#while infiltrating a hotel owned by the organization that backs up the dark web

[jetaime-jespere]

Prompt #125

Back on these, after a slight hiatus. Set during 6x18, if Lauren had a different ending. Slight Emily x Ian, more in memory only.

#125: Make A Wish

“Make a wish, Lauren.”

The voice behind her is as cold as the gun placed at her temple with a sure hand, his other clamped firmly on her shoulder. That voice is completely devoid of the lust it used to hold when he would speak to her, when it was the two of them, him and her, in a world of their own. A world that was dangerous yet exhilarating, yet a place she somehow never questioned if she belonged. Not that she had a choice. It started as an obligation, part of the raw deal that came with infiltrating an international terrorist organization. There was no limit in her quest to prove her loyalty, she quickly learned through the nights she spent in his bed, the mornings that followed. He worshipped her body with his own, took her past her own limits only to lull her to sleep in his embrace. She earned his trust but he also gained hers, and only after he uttered the words I love you did Emily realize just how entrenched she was, the only way out meant sure death for one of them. Ensuring her own survival meant further entangling herself in lies and believing them with all her heart. If you play, you play for keeps. The only thing she didn’t expect was for the lies to become the truth, because after a while, each time she repeated his sentiment, she meant it just a little more until she wasn't sure she knew the difference anymore.

Except this isn’t Tuscany or Galway, Rome or Dublin. Gone are the beautiful views from the balconies of his villa, where she could at least pretend like this wouldn’t all end horribly one day. The green pastures of Ireland don’t exist here, the springtime sun is gone. Instead, her ankles and wrists are bound to a chair in the middle of a cold warehouse in the middle of Boston, and she has mere minutes left to breathe, because she’s about to die at his hand.

“Lauren, are you ready to pay for what you’ve done? I told you I was going to take your life.” Emily closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. It’s been years and yet hearing his voice again, even after all this time, is like a window into the past.

Her security was built on a web of fallacy, it had been all along. Hushed promises behind closed doors in sound-proofed rooms in the middle of European cities that it was over, that she was safe, were mere falsehoods. She left Lauren Reynolds and the world of Interpol behind years ago, a conscious choice that was never regretted, only remembered from time to time in the quiet silence accompanied by the unrelenting pull of too much alcohol. She never lingered on it for too long, wouldn’t let herself go down that path, until she had no other choice, when she saw the messages from Sean that pulled her right back in.

Ian Doyle had escaped from prison. The moment Sean uttered those words Emily knew he would find her eventually; it was only a matter of when. She just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. There was hardly any time to get things in order, to arrange for them to be taken care of, to ensure her team would be safe in the days, weeks, months, even years after she was gone. Whether that meant disappearance or death was anyone’s guess, but not a choice she’d have to worry about because it wouldn’t matter. Emily lured him out of hiding in DC, followed him to Boston a few days later as he rampaged his way through her friends systematically one by one. It essentially stole any chance of saying goodbye, and she’d turned away from them one last time, through the doors of the BAU, only giving in to the sob she’d been holding in her throat once she was safely in the car.

“Are you afraid?” Ian asks, his hand moving from her shoulder to the side of her face. His palm is rough, hardened from his years in prison, yet there’s something fleetingly reverent about it. Emily always marveled at the contrast of his hands, responsible for the pain and suffering of so many, could be so gentle and adoring with her. But that was long ago; the tables have long been turned.

“No,” she lies, and he just laughs, brushes his thumb over her jaw almost adoringly.

She straightens her back, her arms trembling and her heart pounds through her chest. The gun cocks in her ear; she feels it brush her temple again.

“Make a wish, Emily. It’s time. You have ten seconds.” When she hesitates, her body tensing at his words, he chuckles. “Close your eyes. Sometimes it helps.”

She obeys, and, it’s Aaron’s face she sees, brief moments in time as her life flashes before her eyes.

“Ten.”

It takes almost a month to speak of the first kiss (it happened after a few too many beers one night with the team) and two more weeks before there is another. The second time around they’re stone cold sober (it’s better that way), and when he asks if she’d like to go out with him sometime, she blushes with a resounding “yes.”

“Nine.”

Their first date is one she’s always held close to her heart. He’d made reservations, planned dessert, and on a whim, she bought a new dress just for that occasion even though there were more hanging in her closet than she could count. This one was dark green, with an open back, and she knew right away it was the one. Except they never made it to the restaurant, because a case in Memphis called them away the morning before. She only smiled when there was a knock at the hotel room door late on the evening that should have been spent with their heads bent together over a table in the back of a picturesque Italian restaurant. But instead he held a bag of takeout, wearing a grin while uttering the words “Plan B?”

“Eight.”

He’s still inside of her for the very first time, unable to focus his mind on much of anything because Emily is still panting his name in his ear, when he decides he doesn’t want to be with anyone else, ever again.

“Seven.”

In Colorado, mere hours after the compound went up in flames, Aaron can hardly be objective as she ambles toward the hospital exit with discharge papers in one hand, the other cautiously guarding her broken ribs. Her face is bruised, her clothes dirty, and while Reid is just a few feet away dozing fitfully in chairs, Aaron goes right to her, thumbing her cheek in a rare display of public affection. “I’m alright. It’s not as bad as it looks,” she tells him bravely, even though she’s already sore, muscles aching, exhaustion starting to cloud her every thought. “I just want to go home.” In those moments, Aaron realizes he is the closest thing to home she has right now, and he doesn’t leave her side for the rest of the night.

“Six.

As she stares at JJ’s newborn son cradled in her arms, Emily wonders, with a fleeting glance at Aaron, if she’ll ever have the chance to do the same thing. Now, she never will.

“Five.”

On many mornings, Aaron wakes her up with coffee on the nightstand and gentle hands pulling the covers from her legs, pushing the hem of his shirt past her hips as he settles her legs over his shoulders. Her eyes aren’t even open before she’s already rocking her hips up towards him, an uncoordinated hand grappling for something to hold onto. The way he moves, slow and determined, is a contrast to the speed at which they’re used to, frantically moving from one case to the next. He’s taught her to be patient; he’ll get her there eventually, but she’s not in the mood to wait this morning. “Aaron,” she breathes his name, but he shakes his head in tandem with the flicks of his tongue. “Soon,” he assures, a promise he’s never broken. And true to that promise, he sends her spiraling into bliss a few moments later.

“Four.”

“I want to tell Jack,” Aaron says one evening when they’re sitting in traffic in the middle of Dallas, on the tail end of a case as she gazes out the window. “About us.”

“Three.”

“Can Emily stay for dessert too?” Jack asks innocently, his face covered in spaghetti sauce as the plates are cleared from the table. It’s about time they told him why his father’s pretty friend from work was spending more time than usual at the apartment, why a sweatshirt was left on the couch the week before, why there’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom and a few extra bottles in the shower. It’s been something they’ve held off on, Haley’s death still fresh and the timing not quite right. But the look on Jack’s face tells him everything they need to know, and Emily’s heart swells when Aaron smiles and murmurs, “sure, buddy.”

“Two.”

The two and a half years they spend together, in some semblance of the word, one way or another, are some of the happiest she’s ever known, the most peace she’s ever felt.

“One.”

I hope you can forgive me, for never telling you the truth, she thinks as she pictures the hurt and pain that will darken on his face when he finds her body. Emily knows they’re coming, but they’ll be too late. Tell Jack I’m sorry too.

Her eyes flutter closed again on their own accord as her lip trembles in unbridled fear. It’s so silent in the warehouse she hears the gentle scrape of Ian’s boots on the ground as he steps back, taking a steadying breath of his own, his finger curled around the trigger.

This is it. Make a wish.

The gun fires; she’s acutely aware of the throbbing echo in her ears as the sound reverberates, which confuses her, because it’s not supposed to be this way. It’s a dissonance of sounds - things she shouldn’t be cognizant of because the bullet that pierced the air is supposed to be in her head. But another voice - she recognizes this one instantly too - bellows something she can’t quite decipher, calm and steady, accompanied by the thunderous footsteps of a team of agents that sweep into the room. Glancing down at the concrete ground Emily sees Ian’s body, his gun a few feet away. A pool of blood seeps around him, her stomach lurches at the sight of his head split open, and she has to look away toward the small window, where the dawn of another sunrise has started to bleed through the sky.

They made it.

“Emily!” It’s the same voice as the one from moments before, and when she realizes what just happened, Aaron is already kneeling in front of her, frantically working at the plastic zip ties that have cut welts into her wrists and ankles. He’s shouting at someone that isn’t her, something about hurry up, and soon she’s freed, but her limbs don’t want to work correctly or coordinate at all. They don’t have to, because strong arms are pulling her into his chest, her chin hits his vest, and the scent of him nearly splits her heart in half as he lowers her to the ground.

And for the second time since this hell began, she starts to cry, her fingers clenched around the fabric of his shirt. Through the deep sobs she attempts to speak, apologies that aren’t even close to coherent, the adrenaline that’s coursed through her already starting to give way to exhaustion. But words won’t work either, and he shushes her with a finger to her lips, matted hair pushed out of her face as Aaron thumbs away the tears that collect in her eyes.

“It’s over,” he soothes, repeating the words over and over, until they both believe it. He’s unaware of the extent of her injuries, won’t risk adding to them as he signals for a medic. She breathes through the tears, her chest heaving, the only thing she’s remotely aware of is the beat of his heart, unsteady against her own.

It’s over, she reminds herself as she takes one last look at Ian’s dead body a few feet away, a reassurance to herself that this is in fact real, that he can’t haunt her again. And as she lays on the ground, enveloped in the protective embrace of Aaron’s arms, Ian’s words linger in her mind.

Make a wish.

#hotchniss #hotchniss fanfiction #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #hotchniss fic #prompts #Ian Doyle is here too #I've been sitting on this one for awhile and finally worked up the motivation to do it