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Chapter Text

Her glass of white wine was quite almost empty - Emily stared straight down the stem as it swivelled between her thumb and her index finger. An unfettered breeze swept towards her from the pavilionesque structure; uncharacteristic of the evening. She looked wistfully at Aaron, and Beth.

The night went on. Emily drank more. Obviously. And danced. Everything kind of merged into one big blur as she wove in and out of small talk with uninteresting people. Were they uninteresting? Eventually - after circling back to the cluster of her colleagues - she realised, how peculiarly, that Beth was no longer there. After the initial confusion, it seemed she was dropping Jack off at home, and told Hotch to enjoy the rest of the evening. He would get a lift home with someone else. Emily chewed on her fingernails, regrettably, they had just again begun to grow longer.

Then Hotch motioned to her, to come on to the dancefloor. She obliged. Obviously. Leaning into his stony arms, she faked a contentment in her smile. She stared purposefully into his eyes with the intensity and brevity only found in dramatic film scenes, blinking and then shoegazing in sudden succession. The emotional intimacy she had felt when they talked in the foyer after arrivals had completely dissipated, ironic given this was possibly the closest they had ever physically been. Certainly in times of non emergency. Emily was being untruthful.

“I’m just gonna go and get something to drink. I’ll be right back.” Emily spoke, hollowly, awkwardly wrangling free from Hotch’s soft grip.

He sort of nodded, and waved and she walked forward.

Two minutes later and she could feel him breathing down her neck. Well not really, that would be an unfair characterisation considering he was nowhere near a leering perv. He was always gentlemanly. But she felt suffocated with him right there, in the stupid tight fucking dress, with her whole life in D.C.

“Could I get some of that?” He asked, “Please, haha.”
She handed him the ladle for the punch without a word. A surprisingly sort of juvenile alcoholic choice, but at least they had glasses, rather than plastic cups. Reiterated by the fact he drank it straight from the utensil.
“I’m off the clock right now, but no mentioning of this at work” he jokingly mumbled, a slight slur emerging in his speech.
She didn’t think he was that drunk. She knew she was, but she supposed she masked it better.
“I’m leaving.”
“So I guess I won’t see you at work.”
“Well, I mean, you’re the boss.”
“Meaning?”
“You have to sign off on it. I didn’t mean to tell you like this but it just came out. Sorry. Easter wants me to run the Interpol office in London, and after the year I’ve had I kinda just wanna get away from everything.”
“I suppose this is what you wanted to talk about. How long?”
“How long what?”
“I don’t know. How long have you wanted to leave, when are you going to.”
“Honestly - since I got back. And as soon as a couple weeks, if you’ll allow it.”
“Right.”
And at that moment he put his hand over hers, covertly but it was there. Of course, he was just being warm. Emily thought he was disgruntled but perhaps she misread, perhaps he was just sad.
“Come inside, let’s talk more.” Hotch said.
“But it’s JJ’s wedding.”
“Come on, come inside. Just follow me.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Will add more tags as I go along!! Definitely need to practice my writing more frequently because I think it tends to sound a bit hollow in 3rd person but I didn’t want to write directly from the perspective of a 41 year old considering I’m a teenager.

Chapter Text

He moved his hand after realising it had been resting on hers. Hotch led Emily inside, but as they entered the house she paused, hanging by the entrance.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“It’s not my place to tell you what to do, you’re a grown woman. But you know those things will kill you eventually” he chuckled.
“Yeah yeah, cancer sticks, yada yada, I’ve heard it all before - mainly from my mother, as if she’s never smoked”, she laughed, pulling a Marlboro Gold out.
“I remember now. During my security days she’d smoke standing in the garden by the french doors looking pensive when she was stressed.”
“She really is so uptight.”
“And you’re not?”
Naughtily fluttering her eyes at him, while ignoring his playful jab and shallowly inhaling her cig, she queried “Would you like one?”
“God no. I don’t smoke. I’m going to go and get more drinks.”

He returned with the two glasses, now appropriately filled with red wine. Emily knew she was going to be hungover the next day, mixing drinks so carelessly. She took a drag and twiddled her foot on its heel, swaying drunkenly.
“I’m heading inside, you can join me when you’re done. I hope you’ll excuse me but I don’t want to go home to Jack smelling of smoke.”
As he left again, Emily dashed her cigarette onto the grass, slightly damp so she wasn’t worried about causing a fire. Not that that was likely to happen regardless. She realised it was slightly rude considering it was Rossi’s garden but he’d have to live with it.

Hotch was in the corridor, looking stern and holding his drink.
“Why are you leaving?”
“It’s the right time for me.”
“Whatever that means. I’m serious, you’ve just returned and now you’re leaving again. Of course, I knew you were alive while you were in Paris but I still missed you. The whole team missed you.”
“DC just doesn’t feel like home anymore since Doyle. It’ll be a fresh-ish start and it’s interesting work. I’m kinda excited now that I’m thinking about it.”
“Good for you, but I’ll miss seeing you every day”, he said, raising his eyebrows and moving his smile from downturned to broad. Then he brought his glass towards hers, “Cheers to you, and new beginnings.”
“That’s so cheesy, get a grip”, she joked, poking fun at Hotch, and literally prodding her finger into his tricep.
She was slurring her words, he still seemed entirely compos mentis but he then chugged the remainder of his Merlot. And then he unfolded a modest hip flask, stainless steel, cosily tucked between his leather belt and his pelvis.
“See I can have fun too!”
“Never!”, Emily jested, grabbing it from him and taking a swig of what revealed itself to be straight whiskey. Hotch drank the rest and while Emily asked after Jack for a few minutes, he became almost equally as inebriated as her.

“You look beautiful”, complimented Hotch.
“Oh, thank you,” Emily sheepishly answered, pursing her lips awkwardly and jutting her head forward, trying to express both slight discomfort and appreciativeness at the same time.
He surreptitiously peered around the corner, checking no one was coming, and kissed Emily.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Emily exclaimed, turning away as Hotch cupped her face with his palms.
“Just shut up and let me kiss you”
Emily wriggled away from him and tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, then put her hands out in front of her and stared blankly at him.
“Beth?”
“I’m drunk, you’re drunk, you look great, I look great, what’s the fuss about?”
Emily just stood there, mouth comically fallen into a large gape.
“She’s moving, we’re breaking up, it’s not a big deal.”
“Uh, maybe to you, but you brought her here as a date tonight. You cannot be serious”, objected Emily, but just as swiftly as the words left her mouth, her mood shifted from aghast to more so unconcerned. He was right, sort of, she supposed, and in her drunken state of mind she figured it was a non issue. Hotch had clearly deemed it to be, and she was moving away. So if it all blew up in his face it wouldn’t be her problem. Not my circus, not my monkeys. And he did look stellar.

Hotch again approached and kissed her, his bottom lip softly brushing over her top one, and his hand clutching her waist, guiding her into the bathroom behind them. Crouching steadily onto the - closed - toilet seat, he reached and locked the door. The light was off, but the switch was outside. As he leant back towards the wall, she straddled him, and pulled at a tuft of hair at the nape of his neck. Then she gently bit the inside of his lip, sticking her tongue down his throat. He does the same, pressing into her skin, nuzzling his nose against hers. After that he playfully bit her tongue.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Emily jokingly cried out, but she was far more calm than when she had said the same thing (minus an explicative) five minutes previously.
“Having some fun, I thought that’s what we were doing.”
“What are we doing?”
But at that moment Hotch extended forward and began making out with her, almost aggressively.

This continued on for some time as they weaved their bodies together and grabbed at each others’ faces. Hotch’s hand creeped up her back and unzipped her dress. Emily felt slightly uncomfortable but the dress was far too stiff to stay on if this was to go any further. Once it had shifted to the ground she realised how exposed she felt, and just how awful of an idea this was. He knew it too.
“Take your pants off.”
After contorting his face for a split second at the boldness of the request, he happily obliged - first unbuckling his belt, then shaking the trousers to the floor, flinging them off at the same time as his brogues.
“And your shirt”
So he took off his suit jacket and his shirt too. Now they were bath just in their underwear, in a tiny bathroom below their friend’s staircase.

Aaron moved his hands around her bare back and unclipped her scarlet lace bra. It falls away. They both breathe heavy, panting even, as she slides up his thighs. She brushes her cheek against his and coyly licks his ear.
“Let’s just do it,” she whispers.
“Are you protected?”
“No, but I’m clean.”
“So am I, but I don’t have condoms on me.”
“Hotch, I’m 41. I don’t think we need to worry about that. And I haven’t had sex in 3 months so I’m not all that concerned anyway.”
“Don’t call me Hotch, we’re about to sleep together.”
Then Emily kissed him again. And then they had sex in the tiny room under the slanted ceiling.

Chapter Text

Afterwards they hurriedly reclothed, backs facing away from each other, realising that the others may be wondering where they are. Hotch looked as severe as ever. 

• Just, just go out before me, he spoke with a strained, almost constipated look on his face.
• I, she began, do you not think they’ll wonder where we were.
• You were here, you didn’t feel well. Beth left her phone and came back to collect it, I was out front returning it to her. It’s plausible, if a little of a stretch. 

He checks his watch.

• We’ve only been gone twenty minutes.
• Charming! she interjects.
• We mustn’t tell anyone about this Emily.
• Right, she said, at first sheepishly looking down at her feet.

He was glaring, pointedly, at her, stressing the importance of the fact. So she reasserted herself: 

• Right. Aaron.

He was taken aback, by her brashness, by her use of his christian name. Though he supposed it was appropriate given their tryst. Using his surname would have seemed rude; colleague-like. But she had been rude.

• No need to be rude.
• Right. 

She was scrunching her mouth, squinting her eyes, and flaring her nose. Why the fuck had she fucked him. Ugh.

Emily rotated the brassy doorknob slowly, prying the door an inch ajar. She felt like a peeping tom, eyeing the corridor right to left to right and feeling clammy and ashamed whilst doing so. She slipped out. 

Once she rejoined the commotion in the garden it was clear that no one had actually noticed her missingness, or at least to the extent where they were concerned or curious. More and more so, she realised how drunk and ridiculously, incredibly stupid she had been, brushing her hands against her dress and the cruel sweat built up. Thank god for Rossi’s inordinately strongly scented bathroom candles, never had Emily ever been so grateful for a fire hazard, masking the smell of sex. And thank god that she was leaving, because now she wouldn’t have to suffer under the false pretence of normality in the office. Ironically - despite her time as Lauren Reynolds - in her day to day life she could be abysmal at lying, and the thought of carrying on at work like she hadn’t slept with her boss was excruciating. But even now, it felt like every last eye in the room was fixed at her. She felt humiliated, like in those recurring childhood dreams when you stand in front of the whole school naked. Or more possibly, like she’d put her dress back on inside out. 

Great, the ecstatic bride was coming up to her.

• Emily! I’ve been looking for you!

JJ was doing that thing she does with her face, where it goes into a ball, and then it relaxes and expands, like an overly enthusiastic starjump. Emily usually found it genuinely endearing, but she wasn’t in the mood right now. However, in this moment a cheerful, or at least composed facade was necessary. Imminently.

• Hey you! Congratulations!

Emily flashes a gorgeous toothy grin but her eyes still somewhat resembled a doe’s caught in the headlights of a car that didn’t look like it was going to halt. Don’t worry, JJ doesn’t notice though, she’s had a few. Then Emily cringes as JJ reaches over for a hug; hopefully the pungent smell of wines and whiskeys hanging around mask the fact that she now desperately needs a shower. 

• Where were you?
• I was feeling a little peaky, honestly, so I went to the bathroom - almost thought I was going to throw up for a second there, a bit of a harrowing hark back to my teenage years. How humiliating would that have been!

Emily even shocks herself by how seemingly articulate she has just been considering how inebriated she is, but truthfully she does it all the time when she drinks, like she’s overcompensating. 

• But you’re okay now? JJ says, sympathetically but with a little amusement. 

JJ tugs on a man’s arm. Hotch’s arm! 

• What have you been up to?

As Hotch scrambles for his pre-rehearsed answer, JJ notices a weird look traverse from Emily to him. 

• What’s going on? 

JJ had a certain inflection to her words.

• I’m leaving, says Emily. I’m leaving, I’m going to London but I didn’t want to tell you because it’s your wedding day. But I’m hopeless at lying when I’m drunk. And I think I’m too drunk to be having this conversation.

Her speech accelerates at a comical pace, an attempt to weasel out of the conversation.

• In fact, I might go home. I’m still not feeling too hot. I’ll get a taxi obviously. And obviously I’ll see you again before I go.
• Wow, that’s wow. That’s a lot. 

Hotch doesn’t say anything.

Emily squarely hugs JJ once more, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and politely congratulates Will, who is coming up behind them.

On her way out she sees Rossi, Morgan, Reid and Penelope all huddled together, so she goes up to them, too.

• Bye guys!
• Bella! So soon? The night is young! Rossi laughs.
• Yeah, princess. 

Morgan too chuckles out a cheesy nickname, playing off of Rossi. 

• I’ll see you soon.

As she leaves the house, past the front garden, she pulls out her phone and calls a cab. Of course, while she waits, she has another cigarette, just as any other rational person would do after such an overwhelming experience. And it was sort of cold for the middle of May, though it was stark night now. 50 degrees fahrenheit. Give or take. It hits the back of her throat just right.

In the cab, the radio’s on. Playing something called Call Me Maybe. Emily had no clue, she mostly listened to CDs. She buries her head in between her knees briefly, fingertips running through her hair. But then she recomposes herself, corrects her posture and posits: 

• in a few short weeks I’ll be on the other side of an enormous ocean. it’s not a big deal. even if i have behaved like an overgrown teenager at a house party.

The ride ends almost as soon as it begins, time seems to move mysteriously when you’re preoccupied. She pays in cash.

She knows she should shower when she gets home. It’s gross and also risking a UTI. But she’s exhausted and hits the hay as soon as. After taking off her silly dress and shoes. It seemed cold outside but the sheets are always sticky this time of year. Unusually, it doesn’t bother her.

Chapter Text

It’s a couple weeks later that she’s waiting to board for her flight. Sitting on a slightly deflate chair, she looks blankly at the grey overcast opposite; beyond the glass panes. It was warm, although maybe not particularly so, and likewise in London which was pleasing, and surprising.
Boarding was effectively simple, she showed her boarding pass and passport, and went through. It was 8:21 in the morning, unlikely that the plane would adhere to the half past takeoff time.

The white sun bore on her upper back exposed through gaps in her hair while entering the aircraft. Emily had never been a dedicated lover of flying but frequent miles had flattened any real fears out of her. She was forming a tube around the cold handrail, starting to feel ill looking down through the slits. Her neck and face feel hot. This was far from the luxury of the BAU jet, the privacy and frill and fun airstairs that made you feel as though you were the president, or of the like. God she was so spoiled by it, but she actually could not fathom sitting in economy for at least seven and a half hours. Of course, she could afford business, but that would require the foresight to purchase tickets more than eight days prior to the flight. Her luggage was intense, usually she packed reasonably but a transatlantic relocation was very demanding. A presumably nice man helped her put her bags into the overhead drawers - obviously sans her additional check in stuff - even though she was about tall enough to do it herself without fuss. She shimmied into her seat and stuck her headphones in. Then the intercom erupted. Dulles International to London Heathrow. A long long way. Which suited Emily just fine, as much as she loved her life in DC, something was not quite right or whole, and she knew in the pit of her stomach she couldn’t keep still for too long. Something to do with the transitory nature of her childhood, she supposes. In fact, in truth, she would probably become sick of London in some time and itch to leave.

The pit of her stomach felt nauseous, however, at this given time. It was odd and was hopefully soon to subside. Her headphones had to come out of her ears for the safety talk. Relentlessly boring and pointless, everyone knows you just die. Just when she thought this experience couldn’t become more arduous, a couple sat beside her in seats which she thought would be unoccupied. How naïve of her. How silly.
She sat with her headphones in, but no music, for about thirty minutes - just watching the takeoff. After a while she realised the couple were making out. Being the third wheel anywhere could be utterly demoralising, but with strangers on your row of seats suspended in the air, no way out? Cruel. Perched on her lap was a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. It had seemed apt, but Emily quickly realised she was not a fan of Dickens. And she couldn’t even sleep, it was entirely the wrong time of day.
So she pressed play on her iPod and California by Joni Mitchell washed over. She would really miss them all - Reid, JJ, Morgan, Penelope, Rossi. Even Hotch, despite their mortifying encounter at JJ’s wedding. It was a bit depressing that she did not have any friends outside of work really, no one particularly close. There was also the complicated matter of her parents, but it was all fine really. She saw her mother and father on Saturday - nothing to write home about.
A film would be a welcome distraction, something long to pass the time. Titanic is a good choice, not too taxing but enough going on. The sort of thing you might want to watch on a flight, and the sort of thing that would be available.
After it had finished she checked the time - still over three hours left. She bought a crisp diet coke and some duty free cigarettes and relaxed into her chair for a time. The taste called back to a feeling of being on holiday maybe at a cafe in the mediterranean or dipping toes into a tepid pool. She never drank it day to day, but the stewardess didn’t have coffee. It was at this point in a long haul flight that she would invariably get ants in her pants and this was no exception, she was dying to do something.
So, she made her way to the bathroom. Once she gets into the room, she splashes her face with water from the faucet and slumps against the wall. Everything was going to be so far away.
When she got back to her seat she could finally sleep.

The plane landed on the tarmac harshly and broke her sleep. She brought her arms as far from her flank as humanely possible and felt that beautiful tension in her body that occurs when you wake up still tired. If only she could relapse into the foetal position right there. She rose and from underneath emptied the luggage cartridge. Then she went down. It was half 9 at night and it had just become dark. How much would a taxi into town cost - negligible since it was too late to check into a hotel. After Emily collected her hold bags from the carousel she slumped onto the first bench she found. Which was stupid and hopefully no one would take her things.

Chapter Text

She woke up at around 4 o'clock in the morning; it was still blackish outside but it would soon brighten. Her personal items still sprawled by her feet, herself on the cold metal of the airport bench. She felt like crap: vaguely nauseous, but had barely eaten in the last 24 hours and there were people making noise. The roughness of the straps of her bags was an almost necessary tactility against her tiredness as she returned to the centre of the area where the baggage carousel meandered across the flat floor. Emily stood to it obliquely, hip weighing down unevenly and her knee bent. From the shady corner where the light was switched off came the light from a blue signpost above a hollow doorway, she followed. The more steps she took the worse she felt, the common head tension from sleep deprivation quickly turning into a splitting ache. Still, she sluggishly kept going, passing through the building and then found the automatic sliding-doors.
New country.
It wasn’t shockingly cold for the early morning in London, but then it was June. What was utterly surprising was the fact that she then threw up on the curbside, by the yellow lines. It was dull mustard and all curdled, chunks were sparse. So after that she didn’t want a cigarette, despite the punching white moon and opaque sky which would usually seduce her into smoking. The taxi rank was over there, lit dimly overhead by a street lamp. It was quite unclear why someone would be working at that sort of time.
Emily slid into the cab and tugged her bags behind her, told the driver where she wanted to go and lounged into the seat. She buckled in and stared at the greasy bald nape of the driver’s neck though the graphite grey of his headrest. And when he turned around he had creasing grey eyes. The radio was on but she wasn’t listening, she was far too hyper focused on the vomiting. Head between her knees yet again, she felt a tangible spiral down from her crown to the bottom of her stomach - everything felt out of joint.
Suddenly everything was so deeply wrong and she was shot on a worsening path of unsureness about England. Embarking on a new life and new job felt impossible to carve out. It wasn’t that she wanted to go back but rather there was this expanding dread and a knowing that she existed in a liminal space. Not just between England and America but between the Emily from the past and someone else entirely. Nothing felt wholly real so she closed her eyes and tried to pay no heed to the mild humming she felt on her skin.

Like an American she tipped well and fakely grimaced a long smile. Then she walked to the entrance of the block of flats where she’ll be living; listlessly. At least the landlord had been unusually cooperative and let her move in tonight, paperwork could be signed tomorrow. It was furnished, no mattress but she could crash on the couch. The keys were in a lockbox, it was all very akin to being on holiday. There was a lift but she was on the second floor so she climbed the stairs. The flat was cold in temperature and demeanour, the interior obviously scant. She took it all in and then tore off her clothes, lay on the sofa and pulled the white linen shirt she had been wearing over her uncovered body as a makeshift duvet.

She woke up in the close of the morning and felt so much better.

Chapter Text

She met with the landlord on Wednesday and sorted all the administrative sludge out. It was the apex of a mild but humid afternoon and she lazed on the mattress that had arrived yesterday. Her things were hung up, bar her clothes from yesterday which were strewn over the hardwood. The new tableware was stacked in the kitchen. Clyde was coming over in an hour.

Emily tidied her room. Then she barefootedly walked over to the bathroom, closed the door behind her and removed her underwear. Once she’d touched the cool steel of the tub, she turned the cold tap on fast. It seemed like an intelligent idea, considering how sticky the air was but it wasn’t pleasant at all, so she dialled the hot up instead. The water was blistering, she mumbled Bob Dylan to herself. After she had lathered the shower gel on and rinsed completely, she stepped out onto an eggshell mat resembling a canine with corded fur. Wrapping up in a towel, she folded against the bath.
A few minutes later she returned to her room and slipped a blossom pink shirt and a pair of pinstripe trousers on, as well as some clean white socks. Then she went out to the balcony, which opened out from the living room, and swiftly lit a marlboro - it was windless. The sky was mostly clear, and although she was only on the second floor, there were city pigeons flapping about the building, and one more perched atop a boulder on the grass outside. They were dirty things but had a sort of charm in their ashy plum plume.
Dizziness hit, but she chalked it up to a nicotine rush as she hadn’t been smoking much recently. But then she was sick all over the nice patio, getting all around the guardrail too. She rubbed her eyes and went into the kitchen to get paper towels to clean up the mess. The sun was too bright even through the dozens of clouds in the sky as got on her knees to wipe the balcony down. It was far more watery than the other day. Emily realised a mop may have been more effective but she didn’t know where one was exactly. Just as she dumped it all in the bin, pressed her nails inward against her palm, pursed her lips and shrivelled her face, she heard the bell ring. The one for the outside of the building - she pressed a button, then waited a minute for a knock on the door. While this was happening she hastily flung water from the tap in the kitchen over her face, to expunge any physical or odorous remnants from around her mouth. Then she fluffed her hair and went to let him in.

“So Prentiss, these are your quarters”, he smirked, shaking his jacket off. “A little bare, but, uh, I like it.”
She made a downwards smile and shrugged her shoulders. “I just moved in a couple of days ago - give me a break.”
”It’s all in good fun, don’t worry.”
He always spoke in that specifically arsey English public school voice that made her feel like he never took her seriously, yet was simultaneously slightly charming in a sickening sort of way.
”Come and sit down then, old pal”, she teased. “I bought teabags just for you.”
“You know I prefer coffee.”
”I know. But I’m trying to acclimatise to British sensibilities.”
”I’ll have one. Make sure it’s teabag, water, milk and then my one sugar. And use the kettle.”
”Of course.”
”You can never be sure with you Americans.”
She leant against the marble countertop while the tea brewed and thought about how weirdly nice it was to see Clyde - there was something intrinsic about how he understood some parts of her. Even if she was woefully jumpy and worried she was going to inexplicably throw up again.
”Not bad. Not bad at all”, Clyde said, sipping from a pale blue mug.
“So how have you been?”
”You know, same old same old. I want to hear about you, what finally convinced you to take up my offer.”
”You’re deflecting.”
”I am not!”
”Well anyway, I just thought a fresh start would be nice after Doyle. I mean obviously I’ve worked at Interpol before but I just needed to get away from America for a while.”
“How does the 18th sound? That’s the Monday after next, gives you a while to settle in.” His eyes careen around the flat. “Which you clearly need.”
“You’re very harsh. I have all the amenities I need - I’m not gonna decorate unless I know I’m going to be here long term.”
”I don’t want to hire you if you’re going to fuck off back to the US in six months Emily.”
”I just meant this apartment..”
”..flat”, he interjected.
”…this flat. It’s rented anyway so there’s only so much I can do.”
”How is the landlord?”
”He’s fine, as far as they go. Diplomatic. This is riveting conversation. Not. Let’s talk about something more interesting.”
”Okay, had any recent suitors you’d like to tell me about?”
He grinned.
“No actually.”
”’No actually’ as in no action, or as in you don’t want to discuss your sex life with yours truly.”
”Either or. Shut up. What about you then?”
”I mean there’s been people here and there. Nothing to write home about. God do you remember when we..”
”It’s hard to forget when you bring it up every time I see you. If I didn’t know better I’d think you still wanted to fuck me.”
”Behave.”
”Do I need to sign anything now or come in to do something before I start.”
”Changing the topic, you sly dog.”
”Well?”
”No, I’ve got it all covered. You can spend the next week acting like a god-awful tourist for all I care.”
”I have been here before you know.”
”But you’re still going to want to have a look around, am I right?”
”Okay, maybe.” She chuckled, her body gently lurching forward, then looked sheepish. “What would you recommend then you Anglo-Saxon.”
”I don’t think you have the authority to call me that when you’re a total WASP.”
”You know full well I was raised Catholic.”
”That may be so, but you’re still a WASP at heart. I think.”
”Clyde.”
”Just walking around is good, we have nice parks. Oxford Street - women like shopping don’t they? The museums are good, and free - so is the Tate on Southbank. The usual stuff. I hear London Dungeons are fun but I think a lone middle aged woman might look a little sad.”
”You could come with me.”
”You’re having a laugh. My advice would be to go have a drink somewhere, loosen up. Or not.”
”Right. Well thanks for the advice, I’ll keep that in mind.”
”You know I wasn’t going to say this earlier, it seemed a little
imprudent. But you look a little peaky - are you okay?”
”I’m fine. Just missing home comforts, that’s all.”
”You sure?”
”Yes I’m sure.” She was getting a little rash now.
”Okay, so be it. More fool me for inquiring into your wellbeing.”
Clyde was a little rash too at first but it devolved as the sentence went on, and he realised he didn’t take what he was saying seriously. They began to laugh.
Then they sat in silence for a few minutes, just drinking their tea.

As she was placing the mugs in the sink, Emily asked - “How come you’re not at work in the middle of the day?”
”When you’re the boss you can do what you like. But anyway, it’s 2pm on a Friday in summer, hardly peak productivity.”
”Well it’s nice to see someone. I’ve been cooped up since I got here.”
”You haven’t been out?”
”To be honest, you were right - I haven’t been feeling too hot Sorry for snapping.”
”Jet lag?”
”Something like that.” She looked down into the well of the empty mug.
“Hopefully you’ve slept it off by now. So, I’m here and clearly it’s unnecessary discussing work, so what do you want to do?”
”I mean I know you said the 18th, but do I not need to come in for an induction day or whatever. I know I’ve worked at Interpol before but not in such a senior role.”
”It’ll all be explained when you get there. Just relax. You deserve it.”
”Okay.” She rolls her eyes.
”Have you talked to anyone back home since you got here?”
”It’s only been a couple of days. Reid and Penelope have texted but I haven’t gotten back to them. I love them but their overzealousness in worrying about me gets exhausting sometimes.”
”Cynic”, he joked. “Not spoken to your mother, I presume?”
”Silly question.”
”Well I don’t know, do I. I thought you’d been getting along okay?”
“There’s getting along fine and then there’s a normal, non-dysfunctional mother-daughter relationship. I can’t say I’ve been experiencing the latter. Yeah, it’s mostly fine on that front, but I haven’t spoken to her in a few weeks or so.”
”No word from boss-man?”
Emily internally froze, suddenly remembering the events of JJ’s wedding that she had somehow forgotten since getting to London. But she stayed outwardly composed, and soon her brain caught up - why should she be bothered.
”No. He’s probably got more important things to deal with than whether I’m settling in here or not.”
“You seem a little tense and I don’t seem to be getting much out of you - d’ya wanna go do something. Or watch TV, whatever you like.”
”God am I really that inhospitable of a host?”
”Well unless you want to sit here and talk.”
”I don’t own a TV.”
”You don’t have a TV?”
”The apartment - don’t correct me - didn’t come with one, and I haven’t bought one yet. Not really sure I see the point, I rarely have time for it anyway. I suppose I might want to see a film once in a while.”
“We could go on a walk. Could take you around.”
”Sure”, she said, nodding. “I should probably get out and I suppose the weather’s not bad outside. Let me just get my coat.”
”You don’t need a coat, it's June.”
”A denim jacket then.”
”You own a denim jacket?”
”Yes.”
They left the flat, went down the cold concrete stairs and exited onto the street. The sky had become clearer since she’d been out on the balcony, and was a verdigris colour. Outside the building was a triptych of birches stood up like witches’ brooms. They walked and walked, past endless cars and trees, roads that were so characteristic of London - equally urban and green. Emily loved it. She thought of maybe going to the Barbican at some point soon. They walked past a bus stop, where two gormless teenage boys in grey joggers sat on the letterbox red seating. She thought how typical it was of teenagers to look so disinterested in life itself, but it made her realise that she was kind of in awe of her new surroundings. It was nice to be back, even if she was a little lonely and unmoored. Everything was going to be okay.
Clyde and Emily arrived at a park and sat on a dedicative wooden bench on the perimeter of the main field. There was a small girl with her father trying to fly a kite, despite the fact that there was neither wind, nor an altitudinal gradient.
“Jesus, they’re a few sandwiches short of a picnic,” chuckled Clyde.
”Lay off. She’s a child,” Emily rebutted, leaning her body forward and her head to the side, to face Clyde.
”He’s not.”
”I suppose he isn’t, is he.” Emily broke a smirk.
”Did you ever think about having kids?”
Clyde furrowed his brow and looked more inquisitively at her.
“Not with you, that’s for sure,” Emily laughed.
”I’m asking a serious question, Emily. I would have presumed not with me.”
”Yeah. I like kids. I mean I’ve not really been around them much and I suppose most of my friends don’t have them. Well actually that’s not true I suppose, although I’m not sure the ones who do tend to talk in depth about it, considering they probably think I won’t be interested. JJ does but she’s so at peace with her like status as a mother that it seems like an anomaly, I don’t think most women are genuinely like that, even though they love their kids. Not to say she doesn't admit it’s challenging but I don’t think I get the whole picture so I don’t think I could make a proper judgement about whether it would be for me. But it’s too late now and I never got round to it - there was never the right person, I guess.”
”No one ever made you think you might have children with them.”
”You know I haven’t had that many serious relationships - at least not for someone my age, who’s been around the block.” She pauses. “Actually, Ian brought it up a few times.”
”Do tell.”
”Oh nothing but he asked me a few times. I always was sort of worried he might tamper with my birth control or something to be honest, but he never did, at least not to my knowledge. I guess I have been a sort of surrogate mother for Declan occasionally. Well anyway, I obviously wasn’t going to have a fucking baby with Ian. Imagine.”
”So it’s off the table for good?”
”I’m single, and in my forties. And I’ve never been inclined to do it alone. So yes, to answer your question. And you Clyde? Though I think I know the answer.”
”Well. I’m not an anti-natalist. But babies don’t particularly uh, - intrigue - me. And, um, well, I think I’d rather spend my money and time on me.”
“And good for you.”
The sound of an ice cream van started to ring, and then it pulled up just outside. Children ran.
”Do you fancy one?” Clyde asked.
”I don’t fancy queueing up behind a bunch of rowdy kids. But maybe there’s somewhere else we could get one?”
”There’s a cafe if we follow the path up here.”
They kept going and when they got there, Emily purchased a tub of pistachio ice cream. Very adult. They sat on a bench and talked about whether she could see herself in London long term. The sun waned and it got a little chilly and late, so they went their separate ways. Emily was thankful that the way home was almost a straight line, and not too far.

Chapter Text

It was late on Sunday morning. Emily was still in bed, though she’d been up to go to the toilet and as such hadn’t gotten properly back under the covers. Instead she was lying prostrate with her head forming a welt in the pillow within a triangulation of her arms, hands and shoulder blades. She wore a thin navy cotton jumper, unattractive black briefs and long socks - both also cotton. The weather at that current moment was the sort where you could wear a t-shirt or a puffer jacket out and be adequately comfortable either way. The clouds outside were broken and grey.
It must have been about 11 when she felt a tingling at the back of her throat and started to fervently manoeuvre her tongue to roll back on itself and scratch the itch. She got up and walked to the kitchen counter to fetch a glass of water. But just as soon as she had shut off the tap and had a sip, she felt distinctly nauseous, much like the previous incidents. Perhaps naïvely, she had thought it was the stress and culture shock of emigrating, but now she began to think she had caught some awful English disease. Or it was a legitimate recoil to the food or air. Whatever it was, Emily felt like she wanted to pull her insides through her mouth to feel less sick. When she went to the bathroom, she cradled the toilet bowl and gagged repeatedly. All that came out was some of the water she had just drank and some thick globules of contaminated spit that congealed along the rim.
“Fuck.”
She felt awful, thus collapsing backwards onto the floor. It wasn’t normal to be this sick, she now recognised there must be something amiss. She also had a headache that was incrementally increasing in intensity.
Emily went to get paracetamol out of the cabinet, twisted the tiny key and opened the hatch.
“Fuck.” She elongated this one.
Right there nestled next to a box of plasters, or ‘Band-Aids’ as she might call them, were the tampons - container sealed since she bought them when she arrived in the country.
“Oh fuck. Oh shit.”
She told herself that she was only like, a week late, and that there were mitigating factors - stress, her age et cetera. But it seemed illogical seeing as this came after the first time she’d had unprotected sex in years.
She took the paracetamol out of the box; closed the cabinet; put the pills in her mouth; and craned her neck under the tap, to drink and swallow. Then she looked at herself, reflected in the mirror on the cupboard. She figured she looked a little sallow, and had a woeful look plastered across her face - so she shook her hair back, and used her inner voice to give herself a little pep talk. She was going to go to the supermarket and buy groceries - and a pregnancy test - and not panic.
So she goes back to her room and pulls on some black slacks and converse. She thinks of the irony of the conversation with Clyde on Friday, saying that the topic was off the table for good so to speak. Burying her head in the wall, she cringed at Hotch’s and her’s [in the majority] imprudence - why the fuck didn’t they use a condom. But then she reconvened; don’t panic.
It was mild, edging on warm outside, though the clouds masked the sun’s attempts to break through. There was a Tesco about five minutes up the road but Emily wasn’t sure they sold exactly what she wanted, so she decided she’d suffer the hike to the big Sainsbury’s.
The cold emitted from the freezers in the supermarket was refreshing on a day with little wind force, but it was counteracted by what she felt was the putrid smell of the fresh meat section. Not a good sign at all. Over the course of half an hour Emily piled cereal, a litre of semi-skimmed milk, a variety of vegetables, fruit, spices and herbs, pasta, noodles, basic things such as eggs and bread, peanut butter and nutella. And a pregnancy test. No meat. She wasn’t known as someone who cooked, certainly not someone who cooked well, but perhaps it was time to turn over a new leaf. Her lack of energy suggested the cashier to her, so she lined her items up on the conveyor belt, though it was just as taxing as the self service checkouts. The woman serving her was a buxom woman in her late 50s with dyed blonde hair - and - American! Suddenly Emily felt the need to be sociable and soon found out that the other woman was from Oregon, what she was doing here however was anybody’s guess.
Leaving the shop and clutching her bags for life (with their charming little paprika coloured elephants) Emily caught the bus - her chest felt tight but she couldn’t discern whether it was a heightening anxiety or genuine, which didn’t help the issue. Thankfully there were seats available, despite the fact that she was only going a handful of stops. When she sat down she ran her fingers along the seat softly, hard at the points from years of use. Then she dropped her shopping to her feet, shrouded her face in her palms and began to cry. It was all too much and she felt utterly alone, emphasised by the fact that no one on the bus bat an eyelid - this was London. She was sort of glad of that - though there was a bit of a dichotomy between wanting to be left alone and shamefully craving at least a sliver of attention.
At the flat she took the test [after putting the shopping away] and gnawed at her fingernails while it processed.
As the two lines appeared on all three tests - she was nothing if not meticulous - she swallowed and then meekly whined to herself.
’I’m such a fucking idiot’.
Briny tears trickled down her face again.
It wasn’t that she desperately didn’t want to be pregnant, if that was the case it could be easily dealt with - the abortion she’d had as a teenager was a painful experience but she didn’t have an ideological objection to it in any sense. She considered it for a brief second but it was a nominal, fleeting feeling. Rather what was trickier was that, as she had acknowledged on Friday, this felt like an opportunity she had thought had already passed her by. And now it was being offered to her on a plate. But it was going to totally fuck up her plans, as well as her interpersonal relationships. Emily considered herself a headstrong individual, as did many others, but the thought of having to negotiate parenting with Hotch from the other side of the Atlantic had her rethinking her will. The situation was entirely farcical - she was 41, would be 42 by the time the baby came, and that wasn’t even considering the damage she had assumed inflicted by Doyle. The idea of being 60 at all was terrifying and abstract, but with a child graduating high school? Or secondary school, she imagined - she had no clue what to do about the job or where she was going to live, Clyde had made it clear he was expecting a commitment.
After pondering for a while, she threw up again.
Emily remembered she had decided to be a rational and calm human in the face of this. She was going to make noodles against her better nature but then reasoned that toast lathered with butter might be easier to both execute and digest. Then she sat down to eat, and to rationally work out what the best thing to do going forward. Not being great at cooking was a point against her. She grabbed a pen and paper and began to make a list but soon worked out that any and every bit of logic was saying having the baby was a bad idea. But the more it pushed up against her the more she realised, above all else, how badly she wanted to be a mother despite the circumstances - and, to be honest, she was an accomplished, intelligent, fully adult woman who loved children and could financially support one.
The fifth season finale of Mad Men was coming out that evening, and Emily was anxious to watch it but she wasn’t sure of its air date in the UK - so she texted Penelope for piracy site recommendations, the illegality a little ironic since they worked for the government. In the meantime she considered going back out but couldn’t be bothered. It was nearly quarter to two in the afternoon, and she opened her box set of Friends and slotted season 2 in the dvd player. Not amazingly gripping or stimulating but a welcoming comfort watch nonetheless.
After mindlessly watching five episodes in a row, Emily figured she should make herself useful and clean the house, since there wasn’t much else to do. Her nausea had subsided throughout the day but she didn't feel up to exploring the city. Following that, she made more toast for dinner, watched more Friends and headed to bed early.