Archive of Our Own ^beta

Being There

She stumbled out into the night, the heat from the explosion warming her back, the smoke thick in her lungs, dust in her throat. She coughed, instinctively, and the pains through her stomach roared into life. The women and children, the ones she’d led to safety, ran past her, ran out and away.

For a moment, amidst the noises of sirens and screams… the throng of television reporters and agents and civilians running around… the disorientating flicker as the flames cast shadows all around her… for a moment she couldn’t remember what had happened.

She stood there in an almost catatonic daze. Everything hurt. She couldn’t feel anything down the left side of her face except that awful pressurised swelling. Her ribs, on the right side, felt oddly alien to her. Maybe it was just a lack of sleep compounding everything? How long had it been since she slept? Three days? Three days since she and Spencer had gone into the compound. It was the second day that the news leaked the presence of an FBI agent in there. That was the day she had told Cyrus it was her.

~Pride comes before a fall~

A whimper passed her lips as she remembered his words – and the fist that followed it, the sharp crack against her cheek, the cold, hard concrete as she fell. She’d looked at him, challenged him as she told him she could take it. He almost looked pleased that she’d said it, pleased to be able to work her over some more.

The memory brought bile to her throat, and she staggered down the path, finding a short wall to lean her weight on, and retched. It was agony, her ribs and her stomach screaming in pain at the effort of bringing up nothing.
And then, then there were arms on her and she flinched away, her eyes betraying her, her ears hearing only the muffled, underwater sounding “Prentiss? Prentiss, God, you’re okay!”

She frowned. Okay? Was she… okay? She didn’t feel it. He eyes sought out the source of the voice, and saw Rossi. She opened her mouth to greet him, but her stomach convulsed again and this time she tasted blood.

Rossi was talking, leading her away. She heard him mention ‘ambulance’ before she fell against him, spent, sapped. Her legs gave way and Rossi held her weight, lowering her to the ground. He was calling for help. Her head felt too heavy for her neck and she was pretty sure she’d pissed herself. She tried to apologise to him, but her words got stuck amongst the dust in her throat.

“Come on, Prentiss.”

A new voice. Hotch. It was Hotch. A new set of hands were helping Rossi, getting her to her feet again, walking her to the ambulance with its far too bright light.
She heard herself groan, and tasted blood again, felt it rising into her mouth from somewhere deep within her body.
Everything turned black then, in an instant, and… what seemed like seconds later, her eyes opened again. Brightness. She was sat up, an oxygen mask over her face.

Hotch saw the instinctive reaction to pull it away and he stilled her arm. “Prentiss? Emily. You need to keep that on.”

She nodded. He was her boss. If he said it stayed on, then it stayed on. The pain was still there, floating in the distance, in her mind, gnawing heavily in her kidneys and her stomach. There were drugs in her system, drugs that took the sharp focus from the pain, drugs that made the surroundings swim and voices echo. Each breath made her ribs tug. The elastic of the mask dug into her swollen face and boss or not, she defied his order and pulled the damned thing away.

“Hey.” Hotch soothed. “Calm down. You’re safe now.”

She nodded, copper on her tongue. “Wh-where…”

“Don’t speak. Rest. You need hospital treatment…”

Emily shook her head. She hated hospitals, and had done since she was a teenager. Fifteen, to be precise. But much as she wanted out, neither her body nor her mind seemed able to comply. “Just need…. Sleep.” She breathed.

Hotch shook his head. “You’ve internal damage that must be assessed.”

“Please?” She never begged.

“Sorry.”

“You need to be checked out.” Rossi said from the far end of the gurney.

Emily’s eyes drifted to him. She’d forgotten he was there, but she could feel his hand holding hers now and her mind dredged up the image of her father.

“Hey Prentiss!” Morgan greeted, hopping up into the ambulance. He smiled and leaned closer, inspecting her face. “Not bad, but I can still see you under there.”

“Jerk.” She croaked.

“How you doing?” he asked more softly.

“Okay.” She nodded. “I…tell them I don’t need to go to hospital.”

“Lady, you NEED to go to hospital.” he told her. “You know it too.”

She nodded in resignation.

“We need to go.” Hotch said. “I’ll ride with her.”

Morgan gave her a wink. “You’ll be alright, Prentiss. We’ll meet you there.”

“Do as you’re told, Prentiss.” Rossi told her, gently cupping Emily’s face in his hand and kissing each cheek very carefully.

“That how you charmed your wives?” Morgan teased.

“You bet it was.” Rossi chuckled.

“Prentiss – don’t be wife number six.” Derek warned with a grin.

“Hey, she’d only be number four.” Rossi corrected.

“Do I get a say?” Emily asked.

“No.” both men said in unison.

“Welcome to the nineteen twenties.” Hotch noted.

The EMT closed the ambulance doors after Rossi and Morgan left, and Emily felt her insides swilling around as the vehicle began to move.

“Feel sick.” She groaned.

“Don’t worry.” The doctor said, holding a bowl ready for her.

Emily grunted in pain as once again there was nothing to bring up. She spat blood into the pan and flopped back against the pillow. “Okay…” she gasped. “Maybe… I do need a once over.” She attempted a smile for Hotch. She could see guilt in his eyes and she felt bad for making him feel that. “I’m okay.” She said.

Aaron Hotchner only had to take a cursory glance at her to know she wasn’t. The bruising, the obvious damage both inside and out. “I’m sorry.” He said simply. “Sorry you went through all that.”

“I took it.” She said, her smile showing bloodied teeth.

“Yeah. You did.” Aaron figured it was the worst moment in his career (and there had been plenty of truly shitty moments) when he had to stand outside of that compound listening through Prentiss’ hidden mic as that son of a bitch beat the crap out of her. Listening to the sounds of fist hitting flesh and flesh hitting concrete. Her cries, her whimpers… and then her assertion that she could ‘take it’, that she would withstand whatever he dished out rather than have the team raid the place prematurely.
When he looked up at her again, her eyelids were hanging almost closed, dark rings of sleep deprivation mingling with the blossoming bruising.
“You must be exhausted.” He said softly, stupidly.

“I’m fucked.” She breathed, forgetting her professionalism.

Hotch took her hand and squeezed, a warmth flowing through him as she squeezed back. “Sleep Emily. You’ve earned it.”

“You’ll stay?” She asked. “I…don’t like… hospitals.”

“Then you shouldn’t keep getting yourself injured.” He replied, giving her one of his rare, special smiles.

“Have to… keep you on your toes.” She whispered, her eyes finally closing.

He found he was holding her hand. It was small and thin and pale compared to his own, and he wanted to kiss her knuckles – but he caught sight of the EMT at the monitors and pushed the notion aside.