Riding with the Tide, Part One: Face-Off

Morgan drives, Rossi rides shotgun. Reid and Garcia have Emily squeezed between them at the backseat, and it's strange how easily conversation unfolds.

It's small talk, but it doesn't feel small. They ask her about the flight, they gently joke about the ragged look she supports. Small talk, she knows, lightly scraping the tension, only to get to the real issue, the deeper issue, but until it comes to that, she'll savor the moment.

Heat is oppressive in the backseat. She can feel Reid's long, bony leg stretching alongside hers. His hair is longer; it suits him better. There's a smile on his face, happy and so content that Emily feels a burst of love for him, and she gently leans against his shoulder.

His smile grows. He's nearly glowing.

Enclasped in Garcia's soft fingers, Emily's hand is slick with sweat. She looks at their hands resting on her knee, and she silently thanks God for this. For being able to hold Garcia's hand, and for seeing her again, in a flower-patterned yellow dress, leaf-shaped earrings and a huge ladybug for a barrette in her hair. God knows Emily has imagined her own (faked) funeral. She's hated thinking about Garcia in a black dress.

She looks up, and catches Rossi's eye. He's looking at them over his shoulder; it seems like an uncomfortable position. She jokes that he will have serious neck-pain if he keeps it up; he waves a dismissive hand and tells her then not to be a pain the neck.

Even Reid makes a face at the bad joke, and yet, they still chuckle.

That is, they all except for Morgan.

For he still hasn't said a word, not to her and not to the others.

Once in a while Emily catches his look from the rear mirror. It's a dark look, something unidentifiable brims behind a veil of calm. She holds that gaze until he has to divert it to look at the road.

They need to talk. They all need to talk, but it is much too soon now, and much too late at the same time.

Only time Morgan speaks is when he asks for directions. Emily pulls out a folded piece of paper and reads the address to her new apartment. It's downtown.

Twenty minutes later, they're standing outside a fancy apartment block, and she has solemnly promised them to be right there when they call. They say goodbye. Rossi and Reid take a cab together, for they live at the same part of the city, and Garcia walks away, murmuring about having errands to run while she's downtown.

And then, with her one luggage in Morgan's hand, Emily finds herself alone with him in an unfamiliar apartment that is now hers.

/

His hand pushes the door close, and imprisons them into a thick, palpable silence.

For a minute, neither of them moves. They're standing in a large hallway, the walls are covered with dark wood siding. Right in front of them is an enormous living room; from where they stand, they can see the last rays of sunlight falling to pieces on the colorless carpet. The rest of the place is swimming in tender darkness.

Slowly, Prentiss moves to leave the keys on an extravagant marble stand, making a face at the piece as she does, and walks into the living room. The air is languid, a faint odor of leather tugs at their nostrils. She eases her backpack on the floor, and lowers herself onto the cushions of a tasteless couch.

Morgan remains motionless by the front door.

It's not like he doesn't have anything to say. It's just that he'd never thought he'd have the chance to say it.

He looks around, just to get a feel of his surroundings, and maybe to find some distraction, but there is none.

"You look good," he offers at length. His voice scratches against the silence.

Prentiss's lips twitch, but she doesn't laugh.

"Do I?"

"Compared to the last time I saw you, yeah."

From his position in the hallway, Morgan can only see her silhouette on the couch. A faint gleam in her eyes.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I'm alive."

He snorts, utterly devoid of humor.

"No kidding."

Silence thickens. The shards of sunlight on the floor visibly shrink and vanish, leaving them in the fresh dimness of the evening, and with heavy, cautious steps, Morgan walks into the room.

Prentiss reaches forward and turns on the nearby floor lamp.

"You're pissed," she states.

It is the resignation in her voice that flicks the ash, ignites the spark. "You bet I am," Morgan confirms.

"I figured you would," she says uselessly.

"Of course you figured. You've had five months to think about it, put together your explanations."

Bitter contempt seeping into his words. Prentiss's eyes narrow as she stiffens in her seat, and Morgan briefly wonders what he's doing here, standing across from a stranger in this bland, near-empty living room. The red in the curls of her hair makes her face seem even paler, brings out the shadows under those cheekbones, creates a contrast with the careworn complexion.

And yet, when she speaks, the dark eyes that bore into him are painfully familiar.

"You think I spent my time profiling you like you're some unsub?"

"No," he says, voice laced with cold anger. "I'm just saying that I'm pissed, because my boss told me, three days ago, that my dead partner is actually alive, 'cause her death was faked. We have mourned her death and blamed ourselves and missed her for all these months for nothing." He glares at her. "Do you know how that feels?"

Prentiss looks down at her lap. "No," she quietly replies. "No, Derek, I don't."

(His name feels all wrongs on her tongue. She doesn't like the feeling.)

She leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees. Her hair rushes forward, curtaining her face, and -damn it, through each little crack seeps the Emily Prentiss that Derek knows, belying the way she looks, belying the way things seem to be.

"So how do we do this, Prentiss?" he demands. He doesn't want to hear apologies or excuses. He just wants to make things right.

"What do you want me to say?" Prentiss questions. "I told you what I could at the time. The rest you all have already figured out." She seems resigned, stoic. "What else you need to know, Derek, go ahead and ask."

Morgan smiles bitterly as he takes a seat on a chair across from her. "You know, I'd have a dozen questions if you'd said that any time before I found you with a stick impaled on your stomach."

Prentiss's hand involuntarily flies to her midsection at the mention of the incident. She uncomfortably shifts in her seat, throwing him a guarded glance.

"And now?"

"Now?" He sighs. Leaning back against his seat, he folds his arms across the chest. "You know, we all thought about it. Right after your 'funeral'. Replayed everything in our minds; questioned what we could have done differently. Why we didn't push you harder." He releases a breath through his nose. "I did that. Retraced every step. Asked myself why, Prentiss; why you couldn't have just cracked at some point and told us about Doyle, so we could do something about it. Wondered why you couldn't have trusted us, but..." He looks up again, and dark eyes meet dark eyes.

"It has never been about trust, has it?"

"No," Prentiss steadily confirms. Derek doesn't miss the tentative relief in her voice. "It was never about trust. I never kept anything from you or the team just for the sake of it."

Morgan nods, his eyes softening a bit. "There's also the fact that you slept with Doyle."

There is no anger or condescension in his voice, but Prentiss flinches as though she'd been slapped.

"What do you think of that?" she spits, suddenly defensive. "What does that make me, Derek? A slut? Worse?"

Morgan frowns. Prentiss is glaring at him, her eyes daring him to challenge her, to bring up her dirty laundry and rub it in her face, and Morgan can't help it, he once again thinks how different, and yet how familiar she looks.

He mutely shakes his head. Prentiss runs her fingers through her hair and rubs her face with both hands before speaking again.

"It was a different life," she says stiffly, but her voice is loud and clear, her chin is high. "I didn't tell anyone about it because I wanted to forget about it. To keep it separate from myself, like it wasn't -- like Lauren Reynolds really was a different person." She pauses. "And, yes, I wasn't proud of it, either," she adds in reference to Morgan's reminder.

It's a curt admission, but for some reason, it sooths Morgan. Maybe it is the bared truth in Prentiss's voice that calms him down; whatever it is... he trusts it.

"Fair enough."

With a sigh, Prentiss gathers her hair and tosses it over her shoulder. Somehow, it feels a little easier for both of them to breathe now, to sit across each other after all this time, despite everything.

"I got one question," he says at length.

She nods once.

"Did you know what they were going to do? Fake your death?"

She licks her lips before speaking. "Yes. Clyde came right after I was out of surgery. I was rather out of it, but... I gave my consent."

Holding her gaze, Morgan nods heavily. His hands open at the sides.

"And so we're in this mess." Prentiss's brow creases, lips part as though to leash out at the unfairness of that deduction, putting all the blame on her as though she's intended on it, but Morgan continues. "I understand, Emily. God knows I needed the time," he adds, smiling crookedly, "but I got it. Fact of the matter is, any of us would do whatever it takes to keep this team safe. And yet, the fact remains that we're all messed up."

Prentiss sighs, her eyes sad when she speaks. "Better be alive and messed up than dead, Derek."

Keeping her gaze, Derek slowly nods. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, it is."

"Just... I'd - wish you wouldn't blame Hotch or JJ for not telling you guys about me."

He looks at her carefully. "Can you stop blaming yourself for the situation we're in?"

She sharply looks up. "I've had my reasons, Derek; I did what I had to do."

"You did," he agrees, "and you'll continue to feel guilty about it."

Prentiss doesn't respond, but turns her head away from him, squaring her shoulders in a familiar gesture. It makes Morgan smile.

"Rationalize all we may, Emily," he puts. "The feeling remains."

There, they have their answer.

They've both been doing this job long enough to learn the value of time. They both know there is no way to untie these knots, to move around this tension, but to leave it to time.

Slowly, Morgan rises to his feet. So does Prentiss.

"I'll see you around, Prentiss," he says.

"You will," she agrees. Looking at her, Derek finally sees the friend that he'd thought he's lost.

"Thank you," Emily adds.

It is a 'thank you' for his understanding. For his acknowledgment of her reasons. For saying he'll be seeing her around. It is a 'thank you' for this conversation, for both of them will now have a little peace of mind.

He nods. He doesn't voice his own thanks, but Prentiss knows that it's there.

"Call if you need anything," he says, standing outside the door, just before he turns to leave.

She says she will, and closes the door with a smile.


/