Work Text:
Bad Thing: Self-harm
Bad Person: Self
One Line Prompt: "I didn't say anything because I'm embarrassed. I'm an adult that is trained to help the mentally ill, but I can't even help myself."
When Emily Prentiss was ten years old she watched in morbid fascination as the neighbourhood’s stray dog limped towards her on jittery legs, mouth foaming with drool, eyes alive with a mix of confusion and violence. The sky had been hazy with sweet summer afternoon, the neighbourhood quiet as children had been called for dinner not long before. Not her, though, no they had to wait for her father (at this age she didn’t know it was the last summer of her parents living together, of being in a room without spitting venom at one another) and so here she was, watching the beast watch her. Lovingly referred to as Scruffy by the neighbourhood kids, the dog before her had slowly been devolving into this feral creature for some time now. He once was beloved in this area, fed scraps and treats by most families alike. No one knew where he came from, but they didn’t want to turn him away. The last few weeks Scruffy had become far less willing to interact with his adoring friends. Then, the physical changes. Growling, snapping, his awkward body movements.
“They should call the damn pound for him, put him out his misery.” She’d overheard her mom mutter to her dad one day as they caught sight of Scruffy across the road - except she hadn’t said damn, and Emily had secretly grinned at her usually poised and prim mother using such language.
Technically, she’d been told to not interact with him again, but she wasn’t interacting with him. She was simply stood here, and he was approaching her . Emily had stared into those crazed eyes as he approached, stock still in her spot. Something awful in her wanted to know what would happen when he got here, when those jaws clamped around her already skinned arms (yesterday afternoon she’d tripped off her bike and bled all over a brand new shirt, her mother had not been pleased) and passed that illness into her bloodstream. Would she feel it, the infection ravaging her veins? Would she lose her mind and spit foam and growl and become the feral creature before her? He was closing in. A few steps.
“Emily Elizabeth Prentiss!” A vice grip yanking her away, the stern voice of her father loud in her ears. His face betrayed a worry behind the strictness as he proceeded to shout at her. Was she hurt? What was she thinking? Hadn’t she been told to leave that mutt alone? Emily gazed for a final time at Scruffy as she was dragged inside (her parents personally called animal control the next day. She never saw him again).
The neighbourhood kids would go on to revel in their believed tale of her bravery. Emily never told them that the standoff wasn’t due to a fearless nature, rather the craving that had begun to fester in her gut to feel something, even the pain of dying from an animal’s disease.
That’s how it started. A shadowy creature lurking in the depths of her mind, rearing its ugly head whenever the blankness overtook her. After her father left Emily fell despondent. Days blurred and her mother cried and drank and cursed his name like the devil. After a few weeks, Elizabeth returned to work as if nothing had happened and Emily was once again left in the hands of staff. She didn’t care. She didn’t feel anything. More days, more weeks, more months, until one day she snapped. Dinner, an especially fancy one with a man she didn’t recognise sat opposite her mother - in what used to be her father’s seat. The adults leaned too closely into one another, laughed too loud to jokes she didn’t understand, and suddenly Emily screamed. Everything that had numbed since her father leaving resurfaced in raw, overwhelming painful waves that erupted from the girl’s mouth. She screamed. She screamed until her throat hurt and her lungs protested and spittle gathered at her lips. As the staff dragged her away under the disapproving glare of the ambassador, Emily felt a sick pleasure at wondering if she looked like the dog now: a wild thing losing control to the sickness in her body.
From there things only spiralled. Adolescence was spent in pits of rebellion, doing every small thing in her power to elicit a reaction from her parents. Their disapproval and contempt fuelled her anger, and anger was something, she felt something. Contrary to the belief they still likely held today, her pregnancy had not been planned to provoke them. The numbness had threatened to return in Rome even with the presence of Matthew. By this point she and Elizabeth were barely on speaking terms, preferring their communication to be through short emails or screaming matches. She’d wanted friends, to fit in, and what else was a young girl to do to earn affection from her peers? Later, breaking down in the bathroom upon the realisation of what had happened, what it meant, how she was going to break the news. The maids ran her a warm bath and she’d curled and cried until the water went cold. Elizabeth Prentiss did not shout upon discovering the pregnancy. No, perhaps even more unsettling was just how straight faced she was in hearing the news. There was no screaming, no cruel words, simply a resigned “Emily, this has to stop.” And so with Matthew beside her she went through with the abortion, knowing that life in Rome wouldn’t be the same again. There in the clinic’s waiting room the blankness started to creep across her skin once more, a natural shield to stop her from focusing on the turmoil she felt. It stayed with her after the procedure, smoothing over the emptiness and grief within so that upon walking into the church with Matthew, her face was set in a steel expression. It broke that night, and to both their surprises her mother did not pass her off to the staff or utter a condescending remark. Without so much as a single word, Elizabeth Prentiss crawled into bed with her daughter and held Emily tight as the grief escaped in trembling sobs.
Looking back, it’s hard for Emily to pinpoint when the negative emotions stopped pouring out of her in screams and cries, and instead morphed into taunting, intrusive thoughts that both terrified and intrigued her. Outwardly the insistent rebellion of her early years seemed to fizzle out; she was reliable, calm, methodical. Later, a therapist would explain to her how this was a result of her scarily amazing talent of compartmentalising everything in an attempt to not face it. When she was sixteen, trustworthy, composed Emily Prentiss broke the metal free from her shaver and used it to draw a sharp line across her upper thigh. She watched as the skin parted. She watched it whiten. She watched it ooze red. The sting was refreshing, a delightful reminder of her humanity and that she was still capable of feeling. It offered her control of those feelings in a way that never seemed possible before. And so it began. Shameful moments hidden behind a locked door, line after line after line, red, red, red, human, human, human .
Emily still doesn’t know if the reminder of her fragile humanity soothed or angered her.
Entering the FBI was equally a blessing and a curse. For a long time it allowed her to stay focused, no time to indulge her darkness in private when she could be called away for a case at any moment. However, it gave her a space to become gradually more reckless in the field, always subconsciously searching for that reminder that she could feel something. Broken ribs, busted lips, the occasional bullet… Her teammates would fawn and check she was okay, she must be so sore, did she need anything? Emily would have to stop herself from shaking them with that manic grin and shouting “ Don’t you see! It’s a good thing! I’m alive! I can feel !” because that would land her in the psychiatrist’s office again. She didn’t need help to handle this, she had it under control; so long as the sickness was satiated in small acts of danger, nothing worse would happen. Keep it in control. Emily could, and would, deal with it until she got over it. Then things could be normal, maybe one day she wouldn’t have to do this anymore. She could start a family, be a better mother than her own, feel safe and content in her humanity.
When Ian Doyle stabbed her with that wooden post, he stole the one thing keeping her going. Emily Prentiss would never be able to bear children.
The doctors broke the news to her as gently as possible (she doesn’t really remember this time well, all she remembers is staring at the clock until everything merged into one continuous day). They seemed relieved, if a little confused, by her immediate placating smile as she told them it was okay, thank you for telling her, no she didn’t need to speak to anyone, she was fine, glad to be alive. Smile and nod. Box away the hopes and dreams she’d had and push it into the depths of her mind. It didn’t matter anymore. What was the point of ruminating endlessly over an impossibility? She was fine. She didn’t need help. She’d go back to work. She was fine. She was fine. She…
Her first night in Paris, Emily lit a cigarette and stubbed it out on her skin.
Control. She was in control.
She would never have children. Relight, stub out, sting. Her control over her life had been taken. Relight, stub out, sting. She couldn’t return to her home, they hadn’t caught him. Relight, stub out, sting. She couldn’t even speak to her mother. Relight, stub out, sting. She would get him. Relight, stub out. She would fucking kill him. Relight. Breathe in. Breathe out. The smoke trailed in the air as she went back inside and cleaned her burns.
Time blurred. How long for, Emily can never quite be sure. The harm worsened, driven by the ever present loneliness and feeling like she was no longer in control of her own life. She told no one. Even when she returned to the BAU it was hard to kick the habit, it was so deeply ingrained within her as a response to anything she couldn’t handle. When one of her team brought up her low moods it was easy to blame on trying to readjust to regular life, that she was still guilty from how she’d hurt them. That wasn’t a lie. Dear god did the guilt eat her alive. Therapy lessened the intensity of everything, even if she was reluctant to accept help.
“You don’t have to struggle alone, you know.” Dr Huang reminded her, “Why do you feel the need to hide from your team?”
“I don’t feel the need to. I just don’t think it’s necessary.” A poor rebuttal. It didn’t sound convincing even to herself.
“Emily, you have an incessant need to compartmentalise every negative emotion you experience. And when you can’t, you are driven to self-punishment. Perhaps sharing those emotions with those you love will help you process them in a far healthier way.” Goddamnit he was right. She despised it (no, no she didn’t. In fact, these sessions were one of the few things keeping her grounded nowadays - not that she would ever say that aloud).
Their sessions continued, even when Huang broke the news that he had to move to New York on another assignment. He was willing to continue speaking to her though, unofficially, whenever she needed him. They video called several times, and against the odds she started to get better. It wasn’t a quick change, far from it. There were many days she woke up with the devil alive and well in her head, whispering sweet nothings into her consciousness. Wouldn’t it be delightful to give in? No. Shut up. Emily put all her energy into this newfound urge to heal. Girls nights were reinstated, the trio clicking back together as if nothing had happened. One night they’d convinced Rossi to allow them use of his hot tub. Drunk on at least three types of wine, Emily for the first time in years had peeled her long sleeves and pants off to soak in her bikini. Looking back, there was no way Garcia and JJ hadn’t noticed the scars crowded in areas usually hidden, but they never said anything. When the realisation hit Emily that her skin was on show, the panic threatened to swell in her chest. Garcia had wolf whistled at her, and the feelings subsided into tipsy giggles. Maybe things would work out.
New York, a particularly bad case involving the sexual assault of children. They’d been called in by the Special Victims Unit, their captain desperate for help. The introductions had been quick, a new boy had gone missing on the flight over, and they were teamed up to work the different angles.
That was the first time Emily Prentiss met Olivia Benson.
The two clicked immediately. Despite this being their first time working together, it seemed they barely had to talk to communicate their thoughts, as if they shared some neural link. When they were both in the suspect’s sight Benson had encouraged her to leave at his request. Prentiss refused. Suddenly she was ten years old again, face to face with a beast aching to attack her once more. Fearless. Fascinated. Determined. This time her father wasn’t there to pull her away from danger at the last second, he wouldn’t be taken to the vet to be put down, and he was a lot bigger than the scruffy mutt who’d threatened her those years ago. Emily didn’t register the gunshots. Her ears rang. Her legs buckled. She was staring at a concrete ceiling, wondering if perhaps this was it. For the first time in her life she hoped it wasn’t. Fuck, all that time spent inflicting endless pain onto herself convinced that one day she’d go too far and kill herself - and now it’s a possibility she doesn’t want to go.
“Prentiss, you okay?” A concerned, beautiful face peering into hers. “Call a bus!” Hands pressing against the horrendous pain. Those eyes staring back at her. She swore to tell Olivia how pretty she was one day. Maybe right now? Right now. Fearless Emily Prentiss who stared down a dog infected with rabies and a man infected with misogyny could surely tell a woman how beautiful she was. Her lips parted to say something, the words were there tingling on the tip of her tongue, but her head was starting to spin and she couldn’t make out what Olivia was saying anymore.
“You’re…” the sentence went unspoken. The world went black.
Fluorescent lights danced in the blur of her vision as she came to. Emily blinked slowly. Her brain groggily pieced together the memory of what happened. Wild man. Gun. Refusing to stand down. Pain. Olivia .
What was she thinking? Had she managed to spill her guts before passing out? Panic. She’s fifteen again, in her science partner’s bedroom and they’re kissing and something warm blooms in Emily’s stomach. Then the girl’s dad is walking in and the words that he spits at them are laced with venom. His hand on her arm, yanking her away (his fingertips were bruised into her skin after, his hatred fresh and haunting) and out of his house. He would not have a dyke in their house. School the next week, Emily’s partner being reassigned, a boy this. Her birthday the day after, turning fifteen, that boy inviting her for a party, the pregnancy. She didn’t know if her mother ever found out about that girl. Some part of her has carried that shame ever since, the tears of a desperate teenage girl. How could she have been stupid enough to tell Olivia?
“Hey, soldier,” Warm voice, beautiful eyes. Benson. There.
“Next time try moving away from the bullet, hm?” She gently stroked a piece of hair out of Emily’s face. They stayed chatting until another knock of the door signalled the arrival of a very relieved Garcia with everyone in tow. Benson gave them their space before Prentiss could beg her to stay. She was discharged, they said their goodbyes to the SVU, and Olivia made sure to type her number into Emily’s phone. “ To talk,” she’d said, “ Would be rude of me to ignore you after you took a bullet for me. ”
Texting. Calling. Meeting again, on duty - and off when possible. That shame in her gut slowly dissipated. If falling for Olivia was wrong Emily didn’t care. Warmth spread whenever they touched, lingering for just a moment too long. One night it finally happened. Her, Liv, in Liv’s apartment, too much wine between them. Prentiss had been in the throes of laughter when Benson took her face in gentle hands and kissed her. Everything in her body stopped. For just a moment she wasn’t a woman battling every single day to keep herself alive, she wasn’t a scared teenage girl squeezing her best friend’s hand as the pain seized her abdomen, she was still. No monsters. No memories. No regrets. She was Emily Prentiss. The moment is torn away with Olivia pulling herself off. They needed to talk, she’d said. It came out. Olivia wasn’t single, not exactly. Her and Barba had something going on, everything was complicated. Liv wanted them both - hell, Rafael had shown an interest in Emily when they’d met, he was intrigued by her. Prentiss swallowed thickly. She should’ve known. They’d hung out together so many times, how hadn’t she added things up? The way the pair caught each other’s eye, Barba’s slight smirk when he’d make Olivia laugh, god she’d been stupid . It was over. Everything was over, again. Why did this keep happening? A couple good things and then everything would crash down. She didn’t get nice things. The shadow monster roared in her brain, slowly creeping out, it’s teeth bared-
“Would you like to try something?”
An awkward date, then another, and another. Everything else was history. Perhaps she should’ve been more opposed to the suggestion, but Prentiss always had been one to take risks. This one had paid off. A year passed, and the throuple were blossoming.
The first time they slept together anxiety slithered its way through her lungs and up her throat. She’d been clean for a while by that point, but hadn’t yet fully admitted the depths of her mental health history to them beyond a surface level discussion about how she’d struggled. They knew about the abortion, but somehow Emily couldn’t bring herself to admit her self harm history. A shameful secret. Why would they want to be with someone so damaged? She’d steeled herself for rejection before stepping out of the bathroom and sliding into bed. They noticed the scars, of course they did, recognition flitted across their features. Prepare for rejection. Emily felt sick. And then Rafael kissed her so tenderly.
“ I love you ,” he’d whispered, “ Te amo muchísimo. ”
That night, after perhaps the best sex of her life, they talked about everything, no secrets. Emily’s self harm, Rafael’s abusive father, Olivia’s mother’s death. They talked until the sun rose and their alarms went off for the day. Emily promised them she would talk about the urges if they ever came back, swore that the root cause was gone now. She felt something with them, she felt alive and therefore had no urge to remind herself through harm again.
It was a promise she tried hard to keep.
She broke it.
After some particularly bad cases at work, that niggling voice returned. The cases took their toll, and just like she’d done all her life she put those emotions into a box in the recesses of her mind. Calm. Collected. Numb. There were only so many times one could look at the horrors of humanity and stay positive on their outlook of life. Of course there were good things: her team, Rafa and Liv, even the slightly strained relationship with her mother should’ve been enough, but before long she slipped into the dull monotony of nothingness. Wake up, go to work, come home, occasionally sleep, repeat. Her partners could tell something was wrong but Prentiss hushed their worried questions with assuring smiles and shrugs, an offhand remark of “ You know how this job can be .” Before long she resorted to her old ways. If the good feelings failed to surface, then at least negative ones could still remind her she was alive. Emily stopped eating; the hunger clawed desperately at her stomach, begging for something, anything. She was alive, she could feel. Emily stopped sleeping; the fatigue ghosted across her muscles and played tricks in her brain, muddling days and conversations and memories. She was alive, she could feel. Emily started cutting; the muscle memory drove her mind in autopiloted movements. Line. Line. Line. Red. Red. Red. Human. Human. Human. She was alive, she could feel. She knew she should tell someone, even call Huang up, confess her sins like he was her priest, but she didn’t. Instead, she let things escalate. Recklessness in the field disguised as an agent fiercely loyal to her team that she was willing to die for them (an easy excuse to use, it was the truth). Injuries that were enough for her to relish in the pain, but inconspicuous enough that no one would question their frequency. After a particularly bad work ‘accident’, Liv had turned up on her doorstep, travel bag in hand. She’d stayed for a week and a half, tending to Emily and checking in with her twice as often at work. When Liv went home, she was replaced by Rafa. A rotating schedule of Emily-duty to ensure she didn’t do anything stupid. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell them, but Emily had a tendency to feel destructive in these moods. She feared breaking the people around her, and so she’d resolved to breaking herself instead.
That’s what got her here, in the present day.
The dull ache clouding her head is the first thing she notices when she comes to, the second is the sting of her wrists and the pressure of firm bandages. Everything shifts into place. The case, the numbness, the desperation to feel something again. Then, the scald of the bath, the sharp of the blade, the red of the water, her front door opening and Rafael’s voice and the panic, oh god the panic because it’s looking worse than the she meant and he’s not meant to be here and she’s dizzy and fuck she’s fucked it all up and-
“Emily?” she seeks out his voice. There, beside her, his face pale and twisted with worry. A slight relief in seeing her awake, but she can tell it’s not much.
“Rafa…” What can she say? There’s no words to express her guilt, to attempt a valid explanation on what the hell happened to get her here. Somehow, “ sorry, babe, I promise I wasn’t trying to kill myself - but maybe deep down I actually was - but I just needed to prove I was human still ” doesn’t feel like it will cut it. Cut it. She winces at the dry irony of that. Rafael takes it as pain.
“Does it hurt? I should call the nurse in anyway..” He doesn’t move to the call button though. Prentiss can see his gaze fixated on her arms. Rafael catches her catch him and sheepishly averts his gaze, running a hand through already messed hair.
“Liv is here, uh, she.. she’s just grabbing the coffee.” There are tears in his eyes when they meet hers again. A pang knots her stomach. What have he and Liv gone through in the hours she’s been in blissful sleep? Had they sat beside her bed, searching sleeping features for a sign that things were going to be okay? Did Barba pray to a god he no longer believed in, hoping that perhaps if He was out there He’d be willing to perform just one more miracle? Had Olivia paced the room in a tense phone call with Hotch, had she cried telling him the state Emily was found in? How could she have done this to them?
“I’m sorry.” The words are barely audible, lost to the morning croak of a sore throat and the cry she won’t let surface. “Rafa I’m so sorry.”
“Em, please don’t - you don’t have to - don’t apologise.” He leans over to press a featherlight kiss to her forehead as he does every morning. Normalcy. Except nothing is normal about this. Instead of a cosy bed with his mother’s handknit blanket, she is an uncomfortable hospital gown that crinkles with every slight movement. There is no faraway hum of Olivia making breakfast, only the consistent beeps of the machines. The kiss feels good, though, a small spore of warmth burrowing into her mind. Barba had a way of doing that. No matter what was going on or how hard she spiralled after a case he knew how to make it better.
“I want you to call me when it gets bad.” Rafael brushed a thumb against the line of her jaw, “I love you, I want to be here for you. Please let me.” And he’d kissed her, and she’d melted and said of course she would.
That was months ago now.
Now here he is, watching her in a hospital bed, probably asking himself what he could’ve done to stop it. The truth is, Prentiss doesn’t know if there’s anything that could have prevented this. It felt like an inevitability.
“Look who’s awake,” Olivia, holding two cups of steaming coffee, “Morning.” There’s something hidden between her light tone. Emily’s brain is too muddled to profile it. Another kiss to her forehead, in the same spot as the last, and then Olivia is sat on her other side.
“How are you feeling?”
There’s no malice to the tone, no anger, and somehow that makes Emily feel worse. She wants them to be angry - no, for some reason she needs them to be angry at her. Their pity, their worry, it makes the guilt gnaw at her gut even harder.
“Bad.” her voice is small, like that of a child admitting they’d broken their parents’ favourite vase.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Not in the slightest bit.
“Maybe.” Emily forces herself to look at them. Rafa has a faraway look in his eye as if he’s not quite in the room with them. She knows where he is in his mind. He’s replaying the moments of finding her. Liv looks utterly exhausted. She’s in work clothes, probably the same ones from yesterday. A glance to Rafa again, his clothes far more plain than the suit she vaguely remembers seeing him in yesterday - though her memory is jumbled and foggy. He’d changed clothes. The thought hits her hard. Blood. Her blood on his hands, probably on his suit too. She’d stained him.
“We don’t want to make it worse,” Benson takes her hand, “We can talk when you’re ready, honey. We’ll be here.”
“Does Hotch…” the question trails off.
“He knows.” A nod of her head, “I, uh, I called him when you were admitted. He had to know.”
That would mean forced time off. Mandatory psych evaluation. She knows it’s necessary, he’d be in a lot of trouble if he let her back to work straight away, and yet she hates it.
“I’m tired.” It feels selfish, they’ve been awake for so long and she hasn’t long woken up, but god she’s exhausted.
“Go to sleep, Em, it’s okay.” Liv leans over to kiss her as Emily’s eyes are already closing, content now that she’d sought permission.
JJ’s face is the one that greets her when she next comes to, blue eyes looking up from a book and crinkling at the edges when their gazes meet.
“I sent them home,” JJ explains without being asked, “They needed to sleep, so I came and kept you company.” Her presence already brightened the room. JJ seemed to effortlessly do that wherever she went, a calming fixture to the chaos of Emily’s life.
“How badly have I fucked it all up?” That’s another thing about her, JJ will always tell her the truth.
“They love you, you haven’t fucked anything up.” she assures, “Though, admittedly, they’re probably not going to leave you alone any time soon.” It’s almost joky, clearly an attempt to brighten the mood, and damnit she smiles despite everything.
Several days pass like that, slipping into dreamless sleeps and then waking to new faces. Garcia came laden with cookies, flowers, Emily’s favourite sandwich, and handmade card. She gushed about some computer thing that Emily didn’t quite understand but was grateful to listen to for a distraction. Reid, awkward yet caring, asked if she wanted to go with him to see a Russian film with him in the theatre next week. Rossi kissed both her cheeks, pulled out a deck of cards, and played a game of blackjack with her. Hotch’s visit was short, to the point, but somehow was exactly what she needed. Liv, Rafa, and JJ were there the most though, sometimes together, sometimes apart, but always one of them.
Rafael is away when she’s finally discharged. His voice breaks over the phone as he tells her, apologising repeatedly. It’s not his fault, he has to try a case, and so Emily tells him not to apologise. She should be the one apologising to him. The car ride home with Olivia is silent. She stares out the window at the passing scenery and tries to ignore the hammering in her chest. Why is she so nervous to return? What state is her home in? Her hands shake as she puts the key in, turns, and takes her first step back into the house. Without even thinking she goes immediately to the bathroom.
Breathe in. Hold. Open door.
It’s clear. No evidence of what happened.
“Rafa came and cleaned,” Liv explains from behind her, “He kept saying he couldn’t let you come home to that.” Emily isn’t aware she’s crying until she’s pulled into a tight hug. Her girlfriend rubs her back, and they slowly sink to the floor together. They stay in that huddle until the tears finally dry and Emily can breathe again.
“You want to talk about it?”
A nod.
“Do you want me to tell Rafa what you say?”
A nod.
“Okay, honey, let’s get you somewhere comfier and you can tell me everything.”
They end up on the couch, two mugs of tea on the table and a blanket draped over Emily’s shoulders. She’s shivering. She didn’t notice.
“I didn’t want… I didn’t want to kill myself.” It’s almost pleading, like she’s begging Olivia to believe her, “I just.. I needed - I don’t know, but I wasn’t trying to die. Please, I need you to know that.”
“I understand.”
“And I know you guys wanted me to let you know when I felt like that again, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Olivia’s tone is balanced, not accusatory, pressing but genuine.
“I was ashamed.” The words come out before she can stop them, “I’ve always been ashamed, okay? It’s just… I’m an adult. I’m an adult who is.. who is trained to help people with this kind of stuff, but I can’t even help myself.” There it was out in the open. “How am I meant to do my job when I’m just as bad? I’m all messed up.”
“Oh, Em…” Olivia shifts to be closer. She reaches out to hold Emily’s face in her hands, gazing at her, “You do not need to feel ashamed. These kinds of things… they can keep with you as you grow up. You’ve dealt with this for so long, but you need to remember you don’t have to deal with it alone.” She pulls her in for another hug, fingers gently combing through dark hair. Emily could stay like that forever. Safe, warm, not alone. She’s not sure when it happens but eventually she’s guided to the bed, and the duvet is around her, and Liv is there holding her, and for a moment everything is okay.
Emily is losing her mind by the time Rafael is free to visit. Unused to not working, the walls of the apartment are beginning to feel like a trap. She’s filled her days with reading, mindless television, and bonding with the new kitten. Garcia had brought him over on her last visit, grinning ear to ear.
“I figured you could use a friend!” she’d unveiled him like a grand prize: a little orange tabby with the brightest eyes she’d ever seen.
“Seeing as you so kindly let me keep Sergio, I thought I’d pass the kindness on. He’s all yours.” and that had been the start of her new love. Her new friend took up a lot of her time, and what a wonderful friend he was. Named Cheeto (a suggestion from JJ), he was a feisty little thing, tackling her hand as if it were a great dragon and he was a knight. Every day she thanked Garcia for him, and every day Garcia simply sent a string of happy emojis in response, only requesting pictures of him as payment.
When Barba sat down, he was ambushed by the kitten.
“I hear you’re the man after my girlfriend’s heart.” He was gentle when picking up the orange monster, a smile on his face, “You’re going to have to try harder than that, gatito.” Then his eyes are on her and Emily shifts awkwardly. They haven’t had a moment alone since, well, that night.
The guilt still eats her alive.
“Rafa…”
“Emily, I’m going to stop you right there if this is another apology. Please, mi amor, you need to stop saying sorry.” His words are stern though loving.
“No, it’s not that. I promise.” It’s something possibly much worse. “I.. Can I ask.. about that night?” She wants to know what happened. Even now the memory is hidden behind a blurry fog, she’s unsure which parts are real and which parts are nightmares.
Barba sighs and sets Cheeto down. A sadness creeps into his features, but he nods. This was her life, if she wanted to know how it almost ended, who was he to hide it?
“What.. How did you find me?”
He pauses, his eyes darkening, and then he tells her everything.
That night, Barba had decided to surprise Prentiss at home with dinner. He knew she’d been having a difficult time with work, and there was something nagging at him inside. To this day he’s unsure how he knew, he just felt something deep down that he had to go to her that night (she interrupts him then, asking quietly if he thinks it was spiritual. He says nothing, but she catches his hands going to his neck where he undoubtedly used to wear a crucifix chain). He didn’t call ahead, it would’ve ruined the surprise, but he’d rung Garcia to check that Emily had left work and would be at home. He remembered helping her neighbour with her own groceries (she was a lovely elderly woman who often remarked how handsome and kind Barba was. When Emily was in the hospital, though, lost to sleep and he was unsure if she would make it, he secretly regretted making that stop. Maybe if he’d ignored Gladys’ ask for help he could’ve gotten to Emily quicker), and then heading across the floor to her door. Keys in the lock, stepping in, calling her name. Silence (his face goes pale now). Music from the bathroom, and then a splash, and he’d smiled in relief because she was just having a bath. Put the groceries in the kitchen, take out the milk to put in the fridge, and then he heard her call her name (Emily didn’t remember this). It sounded… off, he said, weak. Something seized in his chest and the milk dropped to the floor as he ran to the bathroom…
Rafael stops recounting to wipe at his eyes furiously. He clears his throat.
Blood, so much fucking blood. Red water. Pale body in the bath, half lidded eyes. Panic. Shouting her name. Shouting her name. Panic. Pulling her out the bath. Blood. Begging. Towels hastily pressed against the wounds. Phone to his ear. Praying. Shouting her name. Pressure, pressure on the wounds. 911 operator in his ear. Hello, what’s your emergency? Please, my girlfriend, I think she tried to commit suicide. Please send help. Blood. The towels are stained. His hands are stained. His suit is stained. Sir, what’s the address please? Stammering out the address in a voice he’s not sure is his. Crying. Begging her to wake up. Praying. An ambulance has been dispatched to your location, sir. Keep pressure on the towels. Checking her pulse. Please, Emily, please. Count her pulse. The numbers jump around in his head. Sirens. Somewhere in the background. Sirens. Please, God, please. Hands on the towels. Pressure. Crying. Paramedics there. Assuring him they’ve got her. Emily, out of his hands. Holding bloody towels. Blood. On his hands. In the bath. Acid in his stomach. Paramedic. Are you okay, sir? He can’t breathe. Acid in his throat. Dizziness. Throwing up in the toilet. Paramedic leading him out. Mention of shock. Where’s Emily? We’ve got her. Olivia. He needs to call Liv. Ambulance ride. Light shining in his eyes. He needs to call Liv. Blanket around his shoulders. Water cup shaking in his hands. Praying. He needs to call Liv. Waiting room. Blood on his hands. Olivia is there. He still can’t breathe-
Rafael is crying now, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t know if he will ever forget that night, he doesn’t know if he will ever forget the imprint of red in his mind. It will stay with him, there in the shadow depths of his mind.
She knows he doesn’t want her to, but an “I’m sorry.” spills out. This entire time Emily has been aware that what happened was distressing to her loved ones. Looking at him now, though, she realises it was worse than distressing: Barba is traumatised by the events. He sniffs. Cheeto has ambled into his lap and he’s grateful to have something to do with his hands.
“Liv made me go and shower and change my clothes,” he murmured, “Said I looked completely out of it when she came into the waiting room. In fact, she called JJ to come and help me, didn’t trust me to be able to drive safely.” JJ had taken him to her house, given him a set of Will’s loungewear. His clothes were at Emily’s.
“I cleaned up and came back to the hospital. You were stabilised by then, and we just… waited. After you went back to sleep again, I don’t know.. I had to do something or I would lose my mind.”
“You came back and cleaned the bathroom?”
“Yeah..” he shoots her a watery smile, “I figured it would be unfair to make you do it yourself.”
“And it was unfair that you had to, especially after witnessing it.”
“I know, but it kept me sane.” He’d felt empty returning to the apartment. His mind had buzzed with the sound of nothingness. Barba had set to work numbly. Drained the bathtub, cleaned it with bleach, binned the towels, binned his suit, scrubbed at his hands again until they were raw (they still didn’t feel clean), rearranged the various bottles back in their place, rolled up the bath mat and binned it too, ordered another one. Methodical. By the time he was finished the metallic iron odour was replaced by black. He left the apartment, locked the door, and went back to the hospital to wait for her to wake up again.
“For a while I was convinced you wouldn’t make it. In the ambulance.. god, I thought that was it. I went over everything in my mind to see what I could’ve done quicker, if that would’ve changed anything.”
“You found me, Rafa, I’m alive.” Prentiss takes his face, mirroring Olivia’s actions from a week earlier. “You did everything for me.” And then, quieter, “You couldn’t have stopped it.”
It shouldn’t have been comforting. He feels sick that it relieves him, the knowledge that he couldn’t have stopped her doing this. The number of times he has replayed it, obsessively analysing every small thing that kept him from getting there sooner.
“But we should’ve known. God, we should’ve done something, checked you were okay. How didn’t we see it?”
“I didn’t want you to.” Emily shrugs. Perhaps that response sounds cold, detached, but it was the truth. She had always been painfully good at secrets.
Barba blinks away more tears, staring determinedly at the orange kitten curled in his lap so as not to cry again. Everything she said made sense, yet it didn’t alleviate even an ounce of guilt from his chest.
Their talk was ended by Cheeto meowing much louder than a kitten his size should be able to, angrily demanding his dinner. Their sadness didn’t disappear, exactly, but it hung back for the rest of the evening. That night they slept curled into one another, a cosy orange circle curled on the pillow above their heads.
More days, more weeks, several months. Miraculously Emily is eventually cleared to go back on the field after being on strict desk duty. She no longer aches to face off with unsubs, she plays things by the book, no more ‘accidental’ injuries. She is not cured, not by a long shot, but Dr Huang referred her to another psychiatrist, and their sessions were going well. She took her medication every day without fail, in the mornings after being woken by her devilish orange roommate. Cheeto was no longer a tiny kitten, he was now a far-too-big-for-his-boots adolescent who ruled his kingdom with an iron paw. Barba had been declared his favourite. Rafael is in therapy too. He seems to be doing better these days, though Emily notices a hesitation still when he goes into her bathroom. She bathes with the door open now. There’d been a situation one time, two months after she got out of the hospital. She’d been running a bath with the door closed and between the water and her music she hadn’t heard him calling. Moments later he burst through the bathroom door, face an image of pure panic as he replayed the worst scenario in his mind. Olivia remains a rock, still and steady through it all. Sometimes Emily catches her frowning into space, lost in thoughts, but it clears the second they’re next to one another. Emily’s bad days are no longer just her own, hawk eyes watching her both at home and work. It’s deserved, she knows. It’s comforting, somehow. She’s not alone anymore.
She feels content.