.
you give her as much as you can give anyone right now, which translates into a nod of acknowledgement.
a surgeon, evidently fresh out of surgery steps up. “the close family members of ms prentiss?”
you stand up along with hotch who walks over with you.
you can barely get a word out, never mind two and you look to hotch to speak for you.
he gets the message. “will she be alright?”
it feels like someone’s sucked all of the oxygen from the room and you hold your breath, trying not to break down again in front of a bunch of strangers.
“yes and no. she’ll need to go to some physiotherapy for a while, the bullet didn’t pass all the way through. it almost got stuck in her brachial artery, which would’ve been a lot messier and harder to get out.”
“but is she alright?” hotch’s tone took a turn, becoming more authoritative, in an almost scary way. the paternal and forgiving man you'd grown to know over the past half a decade quickly melted away, his raw distress and anger showing.
the surgeon’s eyes widened. “yes, yes she’s alright.”
“is she awake,” you barely managed above a whisper.
“no, however, she should be within the next hour. you can visit her room if you’d like.”
“yes, i’d like that,” he tells you her room number and your feet can’t carry you fast enough.
you shouldn’t feel this bad, right? you made a mistake, like every single person does. you should’ve been there for her, you should’ve followed her and made sure she wouldn’t get taken by surprise. but now you were here, in a hospital you weren’t familiar with, a heavy feeling of guilt hanging over you like a dark cloud.
you stop abruptly, spotting the numbers on the door. you take a breath before pushing the door open, your hand wrapping around the metal knob.
and you see her, lying motionless. her hair is splayed out around her face like an angel.
you pull a chair up to her bed as close as you can comfortably be to her and you take her hand within your own.
“em, i’m so sorry. i’m sorry i wasn’t there backing you. i’ll do anything to make it up to you, just please pull through. please,” a tear slips down your cheek. “remember the day we met at that park and we had a picnic together. you brought my favourite dessert and i brought yours? god, the look on your face was so worth the few hours i spent prepping and baking.”
“strawberry shortcake. you only had it once before and you decided immediately it was your favourite.”
the smile on your face laced with desperation melts away. the room is so silent but it’s not the peaceful kind. it’s the kind that makes your skin feel foreign on your own body and the kind that makes your mind feel claustrophobic with your own thoughts.
“y’know you make life worth living again for me? i didn’t know who i was or what i wanted before i met you and all of a sudden i did. i wanted you — and you made me want to be the best version possible of myself.”
her hands were slightly calloused but you didn't mind. your lips caressed her knuckles in the hope that life would turn into a fairytale. her, your sleeping beauty and you, her own royal coming to wake her with a kiss. tears slipped down again involuntary.
“emily prentiss, you have completely changed my life. i wake up feeling blessed every day — so please wake up for me, em.”