Emily Prentiss One Shots

Broken

TW: domestic violence, aggressive speech, vandalism to home, miscarriage 

The bullpen was alive with motion — agents moving between desks, files shuffling, phones ringing in the background — but all you could focus on was the sharp buzz of your phone vibrating against your desk. You glanced at the caller ID, your stomach tightening.

Your fiancé. Again.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, feeling every pair of eyes around you fade into white noise as you swiped to answer. "I am literally at work saving lives right now," you whispered, keeping your voice low.

Her voice came sharp and venomous through the line. "I don't give a damn about your job. When are you going to quit, anyway? It's a pointless job, and all it does is take you away from my watch."

You could practically see the sneer on her face. Savannah always knew how to turn control into poison. You'd spent years learning to read criminal minds, but somehow, you could never outthink her.

Until now.

You straightened in your chair. "My pointless job saves hundreds — thousands — of lives every year. And I don't plan on leaving anytime soon. This team is my family."

You didn't bother keeping your voice down anymore. Emily and Morgan's heads turned at the shift in your tone.

Savannah laughed, a low, mocking sound. "Like that bitch Emily? You've always liked her."

Something inside you snapped. You slammed your file shut and took a long, deliberate breath. When you spoke again, your voice was calm. Cold. Unmistakably final.

"You're right, Savannah. I have."

You could feel Emily's gaze on you now, worried but steady, as you continued. Still measured, still terrifyingly calm.

"Just like you've always liked every man who's ever walked your way. Don't act innocent. I've always known about your games." You paused, fingers tightening around your phone. "When I get home tonight, I want you and your shit out of my house. I worked my ass off for that house. Am I clear?"

There was silence on the other end. Then, that familiar attempt at control — the gaslight, the guilt.

"You could've declined my proposal—"

"Oh, right," you snapped, voice rising. "So you could hit me until I said yes?"

The bullpen fell quiet. Your phone burned against your skin, years of anger rushing under your skin.

"I have work to do. Burn in hell."

You ended the call, dropped the phone onto your desk, and let your head fall into your hands. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was heavy, filled with the kind of stillness that only comes after a storm.