when we were young, emily prentiss

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓: 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞

𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠: 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐞

Davina's POV

I ONLY JUST SQUEEZED INTO THE BAU ELEVATOR, it was 9 am, so each corridor was rammed with traffic of the daily workers coming in. The metal doors closed, entrapping us within the small metal box which society along the line deemed as a good way to travel.

The floor buttons were all lit red, and the elevator began to lift so smoothly that its passengers began to arrive at their destinations without any notion that they had risen at all. Slowly, the elevator became sparse, and on floor 5, I could finally move out of the tiny corner jail I was forced to stand in.

I regrettably looked backwards, feeling the need to curse at the coincidental narrative of Emily leaning up against the back of the metal wall. She had seen me, that was clear. And the idea that she had probably been watching me for the last few minutes caused me more annoyance than anyone would think was necessary.

"Were you going to say hi?" I call out once the last person had left the elevator, "or was it your goal to look at my ass so much that you could complete a pop quiz on it?"

"You were so much nicer when you had your mouth shut." She sighs, appearing at my side as the doors closed in front of us, "and you already know I would ace that quiz."

I look across at her in surprise, "This is a new side of the Prentiss chronicles. Are you starting to be charmed by my allure?"

She shakes her head, "Nope. Still hate you. I'm just trying something."

"Which is?"

"Pretending to not hate you."

I laugh, "And how's that working out for you?"

"It's using up far too much energy." She mutters, the annoyance I was used to making an appearance, "At this point, I'm convinced you were put on this planet just to test my anger management skills"

I nod, that was more like it, "I'm glad to be of service."

The elevator rose, and the humorous ambience which was there for a flash quickly subsided.

"Do you think the team knows?" I ask after a few seconds of silence.

She looks over at me, "That we used to be friends? No."

Used to be friends. I couldn't work out what was colder about that sentence, the 'used' or the description of our 7 years of knowing each other being boiled down to just 'friends'.

"They're profilers." I reasoned. We studied behaviour for a living, surely they had picked up on the signs.

"They're also stupid." Emily argued, "I mean in terms of the team. I love them all, but I do think they tend to ignore the issues going on in our own lives because it makes it easier to do our job. They also don't want to admit that they made mistakes in how they have dealt with our trauma in the past."