DISCLAIMER: Don't own either, sure as hell am not making any money.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I blame Warehouse13headcanon and whoever came up with this prompt.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Racethewind10[at]gmail.com

A Simple Note
By Racethewind10


Myka looked at the obituary, blinked, then looked again. The simple black symbols on the paper did not change but the agent's mind stubbornly refused to make sense of the simple configurations.

"FBI Special Agent Emily Prentiss was killed in the line of duty…."

Sitting alone in her bedroom, Myka felt tears sting the backs of her eyes, though she did not let them fall. She was done crying: For Sam, for Helena and now, for Emily. With a savage twist of her hand, Myka crumpled the news article. She knew why her friend in the DC Bureau had sent it - he must have thought he was being kind, that she deserved to know - but the pain she felt now was cold and cruel.

And then suddenly the anger left her in a rush and all Myka felt was tired. How many friends was she going to lose? How many memories of soft lips and dark hair and sparkling mahogany eyes would she have to taste through the ashes of 'never again'? She hadn't loved Emily. Not in the 'happily ever after' sense, anyway. It hadn't been that kind of relationship. But they had cared for each other a great deal.

It had been simple with Emily. Two lonely, driven women who were better at their jobs then they were at relaxing, they shared similar outlooks on life, similar experiences, even had similar 'awful parent' stories.

Emily had been warm and gentle and kind and in return, Myka never asked anything of her that Emily couldn't give. They protected each other's hearts as best they could, and when their lives forced them in different directions, they said goodbye and good luck and be safe and didn't try to hold on to each other.

Myka didn't regret that. Both she and Emily had known what they had wouldn't last. Its beauty had always lain in its ephemeral nature, like dew on a spider web or the first bloom of a rose.

But it didn't make those bold, harsh lines on crumpled newspaper any less jagged.

Weariness like a weight on her shoulders, Myka gently smoothed out notice. Standing and walking to her book shelf, she tucked it between the pages of Slaughterhouse Five with now-careful fingers.

"Goodbye, Emily." She whispered, placing the battered copy that had been the FBI Agent's favorite book back where it belonged.

Then Myka swallowed, straightened her shoulders, and strode from her room. She was late for a briefing.

Seven months later, another note arrived. This one was handwritten in elegant, if hasty, scrawl on expensive, simple stationary.

Myka recognized the hand that had written it at once and this time, her mind leapt to understand the words on the page.

Dear Myka,

Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I can't explain, but I can say I'm sorry, and that I still think of you and miss you. I hope you can forgive me and I hope you are well.

Come back to DC sometime, I'll buy you a drink and explain.

Be safe


This time, Myka didn't stop the tears. This time, there was no pain.

The End

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