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“And what happened once you woke up in the warehouse?” She knew the question was coming, had known from the second she walked out of the BAU’s doors that she would have to account for her actions, and would have to tell someone about it for the official reports. Of course, she had expected to debrief days after the event, not months. But Doyle and a fake death had gotten in the way of that. She had known the question was coming, but it’s not like she had prepared for it. No, she had spent the months in between actively not thinking about what had happened in that warehouse. “Agent Prentiss?” The agent across from her prompted.
“Sorry, I…” She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. How could she? How could she explain to this man, that she had just met for the first time a few hours ago, all that had happened? How could she tell him what she said, what she was willing to do?
Because the truth was that Emily had been ready to give in. At first, her flirting with Ian, as Lauren, had just been a ploy to get her hands free. To get herself free. But somewhere along the way, the lines between Lauren and Emily blurred (they always did) and she remembered how easy it had been to be someone else with him. She found herself thinking that maybe, just maybe, if she could be the woman he wanted, Declan could be safe. It would be easy, to be with him again, to lose herself in him again. She could do it, in fact, she wanted it. Wanted out of here, out of the mess she had created.
How was Emily supposed to explain that for a minute, going with him seemed easier than going back to her team? Than apologizing for all she had done to them?
“I don’t remember,” she said finally.
“You don’t remember?” He asked.
“PTSD,” it was a lame excuse. “I, uh, have a vague memory of being burned,” her injuries after the fact had been catalogued. He knew about the brand, so she gave him nothing new. “And I know that I fought with him, because that’s how I…”
“Ended up with a table leg in your abdomen?” He supplied.
“Exactly.”
“But you don’t remember anything else?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Nope. It’s a fairly common response to trauma, for the brain to close off memories of the event,” she said.
“And you’re working with a Bureau therapist?”
“Have my first appointment tomorrow,” she gave him a small smile.
“Alright, well, should any details pertinent to this report come up in any of your therapy sessions, I ask that you please schedule a meeting with me,” he knew she wouldn’t.
“Of course,” she promised anyway.
“Let’s move on,” he scribbled down some notes before turning a page. “What did you do with your time in hiding?”
“Played a lot of online Scrabble,” Emily winked.