Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Two years later, Emily stood motionless in the living room of her new apartment.

The high ceilings, the spotless white walls, the sleek, deliberate lines of the furniture—everything about it looked expensive, calculated, sterile.
Foreign.

It had only been a few hours since they’d left Paris.
Yesterday had been Declan’s eighth birthday.
Today they stood here—with two suitcases, a forced smile, and a past that followed them like a shadow.

Elizabeth Prentiss, immaculate as always, had picked them up at the airport. At least she seemed genuinely happy. The entire drive she had spoken with Declan in French—warmly, attentively, almost lovingly—as if she had known him all along.

Emily, on the other hand, had barely said a word.
She had stared out the window, at the familiar streets that felt disturbingly normal.

Washington, D.C.
She was back.
And God, how she hated it.

The apartment—chosen by her mother, paid for by her father—didn’t feel like home. It felt like a cage with curtains.

Declan ran ahead, bursting inside and leaving the suitcases behind. His voice echoed through the rooms.
“Wow, Maman, c’est trop cool! J’ai ma propre salle de bain!”
(“Wow, Mom, this is so cool! I have my own bathroom again!”)

Emily heard him, but her thoughts lingered somewhere between Paris and D.C.
She stood there, hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, looking around the immaculate room.

Even without seeing the upper floor, she knew this place was at least four times the size of their old apartment in Paris.
“The apartment is… spacious,” she murmured, trying to sound neutral. “It must’ve cost a fortune.”

Elizabeth gently placed a hand on her arm—a gesture so unfamiliar it startled her.
“Don’t worry about that, darling.”

Darling.
The word hit her like a cold gust of air.
Her mother had never called her that.

“I’m so glad to have you both near me again,” Elizabeth sighed softly. “To have you again. After your friend’s death, you both went through so much.”

Emily only nodded.
My ex-terrorist, whom my son shot, she thought bitterly. Something you’ll never know, Mother.

Her eyes wandered over the glossy surfaces, the perfectly arranged furniture.
Everything was flawless.
Nothing was real.

Declan came running back in, his face flushed with excitement, and threw himself onto the cream-colored couch.
“Maman, tu as vu ma chambre? Elle est énorme!”
(“Mom, did you see my room? It’s huge!”)

Emily forced a smile.
“J’arrive, mon cœur.”
(“I’m coming, my heart.”)

But when she turned, her mother’s gaze stopped her.
There was something in Elizabeth’s eyes—something she was deliberately holding back.

“What?” Emily asked quietly, tension already rising in her voice.

Elizabeth hesitated. “Your father has… a condition. But please—listen before you say anything. He’s really worried. We both are.”

“Mother!” Emily’s voice had that dangerously sharp edge that even startled herself. “What condition?”

“You’re going to see Dr. Vogel again.”

For a second, time stopped.
Emily felt everything inside her tighten—her shoulders, her neck, her breath.

“I’m not a child anymore, Mother,” she said coolly. “I make my own decisions.”

Elizabeth smoothly switched to Greek, excluding Declan from the conversation.
“Ο πατέρας σου κι εγώ φοβόμαστε απλώς ότι η κατάθλιψη θα επιστρέψει.”
(“Your father and I are just afraid the depression will come back.”)

Emily sucked in a sharp breath, but before she could respond, Declan asked curiously—in fluent Greek:
“Τι είναι η κατάθλιψη;”
(“What is depression?”)

Emily closed her eyes briefly. “Declan speaks the same languages I do,” she said dryly.

Elizabeth smiled stiffly. “I’m so proud of you, Declan. You’re so talented with languages.”

Then she turned back to Emily.
“Your father has also scheduled appointments for Declan. It will be good for both of you.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

But Elizabeth just shook her head gently, bent down to kiss Declan on the cheek, and brushed a hand through his hair.
“I have to go now, sweetheart. We’ll talk later,” she said, then looked at Emily. “But you know there’s no alternative.”

The door closed behind her.

For a long moment, there was silence.
Only the soft hum of the refrigerator filled the air.

Declan looked up at her.
“Maman… c’est quoi, Dr. Vogel?”
(“Mom… who’s Dr. Vogel?”)

Emily exhaled slowly, her eyes resting on him—
and she knew this wasn’t a new beginning.
It was a return.

Chapter Text

Emily opened the door to Declan’s room quietly.
The nightlight cast the hallway in a warm, golden glow. His breathing was even, the blanket pulled up to his chin, one arm half-stretched across the bed.

She stood there for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. Only when she was sure he was deeply asleep did she turn away.

In the living room, the moving boxes were still stacked neatly—unopened, untouched, silent witnesses of a life she hadn’t really wanted.
Maybe she hesitated because unpacking would mean admitting that they were really here.
Back.

She dropped onto the couch, resting her head in her hands. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room until her phone vibrated.
Clyde.

A quiet sigh. At least one familiar voice.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Not really.” She reached for her glass of wine. “I’m just trying to avoid those boxes as long as humanly possible.”

Clyde chuckled. “That sounds like you. But I’m not calling to chat. Have you checked your emails?”

Emily pulled her laptop closer and flipped it open. “Not yet. Why?”

“Because you now officially have a new life.”
He sounded businesslike, almost detached. “I’ve finished all the paperwork—résumé, transcripts, letters of recommendation. Perfect work, even by government standards. And Declan now has a birth certificate. You adopted him last year. If I may say so, it’s the best forgery I’ve ever created.”

Emily scrolled through her inbox, opened the document.
Birth certificate.
Place of birth.
Parents: Emily Prentiss – Konstantin Vasiliev.

Her eyes lingered on the name.

Clyde went on, “Our good Konstantin died in a car crash. Tragic, but clean. Every record checks out. Nothing leads back to Doyle.”

Emily nodded automatically. “Of course not.”

“From now on, you can really start over,” Clyde said softly. “Declan can go to school. You can work. You can… live.”

“Or pretend to,” she murmured.

“Emily.”
A pause. Then quietly: “You don’t have to go back to work right away. You have enough money. You could take your time.”

She shook her head, though he couldn’t see it. “I’ve had almost two years off, Clyde. I need to do something. If I sit still any longer, I’ll lose my mind.”

He exhaled, as if he already knew what was coming. “Go on. Say it.”

“I want to go back to the BAU.”

There was a sharp breath on the other end.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Then, calmer: “Emily… do you have any idea what you’re walking into? That’s not just a job. That’s a glass cage full of people who get paid to see through you. You’re planning to sell them a life story built entirely on fiction.”

Emily said nothing.

“At least tell me you’re not doing this because of Aaron.”

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the couch.
“If I were honest,” she said quietly, “I’d be lying. So I’d rather say nothing.”

Clyde gave a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s what I thought. You’re chasing a man who almost destroyed you last time. And meanwhile, you’re trying to raise a child who could blow your cover with one wrong word.”

“Clyde.” Her voice was calm, steady. “This isn’t about Aaron. Not only about him. I need this job. I need structure. Routine. Something that feels like control. And Declan needs normalcy—a school, a routine, a life.”

“Normalcy?” His tone was half amused, half pitying. “The kid can strip a gun blindfolded, but he can’t tell a basketball from a soccer ball. Do you really think he’s going to blend in at some suburban elementary school?”

“I have to try.”

The silence that followed was long, dense, full of things neither of them dared to say.

Finally, Clyde sighed. “You’re stubborn, Emily. Always have been. Maybe that’s what’ll save you in the end. But please—don’t walk into this blind.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope so.” His voice softened. “Good luck, darling. Call me when you need someone to tell you you’ve lost your mind.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “You’ll probably do that anyway.”

“Most likely. Take care of yourself.”

The call ended. The room fell silent again, filled only by the faint ticking of the wall clock.

Emily lowered the phone and took a deep breath.
She knew Clyde was right.
But she couldn’t help herself.

In this new, old life, she needed something that felt real. And if that meant working among people trained to spot lies, so be it.

Slowly, she rose and walked back into Declan’s room. The nightlight cast a soft amber glow over his sleeping form.
He lay on his side, brow slightly furrowed, as if fighting something invisible even in his dreams.

Emily lingered in the doorway, her heart heavy yet full of tenderness.
She stepped closer, brushed a curl from his forehead. His skin was warm, familiar, real.

“Everything will be fine, mon cœur,” she whispered—without believing it.
And yet, for that brief moment, it almost sounded true.

Then she lay down beside him and let the world fade to black.

Chapter Text

Emily took a deep breath as she stood in front of the door.
The brass nameplate gleamed in the hallway light: Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.

She had thought she was ready.
Now, with her hand just millimeters from the handle, she knew she had been lying to herself.

“Come in.”

The voice made her flinch.
Deep. Steady. Unmistakable.

Emily forced herself to breathe, pressed the handle down, and stepped inside.

The office was exactly as she had imagined—spare, precise, not a single unnecessary detail. Files stacked neatly on the desk, the lamp throwing a harsh light across perfectly aligned forms. Only one thing disrupted the order: a photograph of a little boy with a wide, open smile.

Agent Hotchner didn’t look up, even though he had told her to come in. His pen moved swiftly over the papers, as if she weren’t there at all.

She swallowed. He had changed and yet not at all.

Aaron finally lifted his head when she closed the door.
For the briefest moment, all professionalism vanished from his face. Surprise. Warmth. Something close to joy.
Then he stood.

“Emily.” His smile was genuine. “How are you? And your mother?”

She forced herself to return it. “We’re fine, thank you.”

He nodded, and just like that, the warmth was gone—replaced by the same controlled hardness she remembered too well. “What are you doing here?”

Emily lifted the box in her hands slightly. “It’s my first day. I’m starting here.”

Aaron froze. Motionless. Then:
“You’re not.”

She set the box down and placed her papers on the desk. “Why do you sound like you didn’t know about this?”

“Because I didn’t.” He didn’t even glance at the first page before pushing it aside. “I didn’t authorize this transfer.”

He stepped closer, his voice calm but edged with steel. “How exactly do you imagine this working? This is the BAU. I don’t know which strings your mother pulled, but a name alone doesn’t get you through that door.”

The tone left no doubt—he’d have sent her away right then if he could.

Emily had expected anger in herself, but what she felt was only a quiet sadness. “I understand why you’d think my mother was involved, but I can assure you, she wasn’t. I’m here on my own merits.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “The last professional report I had on you said you were unstable, impulsive, prone to running, with a record of substance and alcohol issues. That’s not the kind of person I can have in this unit.”

A small smile flickered across her lips, but her voice stayed steady. “My psychological evaluation came back clean. And for the record, I never had a drug or alcohol problem. I was barely an adult when we met. I made mistakes—no more than anyone else.”

She met his gaze, firmer now. “It’s been eight years since you last saw me, Agent Hotchner. I grew up. The question is—did you?”

The hit landed. His posture straightened, but he said nothing. For the first time, he looked unsure. Slowly, he sat down and opened her file. The rustle of pages was the only sound in the room. Minutes passed in silence.

“You were last stationed in the Midwest,” he finally said. “What about the yearlong gap?”

A faint smile curved her lips. “I took some time off.”

“A sabbatical?” There was skepticism in his tone, like he was expecting to hear rehab.

“I spent it with my son.”

Aaron’s head snapped up. “You have a son?”

“Yes. He just turned eight.”

For a moment, all color drained from his face. His fingers froze around the pen. Emily watched him, could almost see the calculations behind his eyes.

Then she let out a dry laugh. “Don't worry. He's my stepson, I adopted him. You can breathe again – I'm not revealing an illegitimate child to you here."

Aaron blinked, clearly trying to regain his composure. "You're...not married? Your last name is still Prentiss." His voice was rough, almost scratchy, as if the question had caught in his throat.

Emily shook her head. Her smile faded, and her tone turned flat. “We’re not together anymore. It’s complicated.”

A pause. Her gaze cooled. “And private.”

Hotch nodded—mostly to himself—and set the pen down. His shoulders seemed heavier now.

For several long seconds, silence filled the space between them.
Only the clock on the wall kept time, each tick slicing through the air.

Finally, he looked up, directly into her eyes. “Your résumé fits this place. But…”

Emily raised a brow. “But?”

“I’m not sure it’s wise for us to work together. Not with… our history.”

Her voice was calm, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Then let’s agree to leave that history outside. It would be better for both of us.”

She nodded toward the framed photo on his desk. “Especially for you.”

Hotch’s gaze followed hers. His hand twitched, as if to turn the picture face down—but he didn’t.

Silence settled again. Heavy. Tangible.
Two people, both fully aware of what remained unspoken between them.

“Agreed?” she asked quietly.

His eyes stayed on her, steady, uneasy, almost gentle.
Then he nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

His voice was rough.
And even he wasn’t sure if that had just been a lie.

Chapter Text

The sun shone warmly over the little street café where Emily sat with Clyde, Jeremy, and Tsia. The scent of fresh coffee hung in the air, and somewhere nearby, cutlery clinked softly against porcelain. Within sight, at the edge of a fountain, Declan was playing — laughing, sleeves soaked, wearing that unguarded, radiant smile she so rarely saw.

Jeremy took a sip of his espresso and grinned over the rim of his cup.
“So, Em — when are you finally going to come to your senses and come back to Interpol? The BAU is nice and all, but let’s be honest: you belong in the field, not in a conference room.”

Emily’s mouth twitched. “Over my dead body will I ever work for my father again. Interpol gave me enough nightmares for one lifetime.” She exhaled slowly and lifted her gaze. “Now enough about me. How are the wedding plans going?”

Tsia smiled, resting her hand on Jeremy’s leg. “We decided to have it in Paris. Would that be all right for you — with Declan’s school and everything?”

Emily was about to respond, but Clyde cut in. “Declan isn’t even enrolled in school yet.”

Tsia frowned. “Really? I thought—”

Jeremy interrupted, blunt as always. “You afraid little T.K. might shoot someone else?”

No one at the table took offense — they all knew Jeremy. Tsia smacked his knee lightly and hissed, “Jeremy!” but Emily only raised an eyebrow.

“You still call him ‘terrorist kid’ yourself,” she said calmly. “Declan’s a sweet boy, but his upbringing was… flawed. I’m under no illusion — he’s not what you’d call normal. And you’re not helping, teaching him new combat techniques every time you visit.”

“Well,” Jeremy replied with an innocent shrug, “someone’s got to teach him.”

Clyde leaned forward, his tone more serious now. “Maybe it’s really time to think about therapy.”

Emily gave a small nod. “My father’s already arranged sessions with Dr. Vogel.”

Tsia smiled softly. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Emily looked toward the fountain. Declan was dipping his hands into the water, catching droplets of sunlight between his fingers like tiny crystals. For a brief moment, everything was peaceful.

“Dr. Vogel is excellent,” she murmured quietly. “I just… hoped we’d be done with that chapter someday.”

Tsia followed her gaze. “And when you’re working? Who takes care of him then?”

“My mother,” Emily said after a short pause.

Jeremy and Tsia exchanged a glance. Jeremy raised a brow. “Your mother? Really?”

Emily rubbed her forehead. “I know. It’s not ideal. But she loves him — and I should be grateful she even accepts him. She pretends he’s her real grandson. Maybe… she needs that as much as I do.”

Just then, Declan came running up, drenched and laughing. He climbed onto Emily’s lap and said in French,
“Maman, je m’ennuie.” (Mama, I’m bored.)

Jeremy replied in fluent French,
“Tu veux qu’on fasse quelque chose ensemble ? Tu me manques depuis que vous êtes partis de France.”
(Want to do something together? I’ve missed you since you left France.)

Declan nodded eagerly. “Combien de temps resterez-vous encore ?” (How long are you staying?)

Tsia smiled. “Encore une semaine. Mais bientôt vous viendrez tous à Paris et vous pourrez porter les alliances à notre mariage.”
(Another week. But soon you’ll all come to Paris, and you can carry the rings at our wedding.)

Declan’s eyes lit up. Jeremy winked at Emily. “Can we take T.K. to the movies? A little popcorn won’t kill him.”

Emily nodded. “Sure. I should probably unpack the last of the boxes anyway.”

Declan gave her a quick kiss. “À plus tard, Maman!” (See you later, Mama!)

Emily smiled and watched them disappear into the sunlit street. Clyde left not long after, and suddenly, she felt a hollow stillness settle in. Clyde would have stayed if she’d asked.
But she didn’t.
And so he left.

Later, in her apartment, Emily sat among half-unpacked boxes. Dust danced in the late afternoon light. One box still stood untouched beside the couch — the one she had been avoiding. Slowly, she opened it. Old documents, forged passports, fake IDs. Beneath a stack of papers lay a dried freesia. And beside it — Ian’s engagement ring.

Her breath caught.
Tears burned in her eyes, but she blinked them away.

With Ian, she had known the most stable relationship of her life — grotesque, but true. Only Declan’s upbringing had divided them. Ian saw violence as a lesson; Emily saw it as a legacy no child should inherit.

She remembered one night — Ian had shot a weapons dealer in front of Declan without a flicker of hesitation. He hadn’t even tried to shield the boy’s eyes. Emily had been the one to carry Declan out of the room.
“Really, Ian? Did it have to be here?” she had whispered, trembling with rage.

Then there had been Alessandro — another death, another lesson — and finally, it had been Declan himself who pulled the trigger.
“Papa shouldn’t hit you. He has to learn.”
That sentence had burned itself into her soul, louder than any gunshot.

The doorbell tore her out of her thoughts.
Quickly, she wiped her face, pushed the memories and the ring back into the safe, and locked it before answering the door.

Declan burst in, laughing, Jeremy and Tsia right behind him.

“Everything okay?” Tsia asked quietly when she saw Emily’s red eyes.

“Yes,” Emily lied with a small smile.

Tsia didn’t believe her, but she didn’t push either.

“How was the movie?” Emily asked instead.

“Fantastic!” Jeremy and Declan shouted in unison, then broke into laughter.

“Je veux vous montrer ma nouvelle chambre d’enfants!” Declan called,
(I want to show you my new room!)
and pulled Jeremy up the stairs with him.

Once they were gone, Tsia lingered beside Emily. “He still speaks more French than English, doesn’t he?”

Emily nodded tiredly. “Yes. Even though he understands English — and spoke mostly English until he was six — French is still his comfort zone. Maybe… it really is time for school.”

Tsia smiled gently. “One step at a time, Emily. Normality doesn’t come overnight.”

Emily watched her go, then looked toward the boxes, the safe, and the door Declan had just closed behind him.
“Normality,” she murmured softly.

Her lips pressed together, and she nodded to herself.
But deep down, she knew: normality was a distant dream for her — and for Declan, maybe nothing more than a word.

Chapter Text

Derek Morgan leaned casually against Emily’s desk as the last of their colleagues packed up their things.
“Hey, Prentiss. You coming to the bar? Couple of drinks to end the day.”

Emily, who had just closed her bag, hesitated for a moment.

“The others are coming too,” Morgan added quickly, as if afraid she might be hesitating because of him.

Emily caught on immediately and smiled politely. “That’s not it. I was just thinking about my son. But a friend is watching him tonight, and she won’t mind staying a bit longer—so yeah, I’m coming.”

Morgan blinked. “Wait a second… you have a kid?”

“Yeah,” she replied simply.

“I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

Before he could respond, Penelope Garcia came striding past—and froze mid-step.
“Hold on. Hold. On. Hold. On.” She spun around like someone had just yelled plot twist. “What?! Emily has a kid?” She clapped her hands together in delight. “Why don’t I know this? Show me a picture of the baby!”

Emily laughed softly, pulled out her phone, and showed her the screen.
Garcia gasped. “Oh. My. God. Look at that little angel! Those eyes! How old is he?”

Garcia squealed. “He’s gorgeous! Those eyes! How old is he?”

“Eight.”

“Eight?! That’s not a baby anymore—that’s a young gentleman! What’s his name?”

“Declan.”

“Declan!” Garcia repeated reverently, as if tasting the name. “I’m already a fan.”

Emily slipped her phone back into her pocket, still smiling, though deep down she felt that familiar pull—pride mixed with an instinctive need to protect. Every sentence, every small detail felt like a door she was opening—and she never knew if she’d be able to close it again.

Then Reid appeared, bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m coming too. Did you ask JJ?”

“She’s coming. Hotch is heading home,” Morgan answered.

Unnoticed, Emily exhaled softly. Just knowing Hotch wouldn’t be there let her shoulders drop a little. Ever since she’d held Ian’s things in her hands yesterday, her mind had been chaos—and for now, she’d had enough of anything emotionally complicated.

“I didn’t know you were a bar type,” she teased Reid.

“Statistically speaking, social interaction outside of work increases team trust,” he explained earnestly.

Morgan laughed. “Or you could just call it fun.”

Emily shook her head as they left the building together. On the way out, she dialed Tsia’s number.

“Hey, Em!”—Tsia’s voice was warm.

“Just a quick call: is it okay if I grab a drink with the others?”

“Of course! It’ll do you good.”

“Can I talk to Declan for a second?”

A bit of shuffling, then his familiar voice: “Maman?” (Mom?)

Emily’s tone softened instantly. “Salut, mon cœur. Tout va bien?” (Hi, my heart. Everything okay?)

“Oui! Tsia m’a laissé manger une glace!” (Yeah! Tsia let me have ice cream!)

A small laugh escaped her chest, almost like a sigh. “Bien sûr qu’elle l’a fait…” (Of course she did…) For a moment, Declan’s childlike joy pushed away all the shadows.

“Tu rentres bientôt?” (Are you coming home soon?) His voice sounded small, hopeful.

“Dans quelques heures, mon chéri.” (In a few hours, sweetheart.)

“D’accord, Maman!” (Okay, Mom!)

When she hung up, Emily felt a pang of guilt. He’d sounded like he was really counting on her. How many times had she had to put him off already?

“Was that your son?” Morgan asked curiously, his tone probing. “You were speaking French?”

Emily lifted her shoulders casually. “He likes languages. French especially.”

Morgan nodded, but his look lingered on her, as though he were trying to see what she wasn’t saying.

Before he could ask more, JJ joined them. She looked at Emily with a mix of surprise and cautious warmth. “You have a son?”

Garcia immediately cut in, bubbling over with excitement: “Not just any son—a real model! JJ, you have to see those eyes! Sky blue, like the ocean!”

JJ half-laughed, half-shook her head, but her gaze returned to Emily—curious, searching. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

Emily forced herself to meet her eyes, her voice steady and controlled. “He’s actually my stepson. I adopted him, and he lives with me.” She emphasized each word like a barrier—enough truth to sound believable, but not enough to invite deeper questions.

JJ didn’t back off right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on Emily’s face, and for a moment Emily had the uneasy sense that JJ saw more than what was being said—a look that seemed to shine light through every crack in her façade.

JJ nodded slowly, her tone soft, almost tentative. “So you live alone with him?”

“For two years now,” Emily replied without blinking. Inside, every muscle in her body tightened. JJ wasn’t someone who could be fobbed off with half-answers—and that pressure was palpable.

“And when we’re away overnight? Does he stay with his father then?”

For a split second, panic flared—too direct, too close. She forced her breathing to stay calm and put on a faint smile. “Mostly with my mother. Tonight a friend’s watching him.”

Her tone was neutral, but her pulse roared in her ears. One more question, and she’d have been forced to reveal more than she could afford to.

JJ held her gaze a moment longer, as if to say, I know you’re not telling me everything. Then she nodded and let it go.

Just then Morgan pushed open the bar door, saving her.

“Enough questions for today. Time for a drink.”

Emily followed him—grateful for the distraction and determined not to revisit the topic.
Some truths were better left buried.

Chapter Text

It was early morning when Emily stepped into the elevator from the underground parking garage, on her way up to the BAU bullpen. She was overtired, irritable, and nowhere near caffeinated enough to function. The day had already started off as a disaster.

Declan was only in his second week of school, and yet here they were: that morning, his teacher had pulled her aside at drop-off and asked to schedule a meeting for next week.

It was about his social behavior.
Of course it was.

Emily had known this would happen. She’d seen it coming. And yet—against her better judgment—she’d allowed herself to believe that maybe this time would be different. That maybe Declan wouldn’t stand out. That he could somehow fit in.

But that wasn’t how things worked. Not with Declan. Not with a child who’d witnessed so much violence in his early years.

And now, next week, she’d get to sit there and listen to how her son “had trouble with social rules.” How he “wasn’t like the other kids.”

How could he be? But he couldn’t tell the teacher that. And Emily couldn’t tell anyone either.

On her drive to Quantico, she’d called Clyde. She just needed someone she didn’t have to hold it all together with.

“Clyde, I swear, if that teacher starts in with the ‘social rules’ speech again next week, I’m going to lose it.”

“Maybe he’s just not ready yet, darling.”

“Not ready?” Emily clenched her jaw. “He can’t hide from the world forever. At some point, he’s going to have to fit into it.”

“Or maybe the world needs to learn how to deal with him.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious. Maybe he just needs more time. Or the right environment.”

“Say it. Come on. I can already hear it in your voice.”

“Edward.”

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. “If you tell me one more time that my father is an option, Clyde, I swear I’ll kill you and make it look like an accident.”

He gave a soft snort. “So charming this morning.” But Clyde didn’t back off. “You can hate him all you want, darling. But there’s one thing you can’t deny: he understands boys like Declan. He sees what’s inside them—the anger, the fractures, the potential. And he knows how to shape that into something useful. You can try to force Declan into a normal classroom, but it’s going to fail. Declan isn’t a normal kid. He won’t accept rules just because someone tells him to. He needs someone who’ll teach him how to use his strength, not lose himself to it.”

Her voice trembled with restrained anger. “And you think Edward is that person? Need I remind you why I’m in this situation to begin with?!”

Clyde, completely unfazed, just shrugged audibly. “He’s brutal, yes. But he’s efficient. He wouldn’t soften Declan—he’d forge him. If you’re afraid your son won’t survive this world, Edward is the guarantee that he will. Maybe not the one you want, but the one that works.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you just hate that I’m usually right.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still call me.”

Emily narrowed her eyes, let out a sharp breath—and hung up.

Now, barely ten minutes later, she was standing in the elevator, wanting nothing more than a moment of peace. Just a few seconds to collect herself. To put her FBI-Emily mask back on.

But the universe clearly wasn’t on her side. Because as the elevator doors slid closed, she realized she wasn’t alone.

Hotch. Of course it was Hotch.

She rolled her eyes before she could stop herself.

He noticed immediately—he always did. Instead of taking offense, his brows lifted slightly. There was no judgment in his gaze, only quiet, amused interest. He knew that look from her: that tiny flare of defiance right before she said something she’d regret later.

“Good morning,” he said calmly, his tone as even as ever.

“Hm,” Emily muttered—more a grunt than a greeting.

Hotch studied her. He heard the sound, saw the shadows in her face, and wondered why she looked so worn out. Normally she appeared as though she’d put her armor on before getting out of bed. Today, there was a crack in it.

“I don’t even have to ask how you’re doing, do I?” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were soft.

Emily leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. “Sorry for the eye roll. It’s just… one of those mornings.”

Hotch gave the smallest nod. “I know the type.”
He waited, giving her space.

She didn’t speak, so he asked, as casually as he could manage, “How’s David doing?”

Emily frowned. “David?”
A brief blink, and then she understood. He meant Declan.

“Declan,” she corrected.

Hotch cleared his throat lightly. “Right. Declan.” He held her gaze, and in his eyes she saw the silent admission—he never forgot names. But with her, he was off balance.

Emily shrugged, brushing a tired hand through her hair. “He’s fine… mostly. It’s complicated.”

Hotch said nothing, simply observed her. Her voice was composed, but he saw the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her shoulders tensed whenever she mentioned her son.

“The move’s been a lot for both of us,” she added quietly, almost as if it had slipped out.

“I believe that,” he said, his tone sincere. “Change is rarely easy for kids.”

She glanced at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. For a moment, she thought about saying more—but stopped herself. Every piece of information was another door she might never be able to close again.

To shift the focus, she asked, “And your family? I heard you have a son too… Jack, right?”

Hotch nodded. “Yeah. Jack’s three.”
His face softened slightly when he said the name.

Emily gave a wry smile. “Three. So I bet you know those mornings when you’re just glad you made it to work on time.”

“Not really.” He shrugged, almost lightly. “Haley handles most of it. My mornings are… easier.”

“Sounds convenient.” Her tone was teasing, not unkind.

“It is,” he said evenly. “At least for me.”

For a brief moment, they stood there—side by side, wrapped in a quiet understanding. Hotch felt how familiar it was—too familiar, almost like eight years hadn’t passed. And he knew: that kind of closeness couldn’t come back.

Emily lowered her gaze, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. For a single breath, they weren’t eight years apart anymore.

A soft ding. The doors opened.
And in that instant, everything vanished—warmth, familiarity, memory.
What remained were two colleagues. Straight, controlled, masked.
Strangers—like they’d never known each other at all.

Chapter Text

While the BAU team investigated the case of Nathan Harris, Emily was fighting her own demons. From the very beginning, she had felt that this case got under her skin too much.
Too much — because it touched something she never wanted to touch.

Nathan Harris — an intelligent, socially isolated boy struggling with dark thoughts he couldn’t control.
He was afraid of himself, afraid that one day he might do something he couldn’t take back.
He reached out to Reid because he had no one else — and because, deep down, he desperately wanted someone to save him before he lost himself completely.

Nathan was trying to ask for help.
Declan never would.

Emily couldn’t look at Nathan Harris without thinking of Declan.

Declan was only eight, but he had seen more than any child ever should. He wasn’t like other children. He rarely talked about his feelings; he preferred to watch, to analyze. He knew how to make himself invisible. He knew how to lie when necessary.

Recently, at the pediatrician’s office, he had been lining up toy cars in perfect order.
When another boy disrupted his arrangement, Declan silently fixed it. Twice. Three times.
He looked at the boy — too long.

Then the boy was called in and left with his mother.
Thank God.

Emily didn’t even want to imagine what might have gone through Declan’s mind at that moment.

Declan had learned so much — by imitation, by observation.
Was that what had made him into what he was now?
Or was it something that had always been there?
A skill — or worse, a flaw.

Something that could break through at any time.

When provoked — and he was easily provoked — you could see just how thin the thread really was.

And he had killed.

In his short life, he had already pulled a trigger — not in panic, not out of fear, but with calm, almost mechanical precision.
Because he believed it was the right thing to do.

Nathan Harris was afraid of his own thoughts.
But what if Declan never felt that fear?
What if he didn’t even realize that he was different?

Emily thought of that afternoon in Tuscany.
Ian had argued with an arms dealer — and, as usual, settled the dispute his way.
One single, clean shot.
The man had barely hit the floor before a dark pool of blood spread beneath him.

And then Declan…

Declan had just walked in.

Emily had stopped breathing — she had expected panic, a scream, a sob, a flinch.

But Declan didn’t even move.

He just stood there, looking at the dead man, watching the blood slowly creep across the floor — and then took one single step back, as it reached his bare feet.

Not out of fear.

But out of the simple, instinctive decision not to get dirty.

That image burned itself into her mind — indelible, a shadow that followed her ever since.

She had scooped him up instantly, carried him out of the room, desperate to say something, anything that would pull him out of that moment.

But before she could even form words, Declan had leaned against her calmly and asked:

“Maman, est-ce qu’on peut avoir une glace?”
(Mom, can we get ice cream?)

Only a few months later, Alessandro had been lying in the hallway of the villa — covered in blood.
This time, it was worse. Declan had known him. Liked him, even.
And yet again, he only stepped back, just enough to keep his feet clean.

In those moments, Emily didn’t know what scared her more — the thought of losing Declan, or watching him become more and more like Ian.
Sometimes she looked at him and saw the same cold calculation in his eyes that she knew so well from Ian.
And sometimes, she saw the child he was supposed to be — and wondered how much longer that part of him would last.

She had almost forgotten to breathe, her jaw tight, eyes fixed on Nathan.
Morgan noticed. He noticed almost everything.

“You okay, Prentiss?” he asked when they were alone for a moment.
His voice was soft but searching — not casual, not routine. He looked at her as if, for the first time, he truly doubted.

Emily knew she had to react fast — before he dug deeper.
So she reached for the most reliable method to silence a man instantly.

“I’ve got my period. Cramps from hell.”
She shrugged casually, as if she were talking about the weather.

Morgan’s expression shifted within seconds — from concern to mild panic.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat, taking an almost imperceptible step back, as if he’d already heard too much. “Uh, okay. Want… tea or something?”

Emily drew the word out slowly, as if his suggestion was the most absurd thing imaginable. “Tea?”

He gave her a nervous grin, looking for solid ground.
“Come on, you’re the one with the wise advice. When I’m sick, you always tell me to drink tea.”

Normally, Emily would have fired back, teased him, used humor to ease the tension.
But today… she had to force it.
So she made herself laugh softly, shook her head, and waved him off.
“It’s fine, Morgan. I’ll survive.”

He held her gaze a moment longer, as if he’d noticed that her laugh came half a second too late, a tone too empty.
Then he let it go — let her go, the way she needed him to.
“All right… if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“I will,” Emily promised, forcing her voice into that same easy confidence as always.

He left, and Emily exhaled quietly. No one would ask more questions. No one would know what was really going on in her head.
And that was exactly what she wanted. She needed to sort her thoughts.

She looked at Nathan — the boy who asked for help — and knew Declan never would.

Nathan was afraid of himself.

Declan never was.

Emily couldn’t stop wondering which was worse.

And most of all, she feared that there might not be an answer to that question at all — only the unavoidable wait to see what Declan would become.

Chapter Text

Emily stood on the porch of Tobias Hankel’s house, swallowed by darkness.
The night was cold—or maybe it was just the tension crawling through her veins. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she could will her body to stay warm, her gaze fixed on nothing.

Reid was still missing.

Every second that passed felt like an eternity. The team was working tirelessly to find him, but so far, they had nothing—just this suffocating stillness gnawing at their nerves.

The door behind her opened quietly. Aaron.

Emily barely turned her head. “Any news?” Her voice was calm, but tight. “Should I come back inside?”

“No.” His answer came softly, almost hesitant. “There’s nothing new.”

He stepped beside her, eyes on the darkness ahead. For a moment, he said nothing. Then: “I wanted to apologize.”

Emily finally turned toward him, her brow furrowing. “For what?”

Hotch took a deep breath, as if forcing himself to speak at all. For a second, his lips pressed together; his gaze stayed fixed on the empty yard.

“For what I said in the bathroom. About you.” His voice was rough, faltering slightly. “I know who you are—probably better than most. And still, I made you out to be someone you’re not. That wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

He fell silent again, as if listening inward, then continued, lower: “And what’s worse—I should’ve stood up for you in front of JJ. You’re part of my team. My responsibility. Instead, I joined in. I didn’t defend you. I humiliated you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

She watched him for a moment, studying his face in the dim light. Then she nodded slowly. “Then I should apologize too,” she said quietly.

He looked at her, puzzled.

“For saying you trust men more than women.” Her mouth curved into a small, crooked smile. “That wasn’t fair. And not entirely true.”

A faint smile tugged at his own lips. “I admitted as much.”

Emily let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, you did.” She hesitated, then looked back toward the trees. “But… I might’ve been partly to blame for that.”

Hotch said nothing, his gaze sharp and steady on her profile. Finally, he gave the smallest nod. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s been too long to really know anymore.”

Emily took a deep breath. Then, after a pause, she glanced around the porch—making sure they were truly alone.

The words rose in her throat like a weight she’d carried for years. She could’ve swallowed them again, like she always did. But here, in the cold light spilling from the house, with the air heavy with fear for Reid somewhere out there, she couldn’t hold them back anymore.

Her voice came out low, almost a whisper.
“For the record… I really didn’t have an affair.”

Hotch reacted instantly—a soft snort, half disbelief, half defense. “Emily…”

She turned fully toward him now, eyes steady, her voice unwavering. “It’s true. I know you have every reason to doubt me. But I swear to you—it never happened.”

Hotch studied her, searching her face for any sign of a lie, anything to prove her wrong. But there was nothing—only raw honesty.
“Why tell me this now?”

Emily was silent, letting the words settle inside her. A part of her wanted to lock them away again, the way she did with so many other truths. But another part of her knew he deserved to hear at least this one.

She exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering courage. “Because I don’t want you to think I lied to you.” Her voice was steady, but beneath it was a tiredness she couldn’t hide. “Back then… I was just burned out, Aaron. Empty. Everything felt too heavy—even the things that were supposed to keep me grounded.”

She paused, searching for the right word. “Maybe it was depression, or maybe just… a hole I fell a little deeper into every day. I just know I wasn’t myself anymore.”

Then she lifted her gaze, meeting his directly.

“But I loved you far too much to cheat on you.”

A shadow flickered across Hotch’s face, but he didn’t speak. His hand moved slightly, as if he wanted to reach for her—but he didn’t. Maybe he stopped himself. Maybe she only imagined it.

Emily lowered her eyes for a moment before adding softly, “I know it doesn’t change anything now. I don’t want it to. But… I wanted you to know. Somehow it felt important.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Cold night air. The distant echo of sirens somewhere out in the dark.

Then Aaron nodded slowly—not as forgiveness, not as acceptance. Just as a sign that he had heard her.

Chapter Text

Thursday.
The hallway clock ticked too loudly, just like it always did, as Emily stood in front of Dr. Vogel’s door.
The smell of black tea and paper hadn’t changed. The matte glass of the practice door reflected her face—pale, controlled, tired.
Routine.

Her weekly session.

She didn’t knock. She simply walked in.

“Good morning, Emily.”

Dr. Evelyn Vogel sat upright in her armchair, as always. No notes, no clipboard, no pen. Just her—and that kind of attention that never felt like interest, but like dissection.

“Morning,” Emily replied as she sat down without waiting for an invitation. She placed her jacket beside her, eyes lowered.

“How was your week?” Vogel asked calmly.

Emily gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Parent-teacher conference. Declan.”
She slumped forward a little, rubbing her forehead.
“It was… exhausting.”

A brief nod from Vogel. “What exactly did the teacher say?”

“That he’s disrespectful. Mouthy. That he provokes authority just to see how far he can push.”
She sighed, looking aside. “He asks questions that throw them off. He answers when he’s not supposed to. And when they reprimand him, he smiles. That small, confident smile she called ‘unnerving.’”

Vogel raised her eyebrows slightly. “And you? What would you call it?”

Emily thought for a moment. “Calculation.”
Then, quieter: “He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows boundaries—he recognizes them even faster than others. He just decides whether they’re worth crossing.”

“That sounds like power.”

“He understands power,” Emily corrected. “He understands that it works when you stay calm. I didn’t teach him that… but he knows it.”

Dr. Vogel tilted her head slightly, her gaze unchanged and steady. “A child who learns early that words can be more dangerous than actions will use words like weapons. That’s not sadism. That’s strategy.”

“He uses them on teachers. On me. On anyone who tries to ‘raise’ him.” Emily’s mouth tightened, her tone sharpening. “He knows no moderation. If someone gets loud, he stays quiet. If someone threatens, he laughs. He undermines anyone who believes they’re above him.”

Evelyn gave a tiny nod. No pity, no shock. Just the clinical acceptance of a fact.
“He grew up in an environment where calmness was the most efficient way to hold on to control. Children who experience violence early learn that faster than anyone. He understands cause and effect, but he doesn’t connect it to morality—only to strategy.”

Emily leaned back into the sofa as if the weight of the words pushed her deeper into it.
“So a budding sociopath.”

“No,” Vogel said evenly, “not necessarily. He lacks the emotional indifference required for that. Declan feels—but selectively. His empathy is targeted, not diffuse. He can empathize, but only when he sees a benefit.”

Emily let out a low, bitter laugh. “That sounds a lot like my father.”

“I thought the same,” Vogel replied matter-of-factly. “Except that Declan, unlike Edward, hasn’t yet found any advantage in destruction.”

Silence.

Emily slowly ran a hand over her palms. Her fingers were cold.
“Sometimes I wonder if I can still shape him. Or if it’s already too late.”

“He’s eight, Emily,” Vogel reminded her calmly. “Not eighteen.”

“I know.”
A short pause. Then, rougher: “But when I look at him… sometimes I think he’s exactly what Edward always wanted to make out of me. Calculated. Controlled. Fearless.”
She let out a short, toneless laugh. “Heartless.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me!” Emily snapped, catching herself a moment later. “He needs to learn how to function in society. Otherwise…”

She trailed off.

“Otherwise what?” Vogel asked gently.

“Otherwise he’ll end up like Ian.”

Evelyn stayed silent for a moment, then leaned back slightly.
“Or like Edward.”

Emily looked up, startled, but didn’t contradict her.

“Declan,” Vogel continued, “shows what happens when intelligence grows up next to distrust. He doesn’t believe in hierarchies. Only in competence. If someone makes a mistake, they lose his respect. If someone contradicts themselves, they lose his attention. He tests to see who holds their ground.”

“That sounds like he enjoys it.”

“No,” Vogel countered. “He trusts no one. And that’s not pleasure—it’s caution. It’s his only defense mechanism.”

Emily exhaled deeply, bracing her elbows on her knees. “He’s eight, Evelyn. Eight. And already he can read people as if he’s trained for it his whole life.”

“Maybe he has.”

Emily closed her eyes briefly, then said softly:
“He is everything Edward always wanted to turn me into.”

Silence.
Vogel didn’t disagree.

Just the faintest nod.
Then: “He is the result of survival intelligence. Precision. Control. Everything Edward tried to cultivate in you to replace empathy—Declan was simply born with.”

Emily let out another bitter, quiet laugh. “So I’m the prototype. The in-between version.”

“Perhaps,” Vogel said. “But with one difference: you can reflect on what you feel. He can only imitate it. For now.”

“For now,” Emily repeated hollowly. “Meaning you think he’ll lose it.”

“If no one shows him that closeness is safe—yes.”

Emily stared at her. “So you think I can fix this.”

“I think you are the only one who speaks his language,” Vogel said gently. “And that you decide whether he uses it against himself or for himself.”

A long moment of quiet.

Then Emily whispered, “He spots weakness instantly. If I’m tired, angry, or sad—he sees it before I do.”

“That’s no accident,” Vogel explained. “Children like Declan learn early to read moods. They had to, to survive. He observes because observation keeps him safe. He never learned what trust means—only how to maintain control.”

“And if he loses it?”

“Then he’ll be afraid,” Vogel answered. “Not because he fails—but because he doesn’t recognize himself anymore. That is more dangerous than anger.”

Emily sank further into her seat. “He already has no fear. Only pride.”

“Pride is often the last shield,” Vogel said. “After that comes emptiness.”

Evelyn did not soften her tone.
She didn’t say it’s not that bad.
She didn’t comfort.

Her silence felt like confirmation.

Emily blinked. “You’re not disagreeing with me.”

“I’m not sure what I should disagree with,” Vogel replied after a beat. “Edward wanted to build in you the perfect analytical mind—separated from morality, emotion, and fear. Declan shows what happens when a child is taught early that control is a survival strategy. He is not heartless. Only conditioned.”

“He learns fast,” Emily whispered.

“Children learn what works,” Vogel said. “If silence brings safety, he will be silent. If anger brings attention, he will be angry. If fear brings nothing, he will unlearn fear.”

“And what if he already has?”

“Then,” Vogel replied, “it is your job to teach him again.”

Emily gave a humorless laugh. “You talk as if there’s a recipe.”

“No,” Vogel said. “More like a reminder: you’re not his therapist. You’re his counterweight.”

Emily looked at her—long, quiet. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m not even that. That I’m just a stepping stone. Between Ian and Edward.”

Evelyn folded her hands, considering her. “Perhaps. But you’re the first step he chose.”

Emily’s breath shook softly as she leaned back and closed her eyes.

“I tried giving him rules,” she murmured. “Normal rules. When to sleep. How to talk to other kids. And every time I correct him, he looks at me like I’m the one who needs to justify myself.”

“Because you do,” Vogel said. “You explain yourself. You negotiate. And he knows. Declan accepts no authority that defends itself—only authority that stays silent.”

“Like Ian.”

“Like everyone he survived,” Vogel replied.

Emily opened her eyes, meeting Vogel’s gaze—and for a moment, there was the old coldness she’d needed for years to survive.
“And if I can’t reach him?”

Vogel didn’t hesitate.
“Then he will surpass you.”

A long, quiet beat.

Emily exhaled, looked down, then raised her head again.
“And then what?”

“Then,” Vogel said, “you must teach him that control does not replace love—before he starts to believe that love is only control.”

Emily nodded slowly.

Then she stood. “As brutally honest as ever.”

“As always,” Vogel confirmed.

Emily grabbed her jacket, but paused at the door.

“Evelyn?”

“Yes?”

“If you’re right, then Declan isn’t a monster.”
She turned halfway, her gaze sharp and clear.
“But he knows how to become one.”

Vogel looked at her for a long moment.
“Then teach him not to want to.”

Emily gave the faintest nod, closed the door behind her—
and let the façade fall for just one moment.

Just long enough to realize how badly she was shaking.

Chapter Text

The apartment still smelled faintly of the metallic tang of blood she hadn’t quite managed to wash off her skin. Emily’s hands trembled just a little as she pulled the gray turtleneck over her head.

“God!” she groaned when the fabric caught on her shoulder—where a swelling was already starting to form.

With a suppressed curse, she tossed the sweater carelessly onto the kitchen floor. It was splattered with blood—none of it hers.
“You owe me a top!”

“Anything you want, darling.” Clyde flashed her a wide grin, as if nothing had happened, and disappeared into the bathroom whistling. Right before the door swung shut, he shot her a sideways glance.

“A little bit of that was your own fault today, though. You were unusually combative, even for you.” He stretched the word out as if savoring it. “I’m used to you trying to put out fires with gasoline. But today? Today you emptied the whole damn can.”

He shook his head—half amused, half reproachful—as he tightened the towel around his waist.
“You could have taken them down quicker. You were having fun and provoking them.”

Then he raised a brow casually, as if remembering something.
“By the way, I ordered pizza.”
And with that, he disappeared into the bathroom, where the shower started running immediately.

Emily didn’t respond. Barefoot, wearing only her bra and pants, she walked to the fridge, grabbed a cold beer, and took a long swallow. Then she pressed the chilled bottle against her aching side and watched a faint bluish shadow bloom across her skin. By tomorrow, it would be an ugly blue-purple bruise.

Inside, she cursed herself for agreeing to Clyde’s request at all. But she wasn’t lying to herself—Clyde had been right, and she knew it. She had enjoyed herself. And whenever her father asked for a “favor,” she jumped. The conditioning sat deeper than any insight.

Jobs with Clyde were always off the books. Not “Interpol,” never official—especially not here. Interpol wasn’t even legally allowed to operate executively within the U.S.; she knew the statute better than the people who wrote it.

What they did was the gray zone: old contacts, private security contractors, favors no one spelled out, invoices disguised as semi-anonymous consultancy work.

In. Out.
No witnesses.
No traces.

The “good kind” of dirt, as Clyde called it—the kind where your hands got filthy, but no one asked whose hands they were. Morbid, really. No matter which flag she flew under, she hunted bad guys with methods that sliced her moral compass into neat little squares.

But that was what she had been trained for.
That was what she could do.
And tonight, she’d been willing to take any outlet to release the pressure in her skull. Even a job that smelled like an execution before it ever began.

And today? Today she was just angry. Angry enough to welcome an execution-adjacent distraction. Maybe that was why she’d been unfocused. Or maybe she’d even provoked the hits—who knew?

She set the beer down beside the sink, found the bandage Clyde had left her—the one she didn’t need—and the painkillers she didn’t want. Instead, she picked up her phone. The background was Declan: wind-tousled hair and that too-serious expression he got when he forgot he was still a child.

She typed a message, deleted it, typed again.

Salut, mon cœur. Tu dors déjà ? J’ai eu une longue journée. Rien de grave. Je pense à toi. Dis à Mamie que je passe demain matin, d’accord ? 🤍
(Hi sweetheart. Are you already asleep? I had a long day. Nothing serious. I’m thinking of you. Tell Grandma I’ll come by tomorrow morning, okay? 🤍)

She added:

Je t’aime. (I love you.)

Then paused. Declan disliked overly emotional messages; too much sentiment made him suspicious.
So she deleted the heart, kept the Je t’aime, and hit send.

Delivery confirmation popped up immediately. Not “read.” Good. Hopefully, he was sleeping—or pretending to.

She leaned her forehead against the cool cabinet and let the air drain slowly from her lungs. Cuddling with Declan was still the best—and probably healthiest—way to come down. His weight on her chest, his small warm hands gripping her shirt when he dreamed. The world didn’t get better then, but it got quieter.

Tonight she’d have to settle for the silence drifting through the apartment: Clyde’s whistling shower, the steady rush of water acting like a metronome that forced her to calm down.

Her eyes drifted back to the bottle. She took another sip—not for the pain anymore, but for the voice in her head.

Hotch’s voice.
Sharp, too fast, too hurt.

The accusation—that she’d only asked about his meeting with Congressman Steyer to spy on him—still echoed inside her. As if she cared about political games. As if she were here to sabotage his career, not stop corpses from piling up.

“Fuck,” she muttered into the empty kitchen, the word dying against the tiles without an echo.

She placed her phone beside the bottle, rolled her shoulders back until the muscles protested, and stayed that way until her breathing evened out again.

Her anger had just begun to rise again when Clyde’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“You’re staring again…”

Emily blinked and looked up. Clyde stood in the doorway, towel around his hips, hair dripping, a fresh shirt in one hand.

She didn’t flinch.
“No, I’m obviously meditating.”

He lifted a brow. “Ah. Right.”

She was just slipping back into her thoughts when the doorbell rang.

“Pizza, yay,” she mumbled flatly.

Clyde nodded, as if that were profound. “Pizza, beer, and Scotch. Perfect end to an evening.”
He smiled into the dim hallway and opened the door.

But instead of the delivery guy, someone entirely different was standing there.

“Uh… hi?” Clyde said, brow raised.

The tall, dark-haired man at the door looked nervous.

“Um… I was looking for Emily. Is she here?”

Clyde turned around just as Emily stumbled out of the kitchen, recognizing Hotch’s voice.

“Hotch?!”

His eyes widened in surprise, and she froze on the spot.

Clyde glanced between them, stepped past Emily, shoved his shirt into her hands, and snagged her beer.

“Trade.”

He raised the bottle in greeting and strolled off toward the living room.

Only then did Emily fully realize she was standing in front of Hotch in nothing but a bra.
At the exact same second, Hotch’s mind made the same horrible discovery—his head snapped to the side like he needed to brace himself against the wall.

Cursing under her breath, Emily yanked the shirt over her head. “Perfect,” she muttered, knowing he heard it anyway. “What are you doing here?”

Hotch risked a careful glance—checking she was actually clothed this time—then dragged a hand through his hair.

“I came to apologize,” he said quietly, clearing his throat. “Again.”

Emily crossed her arms, the shirt still hanging loosely on her. She narrowed her eyes.

“I get it, Aaron.” Her voice wasn’t angry—it was tired. Resigned.
“You still don’t trust me. You still think I only got this job because my mother pulled strings.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she lifted a hand, stopping him.

“But what happened today? I didn’t deserve that.”

Hotch looked at her for a moment, weighing his words. Then he shook his head slowly.

“I don’t believe that anymore.” His voice was low and steady. “I see what you do. I see how hard you work. Today… was just stupid on my part.”

Emily studied him, trying to see if he meant it. Hotch held her gaze—no hesitation, no uncertainty.

He went quiet again, searching for the right words. Then he exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Honestly… maybe it is hard for me to work with you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He hesitated—debating whether to say the next part. His eyes flicked down the hall, where Clyde had disappeared. When he continued, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I don’t like how much you have over me.”

Emily frowned. “I don’t understand…”

Hotch looked directly at her, gaze intense.

“We both know we started our relationship before you turned eighteen.”
His tone dropped even lower. “If that ever comes out… my career is over.”

Emily felt her chest tighten. She held his stare, and for a long second, there was only silence.

Then she said quietly but firmly:

“Aaron… I would never do that to you.”

He didn’t speak—just watched her, as if making sure she meant it.

Emily let her arms drop, her expression softening. A sad smile flickered across her lips.

“And if it helps—you don’t have to worry. I don’t have any proof.”
She shrugged lightly, gaze drifting somewhere far away.
“No letters. No texts. No photos. I was so angry with you back then… I destroyed everything. Our story exists only in our memories.”

She took a breath, meeting his eyes again.
“And as far as I’m concerned… that’s where it stays.”

Hotch swallowed hard. His face stayed composed, but something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

Finally, he nodded.
“Okay.”

It didn’t sound like a farewell, or a thank-you—more like a quiet agreement. An unspoken pact.

He drew in a breath, stepped just a little closer, and added softly:

“Let’s try again.
A new start.
As friends.”

Emily lifted a brow, a hint of dry amusement tugging at her mouth.
“Friends?”

“Friends,” he echoed, sounding like he genuinely meant it.

For a moment, she just looked at him—calculating, weighing.

Then she sighed, let her shoulders drop, and shook her head slightly—a small, barely there smile on her lips.

“…Okay.”

Hotch nodded.
And for a split second, it almost looked like he smiled too.

Chapter Text

Emily sat with Declan in the car in front of the school, her fingers tense around the steering wheel. The engine was running, but she made no move to drive off.

She had really hoped it would turn out differently. That Declan would somehow manage to blend in, stay unnoticed, seem… normal.

But deep down she had known it wouldn’t work.

One month.

Not even a damn semester.

After the incident with the knife on the playground, it had been obvious it wouldn’t last.

She had seen it coming. Had been waiting for it. And yet, now that he had actually been expelled after barely a month, it felt like failure. Like her failure as a mother.

She rubbed her hands over her face, then shook her head.

“Tu es en colère?” (Are you angry?) Declan broke the silence with a simple question.

He didn’t sound worried or scared. More curious. Almost routine.

Emily closed her eyes for a moment.

Of course he spoke French.

Something in her snapped.

Her hands fell from her face, she turned to him and snapped before she could think:

“We’re in the United States, Declan! You can damn well speak English!”

The words had barely left her mouth before she regretted them.

Declan blinked. His face showed no real emotion, but she knew him well enough to catch that tiny flicker of surprise.

Emily took a deep breath, ran a hand through her hair, then carefully reached out to touch his arm.

Her voice was soft now. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you, okay? I love you, no matter what. And none of this is your fault, everything you do was taught to you.”

Declan stayed quiet for a moment, then leaned back and snorted softly.

“Tu blâmes papa.”
(You blame Dad.)

Emily inhaled sharply.

She looked at him—his serious face, those sharp, watchful eyes—so unlike what an eight-year-old should have.

She nodded. “Yes.” Then hesitated. “No.”

She closed her eyes briefly, then turned back to him.

“Your father had… the same problems you do.” Her voice was calm but heavy. “He was born into a family that didn’t do him any good.”

Declan studied her closely, his gaze piercing.

“Like me?”

Emily pressed her lips together, searching his face as if she could find an answer there that she didn’t have herself.

After a moment, she said quietly:

“Maybe. But I’m the wrong person to judge that.”

She leaned back against the headrest, her gaze drifting to the now-empty schoolyard outside.

“My family wasn’t much better. Just messed up in a different way.”

Declan said nothing, but she could feel him thinking.

Emily wondered if she was just fooling herself.

“Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to burn down the villa right in front of you,” she admitted, her tone far too matter-of-fact for such a serious topic.

Declan studied her with that sharp, assessing look that always reminded her whose son he was.

Emily let her head sink back against the headrest. “We both probably still need to learn how to live a normal life.”

Her phone vibrated loudly on the dashboard, interrupting their conversation. She glanced at the display—JJ.

Of course.

She sighed and answered. “Please tell me it’s not urgent.”

“It’s urgent.” JJ’s tone left no room for discussion. “We have a case. You need to come in.”

Emily closed her eyes for a second. Of course they had a damn case. And of course it had to be now.

She looked at Declan, who was kicking his feet and staring out the window. If she took him to her mother, it would mean driving across the city and back again. That would cost her at least two hours.

She opened her mouth to ask JJ how urgent “urgent” really was, when Declan cut in.

“I can stay home alone.”

Emily lowered her phone and blinked at him. Then she laughed dryly. “No.”

Declan leaned back, raising a brow. “Why not?”

“I’ll be right there, JJ,” she said, hung up, and stared at Declan. “Are you seriously under the impression that’s a good idea?”

Declan crossed his arms and gave her his best I’m superior look. “You always say I’m not a normal kid.”

Emily raised a brow. “Oh yes. Absolutely. And that’s exactly why it’s a brilliant idea to leave you alone at home. Maybe you’ll build a bomb or start an underground network of like-minded people.”

Declan rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“Was it?” Emily shook her head. “I mean, you are my little extremist-in-training. Who knows what you’d get up to if I leave you unsupervised?”

Declan sighed dramatically. “I’m eight. Not two. I can be alone.”

Emily rubbed her temples. “Oh my God…”

He shrugged. “Just because you have issues with your role as a mother doesn’t mean I’m a helpless baby.”

Emily shot him a sharp look. “Oh, I definitely have issues with my role as a mother. But even I know that’s a stupid idea.”

Declan rolled his eyes again. “So what now?”

Emily thought. Clyde, Jeremy, and Tsia had already flown home. Her mother was the obvious choice, but the detour was too big.

That left only one option.

She lifted her phone again and typed quickly.

“Garcia, are you in the office? Can you do me a favor? It’s about Declan.”

Declan eyed the screen skeptically. “Garcia?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the pink stuff?”

“Yes.”

“The one who tries to buy me with candy?”

“Yes.”

Declan thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I won’t talk.”

Emily groaned. “I really hope so.”

Because the last thing she needed was an eight-year-old, precocious, terrorist’s son chatting too much inside FBI Headquarters.

The elevator doors closed with a soft hum, and Emily exhaled deeply as she leaned against the cool metal wall. She looked at Declan, who stood expressionless beside her, hands buried in his jacket pockets.

“Listen to me, Declan. This isn’t a game.”

He rolled his eyes barely noticeably, but before he could say a word, Emily raised a hand.

“I mean it. I don’t want to lose you.” Her voice was softer now, more urgent. “The people in there are professionals. They notice everything. So keep a low profile, okay?”

Declan snorted quietly. “I’m a professional too.”

“Grandma will pick you up in about two hours. Until then, you’ll stay with Garcia. Two hours of behaving—come on, you can do that,” she told him.

Declan raised a skeptical brow. “And what exactly am I supposed to do here?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Breathe. Sit quietly. Don’t share any information that might end up on CNN.”

He just shrugged. “Sounds boring.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

Before he could reply, there was a soft ding, and the elevator doors slid open.

Standing in front of them was a bright, overly excited Penelope Garcia, who clapped her hands together instantly.

“Oh my God! Is that my little assistant?!”

Declan looked at her for a moment, then turned to Emily.

“Je croyais que tu avais dit que ces gens étaient des professionnels.”
(I thought you said these people were professionals.)

Chapter Text

While Emily was already on the jet with the team, Declan and Penelope had surprisingly settled in together quite well.
Declan asked smart questions, quietly commented on everything he saw, was polite, calm, and not shy at all.

He sat relaxed in one of the swivel chairs in Penelope’s office, looking around with curiosity.
“This place is…” He searched for a word. “…very pink.”

Garcia beamed proudly. “THIS is called design, little man! The eye hacks with you!”

Declan nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth pulling into a grin.
“I think it gives me a headache.”

Penelope laughed—loud, shrill, genuine.
“Oh my God, you’re exactly like Emily!”

“That’s what people say,” he replied, accepting the hot chocolate she had made without asking.
“The cocoa is good,” he said quietly after taking a sip. No excitement. Just stating a fact.

Penelope smiled proudly. “Of course it is! I make the best cocoa north, south, east and west of—”

Pling.

A small pop-up window appeared on one of her monitors.
“OH NO—” Garcia gasped and frantically tried to close it. “Don’t look, those are crime scene photos, do NOT—!”

But Declan had already stood up.

He looked at the photo without even flinching. A young man. Blood. A strange, dark mark on his forearm.

He tapped the spot with his finger. “That guy was an idiot.”

Garcia froze. “Uh… excuse me?”

“The bruise.” Declan pointed at it. “Right next to the burn.” He crossed his arms, completely calm.

“The guy fired a weapon shortly before he died. He held it sideways, like in movies.” Declan mimicked the tilted gun posture with two fingers.
“In real life that’s stupid. The casing flies back. And it’s fucking hot.”

Garcia opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.

Declan continued unfazed.
“That’s why that mark is there. The casing hit his arm. The guy’s not older than eighteen, right? Probably wanted to impress some street gang. But he had no idea how to hold a gun.”

Garcia didn’t know whether she was impressed, horrified, or both.
“How… do you know that?”

Declan stared a moment too long at the photo. Too analytical.
Too adult.

Then he realized he had crossed a line.
He turned to Garcia, smiled exaggeratedly childlike, and shrugged.
“My mom thinks out loud when she works. I guess I listen too much.”

Garcia nodded slowly.
Very slowly.
“Right… of course. Sure.”

Then she looked at him strangely for a long moment.

Declan, meanwhile, glanced around desperately for something to change the subject—and found it.
“OH!” he exclaimed suddenly. “A penny! Let me show you something!”

He placed the penny on his bent elbow, lifted his chin with concentration, flicked his arm downward—

The penny shot up
and landed perfectly between his fingers.

Garcia screamed in delight.
“Wow! How did you catch it so fast? Do it again, again, AGAIN!”

Declan laughed—wide, genuine, young, proud.
He showed her again, then tried to teach Penelope, but even after several attempts she couldn’t manage it.
Still, both of them laughed and had fun.

Until Penelope’s phone rang.

She answered.
“Yes, Garcia. — Whose ambassador?” she asked, confused.

Declan raised his eyebrows casually. “My grandmother.”

“Oh… ah! Of course! Wow. Um. I’ll bring him down! Right away! Yes!”

Declan set the penny back on the desk and replied with his usual calm—and a tone that allowed no argument:
“No need. I’ll find it myself. It was cool hanging out with you! We’ll do it again!”

Barely had Penelope restored the chaos on her desk and put the cocoa mug in the sink when her iPad vibrated.
An incoming video call.
Caller ID: Hotch – BAU Jet.

“Oh!” She automatically wiped her hands on her dress—even though there was nothing on them—and accepted the call.
Immediately, five exhausted faces filled the screen: Hotch, JJ, Emily, Morgan, and Reid. Jet engines roared in the background.

“Garcia, we’ve got new information,” Hotch began curtly.
Morgan leaned into view. “The vic might’ve been in a gang. The tattoos match a local crew—they call themselves the Flash Kings.”

“Uh, yes!” Penelope cleared her throat and scrolled through the crime scene photos.
Her voice suddenly sounded more professional than she expected.
“The bruise on the forearm and the burn next to it… that suggests the victim fired a gun shortly before he died. He—he held it sideways,” Penelope continued, praying no one noticed her tiny panic.
“Like in… movies. The casing bounced back. Very hot. Pretty… uh… painful.”

Reid nodded immediately.
“That’s correct. Holding a pistol at a nonphysical angle causes the casing to eject toward the shooter. It creates typical arc-shaped burn patterns. Good observation, Garcia.”

Penelope lit up—
and then, without meaning to, glanced at Emily.

Emily, sitting on the jet, head tilted, brow furrowed.
After three seconds she asked dryly:

“What?”

Penelope flinched visibly. “What—how—what?”

“You’ve been staring at me this whole time.” Emily crossed her arms and leaned closer to the camera.
“Do I have something on my face?”

“NO!” squeaked Penelope, far too fast.
“No. No! Never! Everything’s great! Fantastic! Divine! Um—”

Morgan burst out laughing in the background.
Reid looked confused.
JJ slumped into her seat and rubbed her forehead.

Before Emily could push further, Hotch cut in.
“Okay. That’s enough. Thank you, Garcia. Good work. We’ll check in once we’ve landed.”

“Yesss, talk later!” Penelope chirped—far too high, far too obviously.

The screen went black.

Penelope sank into her chair, pressed her hands over her face, and groaned,
“Oh God… I stared at her like a creepy goldfish…”

The penny on her desk gleamed innocently.

Chapter Text

As the team boarded the jet, everyone instinctively found thei usual place. Conversations continued, the team settled in, preparing for the upcoming case.

Emily sank into an empty seat and immediately pulled out her file to go through everything once more. It wasn’t until she noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye that she paused.

She turned her head slightly, and only then did it hit her.

She had sat down next to Aaron.
Something they had always avoided.

Aaron didn’t seem to notice at first, absorbed in his paperwork. But then he felt her gaze and looked up. Their eyes met for just a moment before an uncomfortable realization appeared in his expression.

They had never spoken about it, but they had always instinctively kept their distance.
No conversations that got too personal.
No random encounters that lasted longer than necessary.
No seats next to each other.

It was nothing. Just a seat.
But for a split second, they both looked startled—and lost.

Her stomach tightened when she realized how close they were sitting. A simple coincidence—and yet it felt like crossing an invisible line.

Aaron was the first to lower his gaze again, flipping to the next page. But as he did, he murmured quietly, barely audible to anyone else, “Friends.” And he smiled for the briefest second.

He did linger on the page longer than necessary, clearly needing a moment to steady himself.

Emily raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She simply picked up her own file again and focused on the tasks ahead.

She was secretly relieved when Reid turned toward her a little later and, with his usual enthusiasm, started:

“Emily, did you know that offenders with multiple crime scenes show in over seventy-three percent of cases that—”

Perfect distraction.

She let herself get pulled into Reid’s theory as the jet took off. Everything was exactly as it should be.

The afternoon at the police station dragged on.
The team had set up in one of the improvised briefing rooms, the walls covered with evidence, the table cluttered with files and coffee cups. The case was stalling, results were slow, and they all knew the night would be long.

Emily sat at the end of the table, elbow propped up, absentmindedly spinning a pen between her fingers. Gideon and Morgan were discussing a theory, Reid scribbled notes into his notebook, but Emily was only half paying attention.

Then her phone vibrated.

The screen lit up, the message clearly visible.

Aaron, who sat across from her, hadn’t meant to look—
but his eyes landed on the display anyway.

Edward: Call me back immediately!!

Below that, four unread messages from Clyde
and eleven missed calls.

Hotch’s gaze lingered a moment too long on the screen.

Emily noticed too late. Only when she caught, out of the corner of her eye, her phone lying face-up, and the subtle shift in Aaron’s expression, did she realize he had seen it.

Without reacting, she picked up the phone, pressed the power button, and switched it off.

Aaron watched her “Problems?” he asked calmly, his tone neutral but attentive.

Emily hesitated for only a second, then shook her head lightly and slipped the phone into her jacket pocket.

“Nothing that matters right now.”

Aaron studied her for a moment.
He knew she was lying.
But she also knew he wouldn’t push—not here, not now.

It was shortly after 8 p.m. when Emily paused in the hotel lobby to catch her breath. The day had dragged on, and her head felt heavy—too many thoughts, too little sleep.

She was just heading toward the elevators when JJ called to her from the reception area.

“Hey, Emily! We’re going to the restaurant around the corner to get something to eat. Are you coming? I tried calling you earlier, but your phone was off.”

Emily turned to her and gave her a tired smile.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass tonight. I’m exhausted. I just want to call Declan and then go to bed. And sorry for not picking up… my battery died.”
She shrugged casually.

JJ nodded, sympathetic. “No worries, I get it. Today was long enough. Then have a good night.”

“You too.”

JJ gave her a final smile and turned to join Morgan and Reid, who were already waiting outside the hotel.

Emily watched her go, then turned toward the elevators—
and noticed Aaron standing a few meters away.

He hadn’t made himself known during the conversation, but now, as he shifted slightly and crossed his arms, Emily knew he had heard everything.

He didn’t speak at first, just watched her with that calm, unreadable stare.

Then came the question.

“Why did you lie?”
His arms weren’t just crossed—he was building a wall. Calm, but unyielding.

Emily blinked once, her expression neutral.
“I don’t know what you mean.”

Aaron stepped closer, his tone steady but firm.
“You turned your phone off earlier. I saw it. So your battery wasn’t dead.”

Emily didn’t react, her voice cool and unaffected.
“I turned it back on this afternoon. Now the battery’s dead.”

She held his gaze, her expression unchanged.

Aaron studied her for a long moment, weighing whether to push further.

“You’re starting to keep secrets again.” His voice wasn’t accusatory, but the implication was unmistakable.

Emily didn’t respond immediately. She looked at him, took her time, then said quietly:

“They’re not secrets, Aaron. It’s my private life.”

She held his gaze, her voice steady, resolute. “And you were the one who decided not to be part of it anymore.”

She saw his jaw tighten slightly, though his voice stayed controlled.

“That has nothing to do with this.”

Emily arched an eyebrow, as if genuinely curious.
“It doesn’t?”

Then she tilted her head, her tone softer, almost contemplative. “Do you want to know every detail of your subordinates’ private lives?”

Aaron said nothing.

But they both knew Emily was right.
Which only made it worse.

Chapter Text

The BAU team sat together at breakfast in a small diner near the police station. It was their only chance to catch their breath before diving back into the case. The table was crowded with steaming coffee, scrambled eggs, toast, and pancakes—one brief moment of normalcy in the middle of a hectic investigation.

The diner was pleasantly warm, if a little too crowded. Reid flipped absently through the local newspaper, Morgan ordered two extra pancakes with a satisfied grin, and JJ rubbed her temples tiredly—the previous day had taken a toll on all of them. Only Hotch sat unusually still, hands wrapped around his coffee cup as if the table was the only thing anchoring him.

JJ glanced at her phone when a message from Emily lit up. She skimmed it, let out a soft sigh, and set her phone down again. “Emily won’t make it to breakfast. She’ll meet us directly at the station. She has to sort out a few things with Declan’s childcare.”

JJ exhaled and stared at her phone a moment longer than necessary. “She sounded so… different yesterday,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Tense. Not just tired.”

Morgan took a sip of coffee and shook his head. “Man, that’s gotta be rough. Single mom and this job? It must’ve been easier when she was stuck behind a desk.”

He continued, more seriously, “Seriously—you can’t have the toughest job in the world and raise a kid on your own without things blowing up at some point.”

JJ nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, probably. She already had trouble with Declan’s care yesterday.”

Morgan lifted his eyebrows “Why? What happened?”

JJ gave a small shrug. “I overheard Penelope doing her a favor right before we left—she watched Declan for her.”

Reid frowned “But we left in the morning. He should’ve been in school.”

The table fell silent, each of them thinking. Morgan sipped his coffee. “Maybe he was sick?”

JJ shook her head. “Then Emily would’ve kept him home instead of asking Garcia.”

Reid frowned deeper. “Or maybe something happened at school…?”

Morgan leaned back, arms crossed “Or something with his father.”

Reid nodded. “Could be. I heard her on the phone last night. It sounded like an argument about Declan.”

JJ perked up “What exactly did she say?”

Reid thought for a moment, pushing his glasses up. “She said he could yell at her later, but right now she just wanted to know whether he was picking up Declan from her mother’s.”

Morgan clicked his tongue “Then that was probably Declan’s father. I’d love to know who that guy is.”

“Maybe he’s a soldier deployed abroad,” JJ suggested.

“Or a diplomat,” Reid added. “Statistically, international patchwork structures are particularly prone to—”

Morgan waved him off “Or he’s just some guy who vanished when things got complicated. Maybe some dude from France who didn’t wanna deal with responsibility. Classic story.”

Reid nodded “That would be the logical conclusion.”

JJ grimaced “I hope not. Emily deserves better.”

Gideon remained silent. He only watched.

Morgan chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast.
“Told you. Has to be tough.”

Then he turned to Hotch, who had stayed quiet through all of it. “Do you know why Declan lives with Emily and not his father?”

Aaron had just raised his coffee when the question dropped. For a fraction of a second, he paused—barely.

He forced himself to finish the motion, took a sip, but when he set the cup down, it hit the table a little too hard. A dull thud. Only the attentive noticed.
Hotch’s jaw clenched for a moment. He forced himself to stay neutral.

His eyes flicked to Gideon, as though checking whether he’d noticed.Then he looked up again and answered with a flat expression “How would I know?”

His voice was calm—almost too controlled.

Derek shrugged. “Could’ve been. We just thought… you two get along pretty well.”

Reid’s head snapped up as if someone had pressed his power button.“Statistically, that’s even true,” he began, adjusting his glasses. “In the last five cases, you and Emily have had a total of eleven private conversational sequences not required for work. An average of 2.2 per case. That’s—”

“Spencer,” Morgan cut in with a look that clearly said please stop.“What he means is—we just figured you’d know more. Period.”

Morgan tapped his toast on the table as if drawing an invisible chart. “And you know what else I find weird? Declan’s eight. Right?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Kids that age run around, yell, make chaos. That kid moves like he has to keep everything under control. Last time, he practically scanned me.”

JJ looked confused.
“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Morgan said seriously, “kids aren’t born that still. That careful. That controlled.” His foot tapped, his gaze sharpening. “That comes from somewhere. Usually from home.”

Reid opened his mouth, but Morgan lifted a hand.“No, I’m not saying Emily’s doing anything wrong. Quite the opposite. I think she’s trying to fix whatever damage there is.”

Silence settled over the table.

JJ swallowed “You think his father…?”

Morgan shrugged “I’m just saying—I’ve seen a lot of kids react like that. It doesn’t come from some laid-back guy who occasionally misses a soccer game.” He gestured vaguely, as if outlining the invisible man. “I’m seeing a… loud father. One who yells before he talks. One who slams doors. You know?”

Reid nodded slowly, as if confirming a data point.
JJ looked troubled. Morgan let out a deep breath.

Before anyone could respond, Gideon cut in with his calm but firm voice “We shouldn’t profile each other. And we definitely do not profile eight-year-old children. Private life is private. If Prentiss doesn’t want to share, she doesn’t have to.”

The conversation died instantly.

Morgan huffed and lifted his hands in surrender.
“All right, Boss.”

The topic was closed.

At least officially.

But the looks exchanged at that table told a very different story.

Chapter Text

When Emily finally returned home after three days, she wasn’t even remotely surprised to find him there.
Edward Hargrave, in person.

The apartment was wrapped in muted half-darkness. Only the small lamp beside the couch was on, its faint light casting warm shadows across the room, while the hallway light drew a narrow stripe across the wooden floor. It was quiet.

Edward stood in front of the huge living-room window, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. The city lights reflected in the glass, rendering his profile only as a pale silhouette.

He said nothing at first. Allowed her to step inside, take off her jacket, close the door.

When he finally spoke, he did it with his usual coldness.

“Welcome back, Emily.”

Emily didn’t react, made no move to greet him. She went straight to the point.
“I assume your contacts at the FBI informed you I’d be back today?”

He turned his head slightly, his profile becoming visible in the window’s reflection. Then he exhaled audibly. His jaw was tense.

“What on earth made you think it was a good idea to take Declan into the FBI? And then leave him there alone?”

His voice was sharper now, the thin layer of calm completely gone.

Emily remained steady, her posture unchanged.
“I didn’t have another choice. Garcia watched him.”

Edward let out a low, mocking laugh. “Sure.”

Emily answered calmly. “Declan isn’t stupid.”

Edward took a slow step toward her, his eyes narrowing.
“Not stupid, no. But unpredictable. Just like you. The difference is that you’re at least old enough to know your actions have consequences. He isn’t.”

Edward was tense—not angry, not loud, but dangerously quiet.

“Are you even aware that you have no immunity? You killed several people in Tuscany with that fire. And if we’re being absolutely precise—you kidnapped Declan. That’s not nothing.”

Emily’s expression didn’t change.

“Of course I’m aware.”

She held his gaze, her face unreadable.
“I did what had to be done.”

“You did what had to be done?!” His voice stayed low, but every word cut with icy precision.
“Then tell me, Emily—what do you think we did back then?”

Emily didn’t flinch, but she felt her fingers curl into fists.

“I protected you.”

He stepped closer, letting his words hang heavily between them.

“Sean protected you. Clyde protected you. Jeremy, Tsia—an entire damn division risked everything. To fix your mistakes.”
He shook his head slightly, his stare growing colder.
“And now you’re risking everything. How can you be so reckless?!”

Emily scoffed quietly. “I’m not reckless.”

“No?” Edward raised an eyebrow.
“Leaving Declan alone at the FBI is a well-thought-out strategy, then?”

Emily crossed her arms, still composed, but her voice carried a hint of defiance.
“I knew what I was doing.”

“Oh, really?” Edward let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Then explain this to me, Emily—what exactly are you doing here?”

His gaze intensified.
“Do you honestly think you can work in this world without your past catching up to you? Without one of your FBI colleagues starting to ask the right questions?”

Emily said nothing.

Edward tilted his head slightly.
“You’re not untouchable, Emily.”

He let the sentence linger deliberately, as if reminding her she wasn’t the only one paying the price for her decisions.

Then he straightened, adjusted his jacket, and said in a calm but ice-cold tone:

“Think about that before you make another mistake none of us can fix.”

He let his words sit for a moment. Then he abruptly changed the subject.
“You didn’t go to Dr. Vogel this week.”

Emily rolled her eyes internally but kept her face neutral.

“I had a case. I cancelled.”

Edward let that stand for a moment before saying, with cool firmness,
“Then schedule an online appointment. Evelyn is available to you at any hour.”

She paused before adding dryly,
“I don’t even want to know how you found out I wasn’t there.”

“That’s not something you need to worry about. You’ll call in sick tomorrow morning. I’ll show you Declan’s new school.”

With that, he disappeared into the dark hallway.

Emily stood frozen, her shoulders tense, her eyes still fixed on the door he had vanished through. The silence in her apartment suddenly felt suffocating, as if she had held her breath and forgotten to let it go again.

Of course Edward already had everything planned. Of course he expected her to obey, as if she were fifteen again and he could dictate how she should live her life—and more importantly, how she should manage Declan’s.

Emily dragged a hand across her face, then slowly sank onto the edge of the sofa.

Damn it.

Her fingers rested at her temple as she stared at the wall in front of her.

She knew fighting him was pointless. When Edward made a decision, it was carved in stone. Any resistance was merely stalling. And even if she ignored him tomorrow—he would find another way.

He always found another way.

Emily leaned forward, elbows on her knees, taking a deep breath. Her thoughts raced, spiraling around everything that had been said. Around the fact that Edward once again had her exactly where he wanted her.

He had manipulated her, just like always. Reminded her of guilt, of obligation, of everything she owed him and the others.

And damn it, a part of her knew he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Chapter Text

When Emily walked into the office two days later, she felt exhausted—physically, but mostly mentally. She had barely slept, and her head felt heavy.

Still, she forced herself to maintain a neutral expression as she opened the door to the bullpen and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“Well, Prentiss, back among the living?”

His voice was as friendly as ever, but his eyes were sharp. Morgan studied her with that mix of concern and curiosity he always wore when he sensed something was off.

“You still look a little pale.”

Emily forced a faint smile as she dropped her bag onto her desk. “I’ll live.”

A lie, of course. She felt awful—not because she was actually sick, but because yesterday had stirred up everything inside her.

Edward had enrolled Declan in a school. A school that looked more like a military academy than an elementary school.
A school for future leaders—at least that’s what Edward had called it.

“You sure?” Morgan wasn’t that easy to brush off. He leaned against her desk, crossing his arms, still watching her closely.

Emily opened a drawer and pulled out a note, just to buy herself a second. “Really, Morgan. I’m fine.”

She could feel his eyes on her, weighing, assessing. But after a moment, he seemed to decide that pushing further was pointless.

Instead, he straightened, tapped the edge of her desk lightly, and grinned.
“Alright. But if you pass out, I’m gonna be the first one to say ‘I told you so.’”

Emily huffed softly, returning the smile.
“Sounds almost like you’re worried about me.”

Morgan winked.
“Always, princess.” Then he went back to work.

Emily let herself sink into her chair and exhaled slowly.

A few hours later, she stood in the office kitchenette, fingers wrapped tightly around a warm coffee cup.

“You really sure you’re okay? You don’t look like you should be at work.”

The voice made her look up.

Aaron stood beside her, watching her with that calm, penetrating gaze he had perfected.

Emily automatically rolled her eyes.
“Because of course I’m not capable of making decisions on my own! I can just run every future decision by you if that makes things easier!”

Then she shut her eyes briefly, breathed out slowly, and shook her head.
“Sorry.” Her voice was quieter now. “It’s just… everyone has asked me today. Morgan, JJ, Reid—except Gideon. He just dissected me with his eyes.”

Aaron leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, never looking away from her.
“People worrying about you isn’t a bad thing. It means you matter to them.”

Emily nodded slightly but didn’t reply.

Aaron didn’t let it go.

“You can talk to me, Prentiss. You know that, right? And don’t bother denying it—I know you well enough to see something’s going on.”

Emily hesitated.

She wanted to deflect, make a sarcastic comment—her usual escape. But before she could stop herself, the words slipped out:

“Do you remember my father?”

Aaron was visibly surprised by the sudden question, but he nodded.
“Of course.”

Emily pressed her lips together briefly before giving a small, humorless smile.
“He hasn’t changed. And unfortunately, neither have I. Meaning: I still can’t stand up to him. And now he’s picked a school for Declan that I… don’t like.”

Aaron watched her for a moment before asking quietly,
“How don’t you like?”

Emily shook her head and took another sip of coffee.
“Let’s put it this way—if it were up to me, my eight-year-old son wouldn’t be at a place that resembles a cadet academy more than an elementary school.”

Aaron frowned slightly—subtle, but Emily could see he took it seriously.

“Then why did you send him there?”

Emily seemed to weigh her answer carefully.
“I admit Declan has some… issues with following rules.”

Aaron grinned.
“Oh, really? I know someone else who had quite a few problems with rules in their younger years.”

For a moment she was nearly speechless. That smile of his was rare—and dangerously pleasant.

Emily raised an eyebrow, giving him an exaggeratedly offended look.
“You mean me?”

Aaron’s grin widened, a genuine smile.
“I’m just saying I recognize a certain parallel.”

Emily huffed softly and took another sip of her coffee before replying casually,
“I didn’t have issues with rules.”

Aaron raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“No?”

Emily shrugged as if it were of no great importance.
“I just… interpreted them creatively.”

Aaron chuckled.
“When I worked for your mother, I had to sign a confidentiality agreement—because of you.”

Emily shrugged again but couldn’t fight the mischievous smile creeping onto her face.

“And how exactly does he interpret things creatively?” Aaron asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“He’s… let’s say, not particularly enthusiastic about following orders just because someone told him to.”

Aaron smirked.
“Yeah… sounds familiar.”

Emily rolled her eyes lightly.
“Oh God, this isn’t turning into a ‘Declan-is-just-like-you’ thing, is it?”

Aaron raised his hands innocently.
“I’m only saying some things are apparently hereditary. Whether genetically or due to upbringing—who knows?”
He smiled into his coffee.

For the first time in days, the conversation felt… light. Almost normal.

And for a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy it.

Chapter Text

Time passed, and Emily realized she was finally starting to arrive at the BAU. What had at first felt like a foreign stage—one where she had to perform a role—was slowly becoming something that felt like a real home.

The tentative first outings with JJ and Garcia had become a normal part of her week. They were no longer polite invitations but something she genuinely looked forward to. Those meetups had a lightness to them that Emily hadn’t felt in years.

And even the occasional post-work drinks with the team had turned into a ritual she could enjoy without having to stay constantly on guard. It had become easier to relax, to stop hiding behind a perfectly controlled façade.

Even things between her and Aaron had changed.

The initial distance—unspoken, but always present—had faded over time. Neither avoided the other anymore; neither had to remind themselves deliberately to keep their distance.

When Declan broke his arm and Emily cancelled one of her plans with Penelope and JJ, she genuinely regretted it. None of it had been an excuse.

Until Penelope called her:
“If you can’t come to us—then we can come to you!”

Emily hesitated.

“Uh…”

Garcia sensed the hesitation instantly and rushed to add,
“If it’s because of the mess—honey, we really don’t care.”

Emily smirked slightly but didn’t comment. The mess wasn’t the issue.

Her apartment.

It was too big. Too luxurious. Too… conspicuous.

Two hours later, the doorbell rang. Emily took a deep breath before opening the door.

As expected, the reaction came immediately.

“You have a doorman?” Penelope exclaimed without even greeting her, stepping into the hallway with wide eyes.

JJ followed right behind her, sounding equally stunned.
“Emily, how can you afford this?!”

Emily laughed awkwardly and shrugged.

“I can’t.” She closed the door behind them. “The apartment belongs to my father.”

And the doorman—a trained former soldier—she added silently, but of course didn’t say aloud.

Penelope raised her brows.
“Wow… okay.”

JJ nodded.
“An apartment like this… God, most people would kill for it.”

Emily sighed.
“I know, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful. But trust me… some days I can hardly stand this place and the fact that my father pays for it.”

Penelope frowned slightly.
“Why? I mean—sure, Daddy’s money and all that—but honestly? Anyone would take an apartment like this if it were offered. There’s no shame in that.”

Emily shook her head and leaned back.
“It’s not about the money. It’s about the fact that I moved here with Declan to make a fresh start. But it never really felt like my fresh start.”

She took a deep breath.
“My parents talked me into coming back to Washington. I actually didn’t want to.”
She let out a humorless huff.
“I saw this apartment for the first time on the day I moved in. I would never have chosen it myself.”

Garcia and JJ exchanged a glance while Emily continued, a touch of frustration creeping into her tone.

“Don’t get me wrong—I had imagined something different. Something… smaller. Something that felt more like me. I wanted to live somewhere I had chosen every corner myself. But instead—”

“…you got a glossy magazine as an apartment,” Penelope finished dryly.

Emily nodded.
“Exactly.”

“Our old place was tiny.”

The three women turned around, startled.

Declan was suddenly standing in the living-room doorway as if he had materialized out of nowhere.

وخاصة بالمقارنة مع الفيلا التي أحرقتها
(Especially compared to the villa you burned down.)

He grinned at Emily in Arabic.

Emily blinked. Just as she inhaled to react, Declan turned to JJ and Garcia with an innocent, polite smile.

“Oh, sorry. It’s rude to speak in another language.” His tone was textbook polite. “I just said that I sometimes miss our old apartment.”

Emily looked at him, silent for a long moment. Not because she was shocked—
but because she was impressed.

How effortlessly that lie came out of his mouth.

His tone was perfect. His expression innocent. It sounded completely believable, as if it had been nothing more than a child’s simple thought.

Garcia smiled warmly at him.
“Oh, sweetheart, I get that. New places can feel strange sometimes, right?”

Declan nodded sweetly.
“Yes. But it’s okay. As long as Maman and I are together.”

Emily watched him a moment longer before closing her eyes briefly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Damn.

He was good.

“How’s your arm? How did that even happen?” Garcia asked, pulling Emily from her thoughts.

Declan had broken his forearm over the weekend in England. He had been in the garden, playing with a weapon he had stolen from Edward, shooting at birds.

Edward had caught him.

And then it had happened.

Not in a fight, not from a fall—
but in a violent tantrum when Declan realized the weapon was being taken away from him.

But that couldn’t be the official version.

“I fell off the climbing frame in the park,” Declan explained with disarming sweetness.

JJ crouched slightly to his height, smiling gently.
“Did it hurt a lot?”

Declan shrugged.
“Only at the beginning. It’s fine now, it’s just annoying.”

Garcia looked at him sympathetically.
“Oh, you poor baby! But hey—at least now you can sit around and make everyone bring you things, right? I hope you’re taking full advantage of that.”

Declan grinned.
“A little.”

Emily watched him from the corner of her eye.

How natural the lie sounded.

And that unsettled her far more than she wanted to admit.

Chapter Text

The file room was small, cool, and smelled of dust and old coffee. Metal shelves pressed against the walls, and a flickering fluorescent light hummed above them. Emily, Morgan, Hotch, and Reid sat at a narrow table, case files spread between them.

From the next room, they could hear the local deputies talking; somewhere, a door slammed.

For a long time, they all worked in silence, absorbed in the details, until Morgan suddenly looked up.
“So… I’ll be honest with you guys: I don’t know what to make of Will.”

Emily barely lifted her eyes.
“What do you mean? And how did you get to Will right now?”

“I mean, he’s nice. Polite. But…” Morgan tapped his pen. “Does he really fit with JJ? Like, really?”

Reid looked up from his notebook.
“He’s reliable. Calm. Emotionally stable. Statistically—”

“Spencer.” Morgan raised a warning hand. “Please don’t give us a relationship statistic.”

Reid fell silent.

Emily continued sorting the papers in front of her.
“I think he’s likable. Grounded. He’s good for JJ.”

“Yeah, but…” Morgan made a face. “He seems like someone who has no idea what he’s getting into. FBI, long nights, field assignments… It’s a tough environment.”

Emily nodded without looking up.
“That’s true.”

She wrote a note.

Morgan leaned forward.
“And you really think he’s good?”

Emily shrugged lightly.
“He’s a good counterbalance. JJ lives in an extremely stressful world. He provides stability. Not everyone can handle that. And as much as I appreciate your big-brother instinct—ultimately JJ is an adult. She gets to make her own decisions. Okay, big bro?”

Morgan grinned, then turned to his unit chief, who hadn’t joined the conversation yet.
“Hotch, what do you think about Will?”

Aaron took his time answering. He opened a file, checked two pages, then said quietly,
“I think he respects JJ. And he understands how much she carries on her shoulders. That alone is more than many partners can handle.”

Reid nodded matter-of-factly.
“The emotional load is significant. Relationships between individuals in high-risk professions often fail because constant stress, unpredictable hours, and chronic pressure destabilize long-term attachment.”

He opened his mouth again, clearly ready to deliver more statistics, but Emily gave him a tired smile and tapped his arm lightly.
“Spencer… sometimes it’s enough to say it’s hard. And since Will is a police officer, he at least has some sense of what it means to be on call 24/7. The only big difference is that he doesn’t travel out of state for assignments.”

Morgan picked up the thread again.
“And what if we ever had to work directly with him? Would any of you want to work with someone you’re dating?”

Emily continued taking notes.
“No.”

It came without hesitation.

Morgan looked at her curiously.
“Why not?”

“Because you share the same stress, but double the risk.” Emily’s tone was objective, almost cool. “If you worry too much, you make mistakes. And if you try to distance yourself, you make even more.”

She flipped a page.
“And if it goes wrong, the whole team is affected.”

Morgan nodded thoughtfully.
“True.”

Then he turned to Hotch.
“And you?”

Aaron paused mid-movement. He looked at the pages in front of him—too long to be simply reading.
“I think,” he said at last, “that relationships under the same working conditions can function. You understand each other better. You share the same burdens.”

Emily lifted her head—slowly.

Aaron still didn’t look up.
“But… they’re also more vulnerable. One partner’s mistake affects both.”

Emily answered with deliberate calm.
“Or the entire team.”

A brief breath passed between them.

“That’s true,” Hotch said.

Morgan glanced between them, oblivious to the entirely different conversation happening beneath the surface.

“But Will isn’t one of us,” Morgan concluded. “Maybe that’s his advantage.”

Emily snapped her file shut.
“Or his risk.”

Hotch looked up.
“Why risk?”

Emily leaned back, arms crossed.
“Because he loves someone who lives in a world he doesn’t understand. That can go well… or not at all.”

Hotch nodded slowly.
“It depends on how strong you are.”

“Or,” Emily countered, “on who you’re protecting—and how much you’re willing to give.”

Hotch’s eyes met hers.

Not for long.
Just a breath.

Emily folded her arms tighter, chin lifted slightly.
“The real question isn’t whether it should happen,” she said coolly. “The question is whether people are honest enough to admit it.”

Hotch’s gaze sharpened.

“Honesty isn’t the problem,” he replied quietly, but with a blade-thin edge only Emily noticed.
“The problem is that feelings aren’t predictable.”

“No,” Emily murmured, barely audible, “but hiding them isn’t predictable either.”

Hotch went still—just barely.

Morgan cheerfully flipped another page, sensing some tension but utterly failing to decode it.
“So… uh… I still hope JJ and Will make it.”

Emily broke eye contact first.
“So do I.”

Hotch set his folder down—too neatly.
“So do I.”

But their glances—brief, charged, wordless.