Emily Prentiss x Reader Oneshots

My Little Versaille

warning: major character death, explicit description of dying and grief. 

6 months. That was the magic number. You just had to make it 6 more months.

There was an ache that settled in your bones now. It felt like your muscles were clinging for their life, hopelessly clawing at your skeleton in an effort to keep you in one piece. The steady thrum of pain pulsed through your body along with your heartbeat—the two had become one, after all. Your fingers tingled sometimes now, even the strain of holding your phone or typing on the computer would bring you to an exhaustion that was unparalleled to anything else you had ever experienced in your life.

The click-clack of keys tapping as you struggled to finish the email you had been working on writing for the past three days pinged against your eardrums, the sound near deafening within the confines of the blazing inferno that had decided to take residence just beneath your skull for the duration of today. Hopefully, it wouldn't be so bad tomorrow. The email wasn't long, it wasn't filled with the usual intricacies of language that those around you had grown accustomed to receiving. There was no spark, so beauty, no joy left in the stories which you wanted to tell the world.

If it weren't for this email, you weren't sure that making it to 6 months would even be a possibility.

But you had to at least try. For her.

It's gotten bad, Em. Worse than it ever had been before. They gave me six months. I don't know where you are, I don't know when you will find this. I don't know if I will ever see you again. But you're the only person who doesn't know, who hasn't gotten this warning, and it didn't seem fair.

You don't need to come. I am well aware of why our love was undone.

The words stuck in your chest as you tried to think of the proper way to end something like this, a final love letter to the only person who won't get to have their goodbye. So you didn't. You spent so much energy these days trying to make sure that those who loved you could have the closure they needed, reassuring them that they will be okay, that they will make it through when you are gone. There was none left for you to give to the one person who had promised to stay.

As a chill settled into your skin, you pulled your blanket up to your chin, leaving the whirring computer on your belly like a kitten to nestle warmth deep into your core. It was comforting, the sound a steady white noise just quiet enough to soothe but not strike as you felt the throbbing rush of blood beneath your skin, dug deep into your brain and down to the bottoms of your feet. The sordid relief would flood in soon, carrying you into a dreamless sleep so that your body could fight to mend itself in a fruitless battle that was destined to be lost.

Friends and family came and went for weeks, your condition stable enough, though everyone who walked through those doors knew you were on the decline. They brought plants covered in your favorite color to decorate windowsills and side tables, hand-drawn cards and pictures taped along the walls that always made you smile, even if your face was too weary to let it show. They had started to let the small ones come into your room to visit—a sure sign pointing to the end. Pudgy hands gripped and pulled at the cables that seemed to pour from your body like water at the river's edge, though their touch was gentle and careful, a remnant of the fear they felt for you, though their tiny brains couldn't quite understand why. Tufts of baby-soft hair tickled your nose as they burrowed into your neck, using small arms to cling to your shoulders so that they could lay with you for just a little while longer. You used the last of your energy to run your fingers soothingly across their backs, humming a song old and familiar until together you fell asleep.

The monotony that once drove you insane now brought you a sense of peace. Breakfast at 8, visiting hours at 10; lunch, dinner, and naptime all with an audience that flowed in and out on a set rotation until the last person was scooted out kindly by your favorite nurse. Bath time, bedtime, rinse and repeat. You no longer wrote, though sometimes you would tell stories to your visitors in hopes they would one day write them for you. Getting lost in a TV show still brought you comfort but you could never stay focused long enough to make it through an entire episode, always waking up groggy and confused from your unexpected slumber to new characters and faces.