Emily Prentiss One-Shots

Emily/Spencer

Title: recoil - abvj (Ao3)

Summary: When Reid has to requalify for his firearms training, again, Emily is surprised when he asks her for help and not one of the others. Set sometime in season 4.

Rating: General 

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When Reid has to requalify for his firearms training, again, Emily is surprised when he asks her for help and not one of the others.

Their first trip to the gun range is on a Sunday, in between cases. They meet for coffee first and then head out to Sullivans, her usual spot on the outskirts of the district where everyone knows her by face, but not by name. She figured Reid would like that, the anonymity her place offers versus the revolving door of familiar faces at Quantico.

He is mostly quiet throughout the drive there as he rides shotgun, fingers tapping against his thigh to a beat she can't quite place. Emily keeps the radio on low in case he finds himself wanting to talk, but knows he most likely won't. She wasn't around the last time but has heard the stories. Knows the grief Morgan still gives him on occasion. Profilers aren't required to carry, and Reid's best weapon will always be his mind, but still, he persists, the sense of inadequacy he feels over this weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Despite nearly every way in which he carries himself speaking to the opposite, Reid does not want to be any different than them. As the drive stretches on, Emily finds herself wanting to tell him that his differences are what endear him so much to her, that his mind is just as reliable as the guns they carry, but she cannot seem to find the right words. Instead, she allows the silence to carry on, the distance between them filled with nothing but road noise and the whisper of the radio.

When they are at the range, Emily goes first. Empties eight shots through the paper without even blinking, all tightly grouped in the kill zone. Reid's mouth presses into a tight line as he watches.

"I want you to try something."

Her voice is kind, void of any sense of authority, and Reid must appreciate it because his mouth relaxes, almost turning near the corners. She pulls out the Smith & Wesson and presses it into his hands, watches as the hint of a smile playing on his lips disappears immediately. He hesitates before reaching for it. When he does, his fingers are pale against the metal and wood, the tips of them nearly pearl-white as he grips it in his hands. Reid does not look at her, only at the gun, and Emily watches him closely. Pinpoints the moment he begins to remember the heady smell of the cabin, the weight of the needle as it pierced his skin, and the heaviness of the shovel he was forced to use to dig his own grave.

They are all experts at burying their secrets, their greatest failures. It is how they maintain the ability to function despite the depth of the horrors they make a living trying to decipher. There are a variety of reasons Emily chooses this gun for Reid – the efficiency, the reliability, the heavy trigger – but the most important reason has nothing to do with the gun itself but rather what it represents. Sometimes it is necessary to remember the things you instinctually want to bury. Sometimes it is necessary to carry your failures with you, the weight of their burden serving as motivation.

Reid's hands shake, just slightly, as he handles the gun, his thumb drawing over the line where the metal of the barrel meets the wood of the handle and molds together. There is a long moment where neither say a thing, where Reid simply breathes through the memories and Emily waits him out, unsure of his reaction, unsure of him.

Then he smiles, slow and small. "A revolver?"

"A gun," she corrects. "A glock is a killing machine, this is a gun."

His eyebrow raises. "Never took you for a gun nut, Prentiss."

"I'm not really. I just choose to appreciate the beauty in the simple things on occasion." She motions for him to turn around, and when he does, she moves to stand behind him. Feels his body initially tense and then relax. Hears the hitch in his breath at having her so close. He is too tall for her, even in her heeled boots, so she has to stand on her toes until her chin is almost level with his shoulder. "This gun is both efficient and reliable, which I think you will appreciate. Of course, it is also more aesthetically you," she tells him with a twist of her mouth.

He laughs, the sound soft, almost as if it is only for her.

She spreads his feet apart with her own. Doesn't anticipate the way he leans into her, allowing her to carry some of his weight. Reid knows the handbook, so she doesn't waste time reciting the steps to him. Only murmurs relax, with a tone that is smooth and low somewhere near his ear. She puts her hands on his. Raises his arms. Points him in the right direction. The recoil of this gun will be different than what he is accustomed to, bound to throw off his sense of gravity. They both know this, and Emily prepares herself for the sudden shift of his weight against her when he applies pressure to the trigger.

Reid aims and shoots, the initial shot landing in the kill zone, the second right between the eyes. Emily's hands fall from his and to her sides, but she does not step away. She can feel the heat of his body through her shirt, count his breaths by the rise and fall of his shoulders. He empties the remaining rounds with near-perfect precision, and when he turns around to face her after, he laughs again, almost giddy.

There is a moment afterward where they glance at each other for a beat too long, their smiles mirror images – dumb and wide, full of teeth. Reid's cheeks flush and Emily chuckles, mostly to herself and mostly at nothing in particular.

Something falls and settles between them.

Both pretend not to notice.