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the six pomegranate seeds are optional (Criminal Minds, gen, PG) - Ladies Fest 2011

I am never merry when I hear sweet music posting in Ladies Fest 2011
User: ladies_fest (posted by paper_tzipporah)
Date: 2011-11-09 10:59
Subject: the six pomegranate seeds are optional (Criminal Minds, gen, PG)
Security: Public
Tags:author: paper_tzipporah, character: emily prentiss, fandom: criminal minds
Title: the six pomegranate seeds are optional
Author: paper_tzipporah
Rating/Warnings: PG
Original Prompt: in the wake of Doyle and having to fake her own death and leave her team behind, Prentiss struggles with her identity and wonders if she's done the right thing by leaving.
Summary: Prentiss was dead, to begin with.
Notes: Uh, no one checked my french, so I'm pretty sure it's wrong. Please feel free to correct me, and I'll fix it.

It’s been a long time since she’s had to speak French like a native. Emily studies the dossiers JJ gave her, memorizing the details. Not a Parisienne, at least. She lets the consonants take shape low in the back of her throat, lets the vowels curl ever so slightly, a hint of the border between Germany and France.

She has Spencer to thank for maintaining her vocabulary. Foreign films on Friday nights, the occasional matinee. She’ll have to get him cookies or something when she goes home.

If she goes home.

The waiter brings her a second espresso unasked, and she sips it slowly. There are worse places to be an exile.

“Est-ce que vous attendez votre mari?”

Then again, she meets the same men in every country.

“Non, j’attends ma femme,” Emily replies, her smile showing a few too many teeth. To her dismay, the man laughs and seats himself at her table anyway.

“Peut-être que je pourrais vous rejoindre,” the man says, and she pushes her espresso away. The man’s smile falters as she gather her things.

“I don’t think so, buddy,” Prentiss mutters to herself, the cafe safely behind her. She walks down well-lit city streets, darkness flirting with the edge of her vision. There’s a hotel room waiting for her: an empty bed, a cheap television firmly attached to the wall. A mirror that takes up the entire wall of the bathroom. When she strips to take a shower, she has to force herself to keep her eyes open, to look at her own reflection.

She’s thankful that human memory can’t retain the feel of Ian Doyle stabbing her in the abdomen.

There’s a coffin back in DC, a headstone with her name on it. She doesn’t know what they put inside, but she knows her friends would have carried her, or what they thought was her. A few sacks of flour, a rock for her head. Closed casket, even though her wounds were all below the neck.

Doyle could be watching. Their honest grief will keep her safe, will keep him convinced that she’s not the one he should be looking for.

She hopes she’ll be able to explain it to them, later. Rossi will understand, will agree that it was the right choice. Morgan might be angry, but his anger will burn out, hot and fast. He will bear no grudge. And Garcia will always forgive. It’s Reid she’s worried about -- he calls her first when he wants company, most of the time, and she knows him, knows that even now he’s calling her cell phone just to hear the message play back in her voice, leave a message and I’ll get back to you, and then hanging up before the beep.

Here is what she’ll tell him, in every language she knows, until he understands: if Orpheus hadn’t known Eurydice was being given a second chance, if he had believed she was lost to him forever, he would have had no reason to look back.

She might be dead, but she sure as hell doesn’t want to be stuck in Paris forever.
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mayireadtoday: couch
User: mayireadtoday
Date: 2011-11-09 18:22 (UTC)
Subject: (no subject)
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