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hi cuties! i'm prepping to move cities, training my replacement at work, and spending more time writing my grad application paper. i wanted to write something that spoke to the turmoil that can come with realizing you're gay, something to honor a feeling of us have felt for a long time. happy pride to those in the closet, out of the closet, and between.
When a new CIA-turned-profiler joins the BAU, Emily Prentiss finds herself undeniably drawn to her, a feeling she's spent years denying. As both women spiral through internalized homophobia and family pressure, a brutal case forces them to confront the very identity they've been running from. In an alley outside a bar, Emily gives Reader a choice: love yourself, love me. What follows is a journey toward visibility, acceptance, and the freedom that comes from finally being seen.
TW!!! internalized homophobia and self-hatred, religious trauma and family pressure, homophobic slurs, violence and murder (Criminal Minds case content)
Summer 2009 hits Quantico, Virginia like a fist. The heat radiates off the pavement in visible waves as you step out of the cab, your go-bag slung over one shoulder and a box of personal effects tucked under your arm. The base pulses around you: agents rushing to their assignments, trainees eagerly following mentors, men in suits glaring at people who linger too long, the weight of federal branch still figuring out who it is in this new administration.
You stand outside the FBI Academy Main Building and breathe.
Fresh start. The words taste bitter. Fresh starts are for people who haven't spent three years in the CIA watching their partner make increasingly reckless calls that culminated in a warehouse in Peru and a bullet that missed your femoral artery by two inches. Fresh starts are for people who don't wake up at 3 AM with phantom pain in their leg.
But here you are anyway, externally composed, internally spiraling, trying to convince yourself that the BAU is different. That profiling domestic cases in the continental United States is different. That you can outrun what happened if you run just far enough.
The glass doors of the building loom ahead. You adjust your grip on the box and step inside.
The BAU bullpen looks exactly like Hotch described it, organized chaos with personality bleeding through the professional veneer. You stand at the glass doors taking in the space that's supposed to encourage healing and growth, attempting to find someone who was standing still.
"Agent." Hotch's voice cuts through your spiral. He's standing by his office door, expression neutral but eyes assessing. He's the only one who knows. The only one who read the full file, saw the incident report, understood why you needed out of the CIA and into something that felt less like slowly dying.
You cross to him, and he gestures you into his office. The door clicks shut.
"How are you settling in?"
"I haven't started yet," you say, aiming for light. It falls flat.
Hotch's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "The team is good. They'll welcome you. Give them time to adjust, we don't get new members often."
You nod. Time. You can do time. You've done worse.
"I won't tell them about Peru unless you want me to," he continues. "As far as they're concerned, you're a skilled profiler from the CIA looking for fieldwork that makes a difference."
"That's not entirely untrue."
"No," Hotch agrees. "It's not."
He slides your credentials across the desk, gives you a firm handshake and leads you out to the bullpen. The team is filtering in, it's early, barely seven, but apparently, this is normal. A blonde woman with kind eyes spots you first and breaks into a smile.
"You must be our new profiler!" She crosses to you, hand extended. "Jennifer Jareau, but everyone calls me JJ. I'm the communications liaison."
Her handshake is firm, warm. You introduce yourself and immediately get swept into a round of introductions. Derek Morgan, charming smile, assessing eyes. Spencer Reid, younger than you expected, already rattling off statistics about CIA-to-FBI transfers. Penelope Garcia appears in a blur of color and enthusiasm, pulling you into a hug before you can protest.
"We're so excited to have you! New blood, fresh perspectives, and Hotch says you're brilliant, which is basically like the Pope declaring sainthood because he never compliments anyone—"
"Garcia," Hotch says mildly.
"Right, right, professional boundaries." She beams at you anyway.
You're smiling, actually smiling, when you feel it. The weight of a gaze. You turn and find her.
Emily Prentiss stands by her desk, coffee mug in hand, dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. She's beautiful in a way that feels dangerous to notice. Sharp features, dark hair framing her face, an elegance that speaks to the diplomatic background Hotch mentioned in passing.
"Prentiss," Hotch says, and there's something in his tone you can't quite parse. "This is our new team member."
Emily crosses to you, and you notice she doesn't close the distance the way the others did. She stops just outside comfortable conversation range, extends her hand with professional precision.
"Emily Prentiss." Her voice is cool, controlled. "Welcome to the BAU."
Your hand meets hers, and the contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. Her grip is firm, brief. She releases you quickly, steps back.
"Thank you," you manage. "I've heard good things about the team."
"We do good work." It's not unfriendly, exactly, but it's not warm either. Emily's gaze flicks to Hotch, then back to you. "I'm sure you'll find it different from the CIA."
There's something in the way she says it, not quite dismissive, but close. Like she's already decided something about you and found it wanting.
"I'm looking forward to it," you say evenly.
Emily nods once, then returns to her desk without another word.
JJ appears at your elbow, guiding you toward an empty desk. "Don't mind Emily," she says quietly. "She's not usually like that. She's actually one of the warmest people here once you get to know her."
You glance back at Emily, who's now focused intently on her computer screen, jaw tight.
"I'm sure we'll find our rhythm," you say.
You don't mention the way your palm still tingles from her handshake, or the hollow feeling that settled in your chest when she walked away.
The first case comes three days later. A serial arsonist in Baltimore, victims trapped in their homes. It's brutal, urgent, and exactly the kind of work you joined the BAU to do.
On the jet, you sit across from Reid, who's explaining the psychological profile of arsonists with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you think he's never had a boring thought in his life. Morgan's reviewing crime scene photos. JJ's on the phone with the Baltimore PD. Gideon's reading a book that looks older than you are.
Emily sits at the far end of the cabin, gaze fixed out the window.
You've tried, these past three days. Tried to build rapport, find common ground. You brought her coffee the way you'd seen JJ do it. She thanked you with a tight smile and didn't drink it. You asked her opinion on a case file, she gave you a thorough, professional answer and then found somewhere else to be. You made a joke during a team lunch, everyone laughed except Emily, who barely looked up from her book.
It shouldn't bother you. You're the new person. These things take time.
But it does bother you, in a way that feels disproportionate and uncomfortable. You find yourself watching her when you shouldn't, noticing things you have no business noticing. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. The precise way she handles her weapon. The rare, genuine smile she gives JJ that transforms her entire face.
You want that smile directed at you with an intensity that frightens you.
Professional friction, you tell yourself firmly. Territorial behavior. Perfectly normal for an established team member when someone new arrives.
It has nothing to do with the way your heart rate picks up when she enters a room, or the way you've started timing your coffee breaks to coincide with hers, hoping for a conversation that never quite materializes.
Nothing at all.
The Baltimore case wraps in four days. The unsub is caught, the fires stopped. On the jet home, the team is loose, relaxed. Morgan's teasing Reid about something, JJ's asleep with headphones in, Hotch and Gideon are huddled in a corner, debriefing.
You're reviewing your notes, trying to see where you could have been faster, sharper. The CIA taught you to be good. You need to be better.
"You did well."
You look up. Emily's standing in the aisle beside your seat, expression neutral but not cold. It's the first time she's voluntarily spoken to you outside of case necessity.
"Thank you," you say carefully.
She nods, then moves past you toward the back of the jet.
It's nothing. Barely a sentence. But you turn it over in your mind the entire flight home, examining it from every angle like evidence, trying to understand what it means.
JJ catches you watching Emily's retreating form and gives you a sympathetic smile.
"She'll come around," JJ says quietly. "I promise."
You nod, but you're not sure what you're hoping she'll come around to.
You're not sure you want to know.
The second case is worse than the first.
Three women dead in Austin, all killed in their homes, all staged to look peaceful. Sleeping beauties, the media called them, because the unsub poses them in their beds, hands folded, eyes closed.
It's the kind of case that gets under your skin and stays there.
You're in the precinct conference room at two in the morning, alone with the crime scene photos, when Emily finds you.
"Can't sleep?" she asks from the doorway.
You glance up. She's in jeans and a Georgetown sweatshirt, hair loose around her shoulders. It's the most casual you've seen her, and it does something to your concentration that you firmly ignore.
"Too wired," you admit. "Trying to find the pattern we're missing."
Emily crosses to the board, studies it with those dark, assessing eyes. "The staging bothers you."
It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "He's not just killing them. He's tucking them in. There's care there, even in the violence."
"Remorse," Emily says. "He knows what he's doing is wrong, but he can't stop himself."
"Which makes him more dangerous." You stand, move to the board beside her. You're close enough to smell her perfume, something subtle but heavy. "Because he'll escalate to resolve the cognitive dissonance."
"We need to find him before he does." Emily's gaze flicks to you, and for a moment, something passes between you. Understanding, maybe. Recognition.
Then she steps back, and the moment breaks.
"You should get some sleep," she says, voice returning to that professional distance. "We'll need clear heads tomorrow."
"You're here too," you point out.
"I'm always working." She says it like a confession, then seems to regret it. "Goodnight."
She's gone before you can respond.
You stand in the empty conference room, staring at the space she occupied, and wonder why it feels like she's running from you.
The pattern continues. Emily gives you an inch, a conversation about a case, a moment of shared understanding, once even a genuine laugh at something you said, and then she retreats. Pulls back behind professional courtesy and leaves you wanting.
It's maddening.
Morgan catches you watching Emily across the bullpen one afternoon. He doesn't say anything at first, just sidles up beside you with two cups of coffee, hands you one.
"You good?" he asks casually.
Your heart rate spikes. "Yeah. Fine. Why?"
"Just checking." Morgan takes a sip of his coffee, eyes still on the bullpen. "You've been pretty focused on the Prentiss case file lately."
You frown. "She's a good profiler. I'm trying to learn from her approach."
"Right." Morgan's quiet for a beat. "Look, I'm just going to say this because I think you're solid, and I don't want to see you get blindsided. People notice things. They talk. And in a place like this," He glances around the bullpen, lowers his voice. "You gotta be careful about what people think they're seeing."
Your stomach tightens, but not with recognition, with confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm not trying to start anything," Morgan says quickly. "I'm just saying, be smart. Be careful. Emily's a good agent and a good person, but this job doesn't always make room for—" He stops, seems to reconsider. "Just watch yourself, okay?"
He walks away before you can respond, leaving you standing in the middle of the bullpen with your coffee growing cold in your hands.
You replay the conversation in your head, trying to parse what he meant. People notice things. What things? You're doing your job. You're studying Emily's methods because she's skilled, because you respect her work. That's professional. That's normal.
Isn't it?
The panic that creeps up your spine isn't about being caught, it's about being misunderstood. About Morgan seeing something in your behavior that isn't there, or worse, something you can't quite name. Something you've been rationalizing as professional admiration and competitive focus because anything else is impossible.
Emily's a woman. You're supposed to marry a man. You're supposed to give your parents the life they've been planning for you since birth.
So whatever Morgan thinks he saw, he's wrong.
You just need to prove it.
Three weeks in, you're partnered with Emily for interviews. A case in Denver, witnesses scattered across the city. Hotch splits the team, and somehow you end up in an SUV with Emily, driving to a suspect's workplace in uncomfortable silence.
"Take the next left," Emily says, eyes on the GPS.
You turn, navigate through downtown traffic. The silence stretches.
"Can I ask you something?" The words escape before you can stop them.
Emily's shoulders tense. "Sure."
"Have I done something to offend you?"
She looks at you sharply, bangs bouncing against her forehead. "What?"
"You've been cold since I arrived. Distant. I'm trying to figure out if I did something wrong or if this is just how you are with new people."
Emily's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is carefully controlled. "You haven't done anything wrong."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Emily." You pull into the parking lot, put the SUV in park, turn to face her. "I'm a profiler. You're a profiler. We both know you're lying."
Her jaw tightens. For a second, you think she might actually answer. Then she opens the door.
"We have an interview to conduct," she says, and that's the end of it.
But during the interview, when the suspect gets aggressive and steps toward you, Emily moves. Positions herself between you and the threat with a speed that speaks to instinct, not thought. Her hand goes to her weapon, voice drops to something dangerous.
"Step back. Now."
The suspect complies. The interview continues. But you can't stop thinking about the way Emily protected you without hesitation, even as she keeps you at arm's length in every other way.
In the SUV afterward, you try again. "Thank you. For that."
"It's my job," Emily says, but her voice is softer than before.
"Is it your job to freeze me out the rest of the time?"
Emily's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I'm not freezing you out."
"Then what do you call it?"
"I call it maintaining professional boundaries."
"With me specifically, or with everyone?"
Emily doesn't answer. But you see it, the way her throat works, the tension in her shoulders. She's not unaffected. She's not indifferent.
She's scared.
The realization hits you like a physical blow. Emily Prentiss, who faces down serial killers without flinching, is scared of you.
You don't push further. But something shifts between you in that moment, some unspoken acknowledgment that whatever this is, isn't simple professional friction.
It's something else entirely.
Something neither of you is ready to name.
The word enters your head on a Tuesday.
You're in your apartment, alone, staring at your phone. Your mother called earlier, left a voicemail about a man she wants you to meet. "A lawyer, sweetheart. Very successful. Your father and I think you'd like him."
You haven't called her back.
Instead, you're thinking about Emily. About the way she looked at you yesterday when you solved a puzzle in the case that had everyone stumped. Pride, maybe. Or something warmer.
About the way your stomach flips when she smiles.
About the way you've started cataloging details about her like evidence. How she takes her coffee, the books that swap on her desk, the way she worries her bottom lip when she's thinking.
Gay.
The word appears in your mind fully formed, and you immediately shove it away.
No. No. You're not—you've never—
You think about your ex-boyfriends from college. Nice guys. Boring sex. You blamed the boredom on stress, on youth, on anything but the truth.
You think about your parents' expectations. The perfect daughter who would give them perfect grandchildren and a perfect son-in-law and undo all the worry you caused with your "reckless" CIA work.
You think about Emily's hands. Her mouth. The way she'd look at you if you were brave enough to—
No.
You delete your mother's voicemail and go to bed, and you don't let yourself brew over why you can't stop thinking about Emily Prentiss.
Emily is having the same crisis, though she won't admit it.
She's in her apartment, second glass of wine in hand, trying to read a book and failing spectacularly because all she can think about is you.
The way you chewed your pen during the team meeting today. The way you laughed at one of Morgan's jokes, head thrown back, unselfconscious. The way you looked at her when you thought she wasn't paying attention, like you were trying to solve her.
She's been cold to you. She knows it. She hates herself for it.
But the alternative is worse.
The alternative is admitting why her heart races when you enter a room. Why she times her arrivals to the coffee maker to coincide with yours, even though she never lets the conversations go anywhere. Why she lies awake at night thinking about what it would feel like to—
Stop.
Emily drains her wine glass. She thinks about her mother, about the carefully constructed image of the Prentiss family. About the Catholic school she attended, the things the nuns said about people like—
About people who felt things they shouldn't.
She thinks about Josh, her ex-boyfriend who she dated because he was safe and appropriate and she felt absolutely nothing for him beyond mild affection.
She thinks about the women she's noticed over the years, the ones who made her feel too much, and how she's always explained it away as admiration or friendship or anything but the truth.
She thinks about you, and the way you look at her, and how terrified she is that you might see her.
Really see her.
Emily pours another glass of wine and doesn't let herself finish the thought.
The case comes in on a Thursday. Three bodies in Roanoke, Virginia. All men, all killed in their homes, all with evidence of torture before death.
It's brutal. Vicious. Personal.
You're in the conference room when Garcia pulls up the crime scene photos, and even Hotch looks a little pale.
"The unsub spent hours with each victim," Reid says, studying the photos. "The level of torture suggests extreme rage."
"Or self-hatred," Emily says quietly.
Everyone looks at her. She's staring at the board, expression unreadable.
"What do you mean?" Hotch asks.
"The victims are all gay men. Openly gay, active in the community. The unsub isn't just killing them, he's punishing them for something."
"For being gay," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than intended.
Emily's gaze flicks to you, and something passes between you. Recognition. Understanding.
Fear.
"We should consider that the unsub might be closeted," Emily continues, looking back at the board. "Punishing in others what he can't accept in himself. The freedom he won't give himself."
The room is quiet. Then Hotch nods.
"Let's work that angle. Wheels up in thirty."
The case gets worse.
The unsub kills again while you're in Roanoke. A fourth victim, same MO. The torture is escalating.
You're at the crime scene with Emily, and it's bad. The victim is young, mid-twenties, whole life ahead of him. He's been positioned in his living room, surrounded by photos of himself with his boyfriend, with friends at Pride events, living openly and authentically.
The unsub made him look at those photos while he died.
You have to step outside. The air is cold, sharp in your lungs. You're a professional. You've seen worse. But something about this case is getting to you in a way you can't quite articulate.
"Hey."
You turn. Emily's standing in the doorway, backlit by the crime scene lights.
"I'm fine," you say automatically.
"You're not." Emily steps outside, lets the door close behind her. "This case is hard."
"They're all hard."
"Not like this." Emily moves closer, and you can see the strain in her face. She's feeling it too. "This one's different."
"Why?" The question comes out sharper than intended, defensive. "Because the victims are gay?"
Emily flinches. "Because the unsub is killing people for being something he hates about himself. Because every victim is a mirror he's trying to break."
Her voice cracks on the last word, and you realize she's not just talking about the unsub.
"Emily—"
"We should get back inside." She turns away, but you catch her arm.
"Wait."
She freezes. You're touching her, your hand on her forearm, and the contact sends electricity through you. You should let go. You don't.
"This case is getting to you too," you say quietly.
Emily's eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see everything. The fear, the self-hatred, the desperate longing for something she won't let herself name.
You see yourself reflected back.
"We all have cases that hit harder," Emily says, but she doesn't pull away from your touch.
"Emily," a beg, a plea for a real conversation. For something deeper than professionals who see the worst together.
"We should get back inside," she repeats, and this time you let her go.
But as you follow her back into the crime scene, you can still feel the warmth of her skin under your palm, and you know something has shifted.
You're both drowning, and neither of you knows how to ask for help.
The team catches the unsub two days later. He is a closeted gay man, just like Emily predicted. Married, kids, active in his church. He killed men who had the freedom he didn't he was allowed.
During his confession, he breaks down. "I just wanted what they had," he sobs. "I just wanted to be myself."
You watch Emily's face go pale. She excuses herself, and no one stops her.
Hotch notices how long Emily is gone first. He always does. He finds her in a stairwell on the third floor of the precinct, tucked into the corner like she's trying to make herself invisible.
She's not crying. Emily doesn't cry.
But she's close.
"Emily." Not Prentiss. This isn't a conversation with her boss, but with someone who cares.
She looks up, and Hotch sees it all. The fear, the self-hatred, the desperate exhaustion of someone who's been fighting themselves for too long.
"I can't do this anymore," she says, and her voice breaks.
Hotch sits down beside her on the concrete steps. "Tell me."
And Emily does. It pours out of her, years of shame and fear that she's never spoken aloud.
"I was fifteen," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. "In Rome. I got pregnant because I wanted to fit in, wanted to be normal, wanted to prove I could be the girl everyone expected me to be." She laughs bitterly. "I went to my priest. I thought— that he'd help me. That the church would be there for me."
Her hands are shaking. "He told me if I got an abortion, I wouldn't be welcome in the church anymore. That I'd be damned. That God would turn his back on me." She swallows hard. "But I did it anyway. My friend Matthew helped me. He took me to the clinic, held my hand, helped me find the courage to walk back into that church afterward even though I knew, I knew, I was wrong. Broken. Sinful."
"Emily—"
"No, you don't understand." Her voice cracks, palms swiping at her thighs. "I've spent my entire life trying to be good enough. Trying to undo that sin, trying to prove I'm not the terrible person they said I was. And I thought—I thought if I just worked hard enough, if I was perfect enough, if I followed all the rules—" She stops, presses her palms against her eyes. "But I can't. Because it's not just the abortion. It's this. It's her."
She drops her hands, and her eyes are wild with panic. "I look at her and I feel—God, I feel everything. And I know what the church would say. What my parents would say. What that priest would say. That this is another sin, another way I'm broken, another reason I don't deserve his grace and love." She sniffles, one last attempt to get it together. Hotch doesn't press.
"I've never felt like this about anyone," Emily continues, and now the tears are coming. "And I hate myself for it. I hate that I can't just be normal, that I can't just want what I'm supposed to want. I hate that every time I look at her, I hear that priest's voice telling me I'm damned.I hate that I'm thirty-six years old and I'm still terrified of a God who was supposed to love me but only ever made me feel like I was wrong."
She's crying now, really crying, hands wiping at her cheeks with vague awareness. "I've been cold to her because I'm terrified. Because if I let myself feel this, if I let myself want her, then I have to admit that everything they taught me was a lie. Or that I'm exactly as broken as they said I was. And I don't know which is worse."
"Emily." Hotch's voice is gentle but firm. "There's nothing wrong with you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand that you're letting other people's hatred dictate your life. I understand that you're punishing yourself for something that isn't a crime or a sin or anything but human."
Emily's breath hitches.
"You're one of the best agents I've ever worked with," Hotch continues. "You're brilliant, compassionate, brave. You face down killers without flinching. But you're terrified of your own heart."
"I don't know how to not be terrified."
"You start by being honest. With yourself first, then with her."
"What if—" Emily's voice drops to a whisper. "What if I lose everything?"
"What if you gain everything?" Hotch counters. "Emily, I've watched you these past two months. I've seen the way you look at her when you think no one's watching. I've seen the way she looks at you. You're both drowning in denial, and it's destroying you."
"My parents—"
"Your parents don't have to live your life. You do." Hotch pauses. "Do you want to end up like our unsub? So consumed by self-hatred that you destroy yourself and everyone around you?"
"No," Emily whispers.
"Then stop letting fear win. Stop letting other people's prejudice write your story." Hotch stands, offers her his hand. "You deserve to be happy, Emily. You deserve to love and be loved. Not despite who you are, but because of it."
Emily takes his hand, lets him pull her to her feet. She's shaking, but there's something different in her eyes now.
Determination.
"I don't know how to do this," she admits.
"You start by accepting yourself. The rest will follow."
Emily nods slowly. Then, quietly: "I'm gay."
It's the first time she's said it out loud. The words hang in the air between them, terrifying and liberating in equal measure.
"Yes," Hotch says simply. "You are." The beginnings of a prideful smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
Emily starts to cry then, really cry, not the careful tears she's allowed herself before. Hotch pulls her into a hug, and she clings to him like he's the only thing keeping her upright.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "You're okay. I've got you."
They stand there in the stairwell for a long time. When Emily finally pulls back, her eyes are red but clear.
"Thank you," she says.
"Don't thank me. Just be yourself."
Emily nods. She doesn't know how yet, but for the first time in her life, she thinks she might want to try.
The next week is hell.
Emily has accepted herself, said the words, let them be real. But acceptance doesn't erase thirty-plus years of conditioning. It doesn't make the fear disappear.
And watching you is torture.
Because now that Emily's let herself see it, she can't unsee it. The way you look at her when you think she's not paying attention. The way you find excuses to be near her. The way your breath catches when your hands accidentally brush.
You feel it too. Emily doesn't need to ask. She knows.
But she also sees the denial. The way you flinch away from the truth. The way you mention your parents' expectations with a forced brightness that doesn't reach your eyes. The way you're trying so hard to be something you're not.
Emily recognizes it because she lived it. Is still living it, in some ways.
She wants to shake you. Wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you to stop wasting time, stop hurting yourself, stop letting fear win.
But she can't. Because you have to come to this yourself, the way she did. No one can force you to accept who you are. It doesn't make watching it any easier.
Monday, you mention a guy your mother wants you to meet. You say it casually, like it doesn't matter, but Emily sees the way your hands shake.
Wednesday, the team is sitting around the bullpen doing anything but paperwork. You're laughing at something Morgan said, but it doesn't reach your eyes. Emily watches you from across the office and sees herself seven days ago. Going through the motions, pretending everything is fine, slowly suffocating.
JJ appears at her elbow, a luring smile on her face, "You should talk to her."
"About what?" Emily responds as her brow rose.
"Emily." JJ's voice is gentle. "I'm not blind. Neither is anyone else on this team."
Emily's stomach drops. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." JJ squeezes her arm. "And for what it's worth? We'd all be happy for you. Both of you."
She walks away before Emily can respond, leaving Emily staring into her coffee and wondering when she became so transparent.
Thursday, you're partnered with Emily for interviews again. You're professional, competent, everything you should be.
But in the car, you're quiet. Withdrawn.
"Are you okay?" Emily asks, even though she knows the answer.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Because you're not."
You're quiet for a long moment. Then: "My mother called again. About that guy. She's insistent I meet him."
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know." Your voice is small. "Maybe I should. Maybe it would be easier."
"Easier than what?"
You don't answer, but Emily sees the way your jaw tightens, the way you grip the steering wheel.
"Easier than being honest?" Emily presses, and she knows she shouldn't, knows she's pushing too hard, but she can't stop herself.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to say the truth."
"The truth?" You laugh, and it's bitter. "The truth is that I'm trying to be a good daughter. I'm trying to give my parents the life they wanted for me. I'm trying to be normal."
"And how's that working out for you?"
You pull into the parking lot too fast, slam the car into park. "What do you want from me, Emily?"
Everything, Emily thinks. I want you to stop hurting yourself. I want you to be free. I want you to look at me the way you do when you think I'm not watching and not be afraid of it.
But she can't say that. Not yet. Not when you're still so deep in denial.
"I want you to be happy," Emily says quietly.
You look at her, and your eyes are bright with unshed tears. "What if I don't know how?"
"You learn," Emily says. "You start by being honest with yourself."
"And if the truth is something I can't accept?"
"Then you're going to spend your whole life running from yourself. And trust me—" Emily's voice cracks. "That's no way to live."
You stare at her for a long moment. Then you get out of the car without another word.
Emily sits in the passenger seat and tries not to cry. She's watching you destroy yourself the way she almost did, and there's nothing she can do to stop it.
The team goes out the following Friday. It's been a good week, two cases closed, no casualties, everyone's in high spirits.
Emily's been watching you all night. You're smiling, laughing, playing darts with Morgan. To anyone else, you look fine.
But Emily sees the cracks. The forced brightness. The way you're drinking faster than usual. The way you keep checking your phone.
JJ and Penelope pull you into conversation, and Emily watches from across the bar. She's nursing a beer, trying to decide if she should leave or stay, when she hears it.
"My mom's got this whole timeline planned out," you're saying, and your voice is too bright. "Meet this lawyer, date for a year, engaged by next summer. She's already talking about wedding venues."
"And what do you think about that?" Penelope asks carefully.
"I think—" You pause, take a drink. "I think it would make them happy. After everything I put them through with the CIA, the least I can do is give them the daughter they wanted."
"But what do you want?" JJ asks.
You laugh, and it's hollow. "Does it matter?"
Emily's on her feet before she realizes she's moving. She crosses the bar, and she knows her expression must be intense because Morgan actually steps back.
"Can I talk to you?" Emily says, and it's not really a question.
"Emily—"
"Now. Please."
You look at JJ and Penelope, who both nod encouragingly. You set down your drink and follow Emily toward the exit.
Hotch watches from his seat at the bar. He catches Emily's eye, gives her a small nod.
Go.
Emily leads you out of the bar, past the entrance, into the alley beside the building. It's dark, private, and Emily can finally breathe.
She turns to face you, and all the words she's been holding back for months threaten to spill out at once.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"What?"
"What, are you doing?" Emily repeats, and her voice is shaking. "You're going to meet this guy? You're going to date him, marry him, give your parents the perfect life they want? You're going to spend your entire life pretending to be someone you're not?"
"Emily—"
"No. Listen to me." Emily steps closer. "I've spent the last two months watching you destroy yourself. I've watched you try so hard to be what everyone else wants you to be. And I can't—I can't watch it anymore."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," Emily cuts in. "I understand because I've been where you are. I've spent my entire life trying to be the perfect daughter, the perfect agent, the perfect everything. I've dated men I didn't love because it was easier than admitting the truth. I've hated myself for feeling things I was told were wrong."
Your eyes are wide, and Emily can see you're barely breathing.
"But you know what I realized?" Emily continues, and she's crying now, doesn't care. "I realized that living a lie is worse than any truth. I realized that being perfect for everyone else means being nothing for myself. I realized that I'd rather be honest and alone than dishonest and surrounded by people who don't really know me."
"Emily—"
"I'm gay," Emily says, and the words come easier this time. "I'm gay, and I've spent thirty-six years hating myself for it. Thirty-six years listening to my mother's disapproval and the church's condemnation and society's prejudice. Thirty-six years being terrified of who I am."
She takes another step closer, and now you're backed against the brick wall, nowhere to run.
"But I'm done being terrified," Emily says. "I'm done letting other people's hatred dictate my life. I'm done pretending to be someone I'm not. And I'm done watching you do the same thing."
"I don't—" Your voice breaks. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can." Emily's hands come up to frame your face, and you're shaking. "You can be honest. You can be yourself. You can stop trying to be the daughter your parents want and start being the woman you are."
"What if they hate me?"
"Then they never really loved you in the first place," Emily says gently. "Because love isn't conditional. Love doesn't come with requirements. Love accepts you as you are, not as someone wishes you would be."
You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "I'm so scared."
"I know. I'm scared too." Emily's thumbs brush away your tears. "But I'd rather be scared and honest than comfortable and living a lie."
"Emily—"
"I'm in love with you," Emily says, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I think I've been in love with you since the day you walked into the BAU. And I know you feel it too. I know you're terrified of it. But I'm asking you, begging you, don't throw away your life because you're afraid of what other people will think."
You're staring at her, and Emily can see the war happening behind your eyes. Fear and longing and self-hatred and hope all battling for dominance.
"I don't know how to do this," you whisper.
"You start by being honest. With yourself first." Emily pauses. "So I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. Not what you think you should say. Not what would make your parents happy. The truth."
You nod shakily.
"Are you gay?"
The silence stretches, the weight of obligations, the societal prejudice, rings in your ears. Emily can hear her own heartbeat, can feel your breath against her skin.
Then, so quietly she almost doesn't hear it: "Yes."
The word breaks something open in both of you. You start crying harder, and Emily pulls you into her arms, holds you while you shake apart.
"I'm gay," you say again, louder this time. "I'm gay, and I'm terrified, and I don't know what to do." Your hands fist in her shirt like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to the conversation.
"You don't have to know," Emily murmurs into your hair. "You just have to be honest. The rest will come."
You pull back enough to look at her, and your eyes are red but clear. "What if I lose it all? My job, the team—"
"What if you gain everything?" Emily echoes Hotch's words. "What if you get to be yourself? What if you get to be happy?"
Your heart does something complicated, expression shifting from fear just an inch. "What if I get to be with you?"
Emily's breath catches. "Yeah. What if?"
You stare at each other, and the air between you is electric. Emily can see the moment you decide, the moment fear loses and truth wins.
"I want to be with you," you whisper. "I want to stop pretending. I want to be myself."
"Then be yourself," Emily says. "Be with me. Be free."
"I'm gay," you say, and this time you're laughing. "Oh my god, I'm gay."
"Yeah," Emily says, grinning. "You are."
And then you're kissing her.
It's tentative at first, your lips barely brushing Emily's, like you're testing whether this is real, whether you're allowed. Emily's hands come up to cup your face, gentle, giving you space to pull away if you need to.
But you don't pull away. Instead, you lean in, and the kiss deepens. Your hands slide from Emily's shirt to her neck, fingers threading into her hair, and Emily makes a sound low in her throat that sends heat racing through your entire body.
It feels like relief. Like coming home. Like every piece of yourself you've been holding separate finally clicking into place.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Emily's forehead rests against yours, and she's smiling. Really smiling, the kind of smile you've been craving since the day you met her.
"Okay," you say, breathless. "Okay."
"Okay," Emily echoes, and she kisses you again, softer this time. Sweeter.
You stay like that for a long moment, just holding each other in the alley, letting the reality of it settle over you. You're gay. Emily's gay. You're together. The world hasn't ended.
"We should probably go back inside," Emily says eventually, though she doesn't sound like she wants to move.
"Probably," you agree, but you don't let go of her yet.
Emily laughs, pressing one more kiss to your temple before stepping back. "Come on. Before they send a search party."
You take a moment to compose yourself, smoothing down your shirt, running your fingers through your hair. Emily does the same, though there's a flush high on her cheeks that makeup can't hide, and her lips are kiss-swollen in a way that's going to be obvious to anyone who looks.
You don't care.
Emily reaches for your hand as you head toward the door, and you let her take it. Your fingers lace together naturally, like they've been doing this for years instead of minutes.
The bar is loud when you step back inside, the team's laughter carrying over the music. But the moment you and Emily walk through the door, still holding hands, the conversation at your table dies.
JJ sees you first. Her eyes drop to your joined hands, then back up to your faces, and her entire expression transforms into something knowing and delighted. She elbows Penelope, who turns to look and immediately gasps.
"Finally," Penelope says, loud enough that half the bar probably hears.
Morgan's grin is shit-eating. "Took you long enough."
Reid looks confused for about half a second before his eyes widen in understanding. "Oh. Oh."
And Hotch just nods, quiet and approving, the corner of his mouth ticking up in what might be the closest thing to a smile you've ever seen from him outside of Jack's presence.
"We were starting to think we'd have to lock you two in a room," JJ says, standing to pull you both into a hug. "I'm so happy for you."
"You knew?" you ask, though the answer is obvious.
"Sweetheart, we all knew," Penelope says, joining the hug and nearly knocking you over with enthusiasm. "You two have been doing this ridiculous dance for months. It was painful to watch."
"I didn't know," Reid offers helpfully.
"You never know," Morgan says, clapping him on the shoulder before turning to Emily. "Seriously, though. I'm happy for you, Prentiss. Both of you."
Emily's hand tightens around yours, and when you glance at her, there are tears in her eyes. Good tears. Relief tears.
"Thank you," she says, and her voice is thick with emotion. "All of you."
"You're family," Hotch says simply. "This doesn't change that. It never would."
The team rallies around you after that, buying rounds, telling embarrassing stories, treating this like any other outing. And maybe that's what makes it so perfect. They're not making a big deal out of it, not treating you like you're fragile or different. They're just happy. Supportive. There.
You catch Emily's eye at one point, and she's smiling that smile. The one you've been craving, the one that transforms her entire face. And this time, it's directed at you.
An hour later, Emily leans in close, her breath warm against your ear. "Want to get out of here?"
Your heart does that complicated thing again. "Yeah. Yes."
You say your goodbyes, JJ hugs you extra tight, Penelope makes you promise to tell her everything tomorrow, Morgan gives Emily a look that's equal parts warning and approval. Then you're walking out into the cool night air, Emily's hand still in yours, and the world feels like your oyster.
The walk to your apartment is quiet, it's charged. Electric. Every brush of Emily's shoulder against yours sends sparks racing across your skin.
When you reach your door, you fumble with your keys, hyperaware of Emily standing close behind you. You finally get the door unlocked, but before you can push it open, Emily's hand catches your wrist.
You turn, and she's right there, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Hi," you breathe.
And then she's kissing you again, pressing you back against your apartment door. This kiss is different from the one in the alley, less tentative, more certain. Emily's hands slide to your hips, holding you steady, and you make a sound that's half gasp, half moan.
Your hands find her hair, her neck, her shoulders, anywhere you can reach. Emily tastes like wine and possibility, and you can't get enough. When she presses closer, fitting her body perfectly against yours, you forget how to breathe.
"Emily," you gasp against her mouth, and she makes that sound again, low and wanting.
Your back is against the door, Emily's mouth is on yours, and for the first time in your life, you feel completely, utterly free.
this one came from a place of real longing. not the sad kind, but the kind that makes you understand what you actually want. after my own breakup, i found myself thinking a lot about the small, specific things: making coffee for two, reaching for someone in the dark. the way love isn't just the big moments but the quiet ones. the way sharing a space with someone changes everything.
i wanted to write about that ache, but also about what it means to choose to be vulnerable with someone. to say "i miss you" and have them actually hear it. to let yourself need someone without apologizing for it.
3k words
The apartment had never felt so empty.
You stood in the doorway of the bedroom, staring at the perfectly made bed, Emily's side still tucked in exactly as you'd left it five days ago. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the duvet, and you felt that familiar ache settle deep in your chest.
This was supposed to get easier. That's what you'd told yourself when you'd moved in three months ago, when Emily had helped you carry boxes up the stairs, when you'd laughed together trying to figure out where all your books would fit alongside hers. Living together was supposed to make things better, simpler. You'd have a home base together, a shared space that was yours and hers, a place where you both belonged.
But nobody had warned you about this part.
Nobody had told you that living together would make her absence feel so much more profound. That you'd wake up reaching for her and find only cold sheets. That you'd make coffee for two out of habit and then stare at the extra mug like it had personally betrayed you. That the silence in the apartment would feel so loud it made your ears ring.
Before you'd moved in, Emily being away on cases had been normal. Expected. You'd had your own apartment, your own routine, your own life that continued whether she was there or not. You'd miss her, of course, god you'd miss her, but there was a certain distance to it. She'd text you updates when she could, call you late at night from some hotel room in a city you'd never been to, and you'd fall asleep to the sound of her voice promising she'd be home soon.
But now? Now you came home to the apartment you shared, and everywhere you looked there were reminders of her. Her jacket draped over the back of the chair. Her books on the nightstand. The coffee mug she'd used the morning before she left, still sitting in the dish rack because you couldn't bring yourself to put it away. The faint scent of her perfume lingering in the bathroom.
You were surrounded by Emily, and yet she wasn't here.
The bed was the worst part. You'd gotten used to sleeping next to her, to the warmth of her body beside you, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way she'd unconsciously reach for you in the middle of the night. Now the bed felt too big, too cold, too empty. You'd tried sleeping on your side, on her side, diagonally across the middle, nothing felt right. Nothing filled the Emily-shaped absence that seemed to permeate every inch of the mattress.
You'd known dating an FBI agent would be hard. Emily had been upfront about that from the beginning, had given you every opportunity to walk away before you got in too deep. But you'd fallen for her anyway; for her sharp wit and her soft heart, for the way she could read a room in seconds but still looked at you like you were the most fascinating person she'd ever met, for her strength and her vulnerability and the way she trusted you with both.
You'd thought you understood what you were signing up for. And maybe you had, back when you had separate apartments and separate lives that intersected when they could. But this, living together, building a life together, and then having her ripped away for days at a time, this was different. This was harder than you'd anticipated.
The first night she'd been gone, you'd been fine. You'd ordered takeout, caught up on the show you'd been watching, gone to bed at a reasonable hour. The second night, you'd felt her absence more keenly, but you'd managed. You'd called your best friend, taken a long bath, read until your eyes grew heavy.
By the third night, you were unraveling. You'd put on one of Emily's hoodies, the soft gray one she wore around the apartment on lazy Sundays, and curled up on the couch. Breathing in the faint scent of her that still clung to the fabric, it helped some. You'd tried to read, tried to watch TV, tried to do anything to distract yourself from the gnawing loneliness that had taken up residence in your chest.
The fourth night, you'd slept in her hoodie, clutching her pillow to your chest like a lifeline.
And now it was the sixth day, and you were getting ready for work, moving through the apartment like a ghost haunting her own life. You'd texted Emily good morning like you did every day she was away, not expecting a response, she was usually busy, deep in the case, her mind a thousand miles away from domestic concerns. Yesterday was a quieter day from her giving you both: hope she was getting close, and made the day feel degrundedly long.
Your phone buzzed just as you were pouring your coffee.
Emily: Good morning, beautiful. Case wrapped up late last night. Flying home this morning. Should be back by noon.
Your heart leapt into your throat. You read the message three times, making sure you weren't imagining it, that your sleep-deprived, Emily-starved brain wasn't playing tricks on you.
You: Really? You're coming home today?
Emily: Really. We're driving to the jet now. Can't wait to see you.
You: I'm so glad you're safe. I missed you.
Emily: Missed you too. More than you know.
You wanted to call in sick to work. Every fiber of your being was screaming at you to stay home, to be there when Emily walked through the door, to throw yourself into her arms and not let go for at least a week. But you'd already taken a personal day last month, and you had a meeting this afternoon that you couldn't miss, and you were trying so hard to be the kind of partner who didn't fall apart every time Emily left for a case.
So you took a deep breath, finished your coffee, and texted her back.
You: I have to go to work, but I'll be home by 6. Please get some rest. I love you.
Emily: I love you too. See you tonight.
The workday was torture.
You'd thought knowing Emily was home would make it easier, but it was somehow worse. She was there, in your apartment, probably exhausted and jet-lagged, and you were stuck in an office pretending to care about quarterly reports and budget projections. You checked your phone obsessively, even though Emily was probably sleeping. You watched the clock like it held the secrets of the universe. You counted down the hours, then the minutes, until you could leave.
Your coworker asked if you were feeling okay. You lied and said you were fine, just tired. She gave you a knowing look but didn't push.
The meeting ran long, of course. Because the universe had a sense of humor and apparently enjoyed watching you suffer. By the time you finally, finally escaped the office, it was nearly six-thirty, and you practically ran to your car.
The drive home felt endless. Every red light was a personal affront. Every slow driver was a test of your patience. You gripped the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turned white, and you had to consciously remind yourself to breathe, to calm down, that Emily was home and safe and waiting for you.
When you finally pulled into your parking spot, you sat in the car for a moment, trying to collect yourself. You didn't want to burst through the door like a crazy person. You didn't want Emily to see how much you'd been struggling, how hard the last five days had been. You wanted to be cool and collected and normal, the kind of girlfriend who could handle her partner's demanding job without falling apart.
But your hands were shaking as you unlocked the apartment door.
The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp in the corner. Emily's go-bag was by the door, her shoes kicked off beside it. The apartment felt different already, warmer, more alive, like it had been holding its breath while she was gone and could finally exhale.
You set your bag down quietly and moved through the apartment, your heart pounding. The bedroom door was ajar, and you could see the soft light from the bedside lamp spilling into the hallway.
And there she was.
Emily was propped up against the headboard, a book open in her lap, her dark hair damp from a recent shower. She was wearing your hoodie, the oversized navy blue one you'd bought on a whim and rarely wore because it was too big even for you. On Emily, it looked perfect. Soft and comfortable and utterly domestic.
She looked up when you appeared in the doorway, and the smile that spread across her face was like coming home.
"Hi," she said softly, setting her book aside.
"Hi," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.
You didn't trust yourself to say anything else. You didn't trust yourself to move, to speak, to do anything that might shatter the fragile control you'd been maintaining all day. But then Emily held out her hand, and that was all it took.
You moved on autopilot, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of your work blouse. You stripped out of your clothes mechanically—blouse, bra, slacks, underwear—letting them fall to the floor in a heap. You didn't care about being neat or tidy or anything other than getting to Emily as fast as humanly possible.
She watched you with dark, concerned eyes, her hand still extended, waiting.
You climbed onto the bed and into her lap, straddling her thighs, pressing your naked body against her clothed one. You buried your face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, her skin, the faint trace of her perfume. Your arms wrapped around her shoulders, clinging to her like she might disappear if you didn't hold on tight enough.
Emily's arms came around you immediately, one hand splaying across your bare back, the other cradling the back of your head. She held you close, her touch gentle but firm, grounding you in the moment.
"Hey," she murmured against your hair. "Hey, I'm here. I'm home."
You nodded against her neck, not trusting yourself to speak. Your throat felt tight, your eyes burning with unshed tears. You'd been holding it together for five days, and now that Emily was here, now that you were in her arms, everything you'd been suppressing was threatening to overflow.
Emily's hand moved in slow, soothing circles across your back. She didn't push you to talk, didn't ask questions, just held you and let you take what you needed from her presence.
But after a moment, you felt her shift slightly, her hand coming up to cup your cheek, gently encouraging you to look at her.
"Baby," she said softly, her dark eyes searching your face. "Are you okay?"
The concern in her voice, the tenderness in her touch, it was too much. The dam broke.
You felt the first tear slip down your cheek, then another, and then you were crying in earnest, your body shaking with the force of your sobs. You tried to hide your face again, embarrassed by the intensity of your reaction, but Emily wouldn't let you. She held your face in her hands, her thumbs wiping away your tears, her eyes never leaving yours.
"Talk to me," she said gently. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"I'm okay," you insisted, even as tears continued to stream down your face. "I'm okay, I promise. I'm not—I'm not going to run away from you or anything. I'm not going anywhere."
Emily's brow furrowed, confusion and concern warring on her face. "I didn't think you were. But you're clearly not okay. You're crying, sweetheart."
"I know, I know." You took a shaky breath, trying to calm yourself enough to explain. "I'm okay, really. I just—it was different this time. It was harder."
"What was harder?" Emily asked, her voice so gentle it made your heart ache.
"You being gone." The words came out in a rush, like a confession. "I know you have to travel for work. I knew that when we started dating, and I knew it when I moved in. I'm not asking you to change your job or anything like that. But living together, it made it different. It made you being gone feel more... present, somehow."
Emily's expression softened with understanding, but she stayed quiet, letting you continue.
"The apartment felt so empty without you," you said, your voice breaking. "I'd come home and you wouldn't be here, and it was like—like the silence was screaming at me. I'd make coffee and accidentally make enough for two. I'd reach for you in bed and you weren't there. Everything reminded me of you, but you weren't here, and it hurt so much more than it used to."
"Oh, sweetheart," Emily breathed, pulling you closer.
"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty," you said quickly, desperately needing her to understand. "I know your job is important. I know you're out there saving lives and catching bad guys and doing things that actually matter. I'm so proud of you, Emily. I am. But I missed you so much it physically hurt, and I didn't know it was going to be like this."
"I didn't know either," Emily admitted quietly. "I've been doing this job for years, and I've had relationships before, but I've never—I've never lived with someone. Not like this. Not with someone I love this much."
You pulled back slightly to look at her, your vision still blurry with tears. "Really?"
"Really." Emily's hands moved to your waist, her touch warm and reassuring. "I missed you too. Every night in that hotel room, I'd think about you here, in our bed, and I'd wish I could just teleport home. I'd see something during the day, a coffee shop you'd like, or a bookstore, or just a pretty sunset, and my first thought was always 'I wish she was here to see this.'"
"You never said anything," you whispered.
"Neither did you," Emily pointed out gently. "We were both trying to be strong, I think. Trying not to make it harder on each other."
You let out a watery laugh. "That's stupid. We're stupid."
"Maybe a little," Emily agreed, a small smile tugging at her lips. She brushed a strand of hair away from your face, her touch infinitely tender. "But we're learning. This is new for both of us, living together, navigating my job, figuring out how to make this work. We're going to stumble sometimes. That's okay."
"I don't want you to worry about me when you're away," you said. "You need to focus on the case, on staying safe. I don't want to be a distraction."
"You're not a distraction," Emily said firmly. "You're the reason I fight so hard to come home. And I want you to tell me when you're struggling. I want to know what you're feeling, even if I can't fix it right away. We're partners, remember? We're in this together."
You nodded, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. "I was so scared you'd think I couldn't handle this. That I was too needy or too dependent or—"
"Stop," Emily interrupted gently. "You're not too anything. You're human. You missed your girlfriend. That's not a character flaw, baby. That's just love."
The simplicity of her words broke something open inside you. You collapsed against her again, crying harder now, but it felt different. Cathartic. Like you were finally releasing all the tension and fear and loneliness you'd been carrying for the past five days.
Emily held you through it all, her arms strong and steady around you, her lips pressing soft kisses to your temple, your hair, anywhere she could reach. She murmured soft reassurances, told you she loved you, promised she was here and she wasn't going anywhere.
Gradually, your sobs subsided into hiccups, then into shaky breaths. You felt wrung out, exhausted, but also lighter somehow. Like you'd been carrying a weight you didn't realize was there until Emily helped you set it down.
"Better?" Emily asked softly, her hand still moving in soothing circles across your back.
"Yeah," you said, your voice hoarse. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall apart on you the second you got home."
"Don't apologize." Emily's hand moved to cup your face again, tilting it up so you had to look at her. Her dark eyes were warm and full of love. "I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're telling me how you feel instead of keeping it bottled up."
"I really did miss you," you said quietly. "So much."
"I missed you too," Emily said. "Every single day. Every single minute."
You leaned in and kissed her, soft and slow and sweet. Emily's lips were warm against yours, her hand cradling the back of your head, holding you close. The kiss tasted like salt from your tears and like coming home and like everything you'd been missing for the past five days.
When you pulled back, Emily was smiling at you, that soft, private smile she reserved just for you.
"Can we talk about this more?" she asked. "About how to make it easier when I have to leave? I don't want you to be miserable every time I go on a case."
"I'd like that," you said. "But maybe tomorrow? Right now I just want to be close to you."
"Tomorrow," Emily agreed. She shifted slightly, adjusting her position against the headboard. "Do you want to put some clothes on? Not that I'm complaining about the view, but you might get cold."
You shook your head, burrowing closer to her. "I'm warm enough. And I like being close to you like this. I feel like—like I need to make up for five days of not being able to touch you."
Emily's expression softened even further, if that was possible. "Okay, honey. Whatever you need."
You settled more comfortably in her lap, your head resting on her shoulder, your arms wrapped around her waist. Emily's hand resumed its soothing motion across your back, and you felt yourself finally, finally starting to relax.
"I love you," you murmured against her neck. "I love you so much, Emily."
"I love you too," Emily said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "More than I know how to say."
You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the silence no longer oppressive but comfortable. The apartment didn't feel empty anymore. It felt like home again, warm and safe and full of love.
Secret is out: you're a witch! and the BAU team takes it in stride. Emily asks you to share your world, and you invite her camping for Ostara, the spring equinox. A sabbat of balance, renewal, and intention-setting. They meditate at dawn, wade through creeks, it's cute and gross. By Sunday morning, they return grounded, settled, visibly changed in a way the entire team can see. The magic they've cultivated together isn't just for the season ahead; it's the foundation of everything they're growing.
12k words, tw: smut, Emily making a bad joke, Sabbat's can be celebrated in different ways!
The knock on Emily's office door was soft, tentative in a way that made her look up immediately. You stood in the doorway, fingers fidgeting with the rose quartz at your throat, a tell she'd learned meant you were nervous about something.
"Come in," she said, setting down her pen. "Close the door?"
You did, then crossed to her desk, staying on the visitor's side rather than rounding it like you sometimes did when you were alone. Professional. This was a work conversation, then.
"I need to request Friday and Saturday off," you said. "March 20th and 21st."
Emily pulled up the calendar on her computer. "That's next week. Short notice, but we don't have anything scheduled. Should be fine." She glanced up at you. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, it's just—" You took a breath. "It's Ostara. The spring equinox. It's one of the sabbats, and I always spend it alone. In the woods. It's kind of my reset button."
Emily's expression softened with understanding. "How long do you need?"
"Just those days. I'll drive down Thursday night, spend Friday in ritual, drive back Saturday morning." You met her eyes. "You can call me in Sunday if something comes up. Just not Friday."
"Where are you going?"
"There's a spot in the Blue Ridge Mountains, about four hours south. Private land that a friend's family owns. They let practitioners use it for sabbats." You smiled slightly. "No cell service, no people, just me and the earth."
Emily was quiet for a moment, studying you with that profiler intensity that usually made you squirm. But this time, there was something else in her gaze. Curiosity. Longing, maybe.
"Can I come with you?" she asked.
You blinked. "What?"
"Can I come?" Emily leaned back in her chair. "I know it's your thing, your practice, and if you need to be alone I completely understand. But I'd like to be there. To see what it means to you."
Your heart did that stupid flutter thing. "Emily, it's... it's a lot. It's not like lighting a candle and saying a prayer. It's a full day of ritual. Meditation, offerings, working with the elements. It's very witchy."
"I know." She smiled. "That's why I want to come."
"You're not even a believer."
"I believe in you." Emily stood, rounding the desk to stand in front of you. "I believe that your practice is sacred to you, that it grounds you, that it's part of who you are. And I want to understand it. All of it."
You searched her face, looking for doubt or mockery or that polite tolerance people sometimes wore when you talked about your spirituality. You found none of it. Just genuine interest and that soft affection that made your chest ache.
"It's camping," you warned. "Like, actual camping. Tent, sleeping bags, no running water."
"I've camped before."
"In the woods? Or at a KOA with bathrooms and a camp store?"
Emily laughed. "Okay, fair. Mostly the second one. But I can handle it."
You bit your lip, considering. You'd never shared a sabbat with anyone before. They were private, personal, just you and the earth and whatever divine energy you could tap into. But the thought of Emily there, of showing her this part of yourself, of maybe helping her find her own connection to something bigger...
"Okay," you said. "But you have to promise to take it seriously. No jokes, no skepticism. Even if you don't believe in the spiritual aspects, you have to respect that I do."
"I promise." Emily took your hands. "Thank you for letting me in."
"You might regret it when you're sleeping on the ground and peeing in the woods."
"I'll take my chances."
You kissed her quickly, mindful that you were still in her office with the blinds open. "I'll make a list of what you need to bring."
"Do I need to buy a tent?"
"No, I have a two-person. We can share." You grinned. "Though it's going to be cold at night. We'll have to stay close."
Emily's eyes darkened slightly. "I think I can manage that."
Later that afternoon, Emily found Rossi in the break room, pouring his third coffee of the day.
"I need you to take point this weekend," she said without preamble. "Friday and Saturday. I'll be reachable by phone Saturday, but Friday I'll be out of range."
Rossi raised an eyebrow. "Out of range? Where are you going, the moon?"
"Just... away." Emily busied herself with the coffee maker. "Personal time."
"Uh-huh." Rossi's smile was knowing. "Does this personal time involve a certain someone who's been making you smile like a teenager for the past few months?"
"That's not your business."
"So yes." He chuckled. "Good for you, Emily. You deserve a weekend away."
"We're just—" Emily paused, realizing she was about to over-explain. "It's not what you think."
"I'm not thinking anything." But his grin said otherwise. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That leaves a lot of options."
"Exactly."
Emily shook her head, but she was smiling as she left the break room. She nearly collided with Garcia in the hallway.
"Whoa, sorry!" Garcia steadied herself, then her eyes narrowed. "Wait. You look suspicious. Why do you look suspicious?"
"I don't look suspicious."
"You absolutely do. You have that face you get when you're hiding something good." Garcia gasped. "Are you and our resident earth child going somewhere this weekend?"
"Garcia—" hand finding the bridge of her nose.
"You are! Oh my god, where are you going? Somewhere romantic? A bed and breakfast? One of those fancy spa resorts?"
"It's not—we're just taking some personal time."
"Personal time," Garcia repeated, her grin widening. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
Emily felt heat creep up her neck. "It's not like that."
"Sure it's not." Garcia patted her arm. "Your secret's safe with me, boss. Have a wonderful, very personal weekend."
She sashayed away, and Emily had the distinct feeling she'd just made things worse.
By the end of the day, Emily had drifted to your desk, ostensibly to drop off a file but really just to see you. You were packing up, shoving papers into your bag with the organized chaos she'd come to recognize as your system.
"Hey," she said softly. "Do I need to buy a sleeping bag?"
You looked up, smiling. "No, I have a—"
"A sleeping bag?" Garcia's voice came from directly behind Emily, making you both jump. "You need a sleeping bag for your weekend together?"
Emily turned to find Garcia standing there with JJ, both of them wearing matching expressions of delighted curiosity.
"We're just—" Emily started.
"Going camping," you finished.
"Camping," JJ repeated, her tone suggesting she didn't believe that for a second. "Just the two of you. In the woods. In a tent."
"Yes?" You looked between them, confused by their expressions.
Garcia leaned against your desk. "Sweetness, you don't have to be coy. We're all adults here. If you two want to have a romantic weekend in the woods, that's beautiful."
"It's not—" You paused. "Wait, what do you think we're doing?"
"Having a sex vacation in the woods," Garcia said bluntly. "Which, honestly? Very on brand for both of you. Emily with her whole mysterious vibe, you with your earth child aesthetic. It's perfect."
You stared at her. Then at JJ, who was trying not to laugh. Then at Emily, who looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
"That's not—" You stopped, took a breath, and made a decision. "Okay, you know what? I'm just going to tell you the truth."
Emily's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't stop you.
"I'm a witch," you said simply. "Like, an actual practicing witch. I follow the Wheel of the Year, I celebrate the sabbats, I work with herbs and crystals and moon phases. Friday is Ostara, the spring equinox, and I'm going to the mountains to perform ritual and celebrate the return of spring. Emily asked if she could come, and I said yes."
Silence.
Garcia's mouth had fallen open. JJ's eyebrows had climbed toward her hairline.
"You're a witch," Garcia said slowly.
"Yes."
"Like, spells and potions and—"
"And energy work and herbalism and honoring the earth, yes." You crossed your arms, defensive now. "I know it sounds weird, but it's my spiritual practice. It's important to me. And I'm not going to hide it anymore."
"That's why you always have crystals," JJ said, understanding dawning. "And you're always talking about moon phases."
"Yes."
"And the protection spells," Emily added quietly. "The ones you cast before every case."
You looked at her, surprised she was backing you up. She met your gaze steadily, and you saw nothing but support there.
"Wait, you cast protection spells for us?" Garcia's voice had gone soft.
"Every case," you admitted. "I know it probably doesn't do anything, but—"
"But we've all come home safe," JJ finished. "Every time."
"That's just coincidence."
"Maybe." JJ smiled. "Or maybe not. Either way, thank you."
You felt something tight in your chest loosen. "You're not... weirded out?"
"Weirded out?" Garcia laughed. "Honey, I've seen Reid's magic tricks, I've watched Rossi talk to dead people's spirits, and I once helped track a guy who thought he was a vampire. A witch is honestly the most normal thing I've heard all week."
"Plus," JJ added, "it explains so much. The way you always know when someone's energy is off. How you can calm victims down just by being near them. I always thought you just had really good instincts."
"It's both," you said. "Instincts and practice."
By now, the conversation had drawn attention. Reid had wandered over, followed by Luke and Tara. Rossi emerged from his office, clearly sensing something interesting was happening.
"What did I miss?" Reid asked.
"Our girl here is a witch," Garcia announced. "An actual, spell-casting, ritual-performing witch."
Reid's eyes lit up. "Really? What tradition do you follow? Wiccan? Eclectic? Are you part of a coven?"
You blinked at the rapid-fire questions. "Eclectic, mostly. I pull from different traditions—Celtic, Appalachian folk magic, some ceremonial work. And no, I'm solitary. No coven."
"Fascinating." Reid was already in full info-dump mode. "The modern witchcraft revival really began in the 1950s with Gerald Gardner, though of course the practices themselves are much older. The persecution of witches throughout history was largely about controlling women and suppressing indigenous spiritual practices—"
"Reid," Emily interrupted gently. "Maybe let her breathe?"
"Sorry." But he was still looking at you with bright curiosity. "I'd love to hear more about your practice sometime. The intersection of spirituality and herbalism is really interesting from an anthropological perspective."
"Sure," you said, still slightly stunned by how well this was going.
Luke shrugged. "I mean, my abuela was a curandera. Healing work, herb magic, the whole thing. This doesn't seem that different."
"My grandmother read tea leaves," Tara added. "And she was never wrong. I'm not about to question anyone's spiritual practice."
Rossi was watching you with that quiet assessment he did so well. "Is this why you always bring us those tinctures? The sleep aids, the stress relief blends?"
You nodded. "I make them during the new moon. Set intentions into them as they steep."
"They work," he said simply. "I don't care if it's magic or placebo or just good herbalism. They work, and I'm grateful."
You felt tears prick at your eyes. You'd been so afraid of judgment, of mockery, of being seen as weird or unprofessional. But your team, your family, was just accepting it. Understanding it.
"So this weekend," Garcia said, getting back to the original topic. "You're going to do spring equinox rituals?"
"Ostara," you corrected. "It's about balance, new beginnings, planting seeds, literal and metaphorical. It's a time to set intentions for what you want to grow in your life."
"And Emily's going with you." Garcia's smile was softer now, knowing. "That's actually really beautiful."
Emily's hand found yours, squeezing gently. "I want to understand her world. All of it."
"Even the parts that involve sleeping with bugs and no AC?" Luke asked, grinning.
"Even those parts."
"You're braver than me," he said. "I like my camping with bathrooms and WiFi."
"It's not about comfort," you explained. "It's about connecting with the earth. Stripping away all the modern distractions and just being. Feeling the energy of the land, the turn of the seasons, the balance of light and dark."
"That sounds peaceful," JJ said. "Honestly, I'm a little jealous."
"You could come next time," you offered, then immediately felt shy. "I mean, if you wanted. It's usually a solitary thing for me, but... I don't know. Maybe it doesn't have to be."
"I'd like that," JJ said warmly.
"Me too," Garcia added. "Though I'm going to need a very detailed packing list and possibly a Sherpa."
Everyone laughed, and the tension that had been coiling in your shoulders finally released.
"Okay, show and tell is over," Emily said, but she was smiling. "Everyone go home. We've got an early briefing tomorrow."
The team dispersed slowly, several of them stopping to squeeze your shoulder or offer quiet words of support. Reid promised to send you some articles about historical witchcraft practices. Luke asked if you could make him some of that sleep tincture. Tara just smiled and said, "I'm glad you told us."
When it was finally just you and Emily, she pulled you into a gentle hug.
"You okay?" she murmured against your hair.
"Yeah." You pulled back to look at her. "I can't believe I just came out as a witch to the entire BAU."
"You were very brave."
"I was terrified."
"I know." Emily kissed your forehead. "But they love you. We all do. This doesn't change that."
"It might have."
"But it didn't." She cupped your face. "And now you don't have to hide. You can just be yourself."
You leaned into her touch, feeling the truth of it settle into your bones. "Thank you for having my back."
"Always." Emily smiled. "Now, about this packing list. What exactly am I getting myself into?"
You laughed, pulling out your phone. "Okay, so first you're going to need layers. It's going to be cold at night but warm during the day. And good hiking boots, we'll be walking about two miles to the ritual site. And a sleeping bag rated for at least thirty degrees but you can borrow one—"
"I'm going to need to write this down," Emily said, pulling out her own phone.
You spent the next twenty minutes going over everything she'd need, from practical items like a headlamp and water bottles to the more spiritual supplies you'd be bringing. Emily asked questions, took notes, and didn't once make you feel like any of it was silly or strange.
"What about offerings?" she asked. "You mentioned offerings earlier. What do we bring?"
"Biodegradable things. Seeds, flowers, honey, herbs. Things that will return to the earth." You smiled. "I usually bring a small loaf of bread I bake myself. And wine, though we have to pack that out."
"Bread and wine," Emily repeated. "That sounds familiar."
"Most religions have some version of it. Offering the fruits of your labor back to the divine." You shrugged. "I like the symmetry of it."
"I like that you think about these things." Emily pocketed her phone. "The intention behind everything. The meaning."
"That's what makes it magic," you said softly. "Not the words or the tools or the ritual. The intention. The belief that what we do matters, that our actions ripple out into the world."
Emily was quiet for a moment, just looking at you with that expression that made you feel seen all the way through.
"I'm really glad you're letting me come," she said finally.
"I'm really glad you want to."
She kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you tasted promise in it. Promise of the weekend ahead, of sharing this sacred part of yourself, of maybe helping her find her own connection to something bigger.
"Come on," Emily said, pulling back. "Let's go home. We have a lot of planning to do."
"Your place or mine?"
"Yours. I want to see your altar, learn what you do to prepare for a sabbat." She grinned. "Consider this my crash course in Witchcraft 101."
You laughed, gathering your things. "Okay, but don't blame me if you get overwhelmed. There's a lot."
She shrugged, like opening an entire spiritual practice onto her Wednesday night was nothing. "I can handle it."
And as you walked out of the BAU together, Emily's hand warm in yours, you believed her.
That night, you taught Emily about Ostara while sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, surrounded by candles and crystals and the supplies you'd been gathering all week.
"The spring equinox is one of two times a year when day and night are perfectly balanced," you explained, arranging colored eggs in a basket. "It's about equilibrium. Light and dark, masculine and feminine, action and rest. Everything in balance."
Emily watched you work, fascinated. "Why eggs?"
"They're symbols of new life, potential, rebirth. In a lot of traditions, you decorate them with symbols of what you want to manifest." You held up an egg you'd already painted, covered in tiny flowers and spirals. "This one is for growth. New beginnings."
"Can I make one?"
You handed her an egg and some paint. "Of course. Think about what you want to call into your life. What you want to grow."
Emily considered this, then began painting carefully. You watched her work, noting the way her tongue poked out slightly when she concentrated, the careful precision of her brushstrokes.
"What are you painting?" you asked after a while.
She turned the egg to show you. On it, she'd painted a simple house with smoke curling from the chimney, surrounded by trees. Inside one of the windows, two small figures.
"Home," she said simply. "I'm painting home."
Your throat tightened. "Emily..."
"I've never really had one," she continued, still looking at the egg. "Not one that felt safe, anyway. But with you, in your space, with your crystals and your herbs and your intention... I feel home. So that's what I want to grow. That feeling. That certainty."
You set down your own egg and moved to her, cupping her face. "You have it. You have me. This is your home too."
Emily's smile was soft and vulnerable. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kissed her gently. "Mi amor. My home."
She pulled you into her lap, and you went willingly, wrapping your arms around her neck. For a long moment, you just held each other, surrounded by the tools of your practice and the quiet certainty of your love.
"Tell me more," Emily said eventually. "About Ostara. About what we'll do."
So you did. You told her about the ritual you'd planned, the meditation at sunrise, the planting of seeds, the offerings to the land. You explained how you'd cast a circle, call the quarters, invoke the goddess and god in their spring aspects. You walked her through every step, answering her questions, making sure she understood.
"I won't ask you to do anything you're not comfortable with," you assured her. "You can participate as much or as little as you want. Even just being there, holding space, that's enough."
"I want to participate," Emily said. "I want to try. Even if I don't feel what you feel, even if I don't believe the same way you do, I want to honor what it means to you."
"That's all I ask."
You spent the rest of the evening preparing. You showed Emily your altar, explained the significance of each item. You taught her about the elements, about casting circles, about the difference between a spell and a prayer. She absorbed it all with that sharp intelligence you loved, asking thoughtful questions, making connections.
By the time you finally went to bed, Emily's head was full of new information and her heart was full of something that felt like anticipation.
"Thank you," she said as you curled up together. "For trusting me with this."
"Thank you for wanting to understand."
"Always," Emily promised, and you fell asleep wrapped in her arms, dreaming of spring and new beginnings and the magic of being truly seen.
The next few days passed in a blur of preparation and anticipation. You made lists, gathered supplies, baked bread for offerings. Emily went shopping for camping gear, texting you pictures of jackets and asking which one you thought would be warmest.
The team, to their credit, was supportive and curious without being invasive. Reid brought you a book on Appalachian folk magic he thought you'd enjoy. Garcia asked if you could teach her about crystal healing. Even Rossi stopped by your desk to tell you his grandmother had been a strega, an Italian witch, and he'd grown up with magic in his house.
"She used to read coffee grounds," he said with a fond smile. "Told my mother she'd have three sons and a daughter. She was right."
"Did she teach you anything?" you asked.
"A few things. Protection charms, mostly. How to read signs." He patted your shoulder. "I'm glad you told us. It's comforting to know we have someone looking out for us on a spiritual level."
By Thursday evening, you were packed and ready. Emily showed up at your door with her new camping gear, looking both excited and slightly nervous.
"Ready?" you asked.
"Ready," she confirmed.
Emily had insisted on driving her SUV, which had better clearance for the mountain roads, and headed south as the sun set behind you. The drive was peaceful, filled with easy conversation and comfortable silences. You watched the landscape change as you drove, the city giving way to suburbs, then small towns, then finally the rolling hills that would become mountains.
She eventually rolled down the windows and you gave in like a puppy, arms and chin resting on the door, hair blowing behind you. Emily had to restrain herself from looking at you every two seconds, a relaxed smile seeing onto your face, eyes taking in the scenery despite the growing darkness.
By the time you reached the turnoff for the property, it was fully dark. You guided Emily down a narrow dirt road, deeper into the woods, until you reached a small clearing.
"This is it," you said as she parked.
Emily turned off the engine, and suddenly the world was very quiet. No traffic, no sirens, no city sounds. Just the whisper of wind through trees and the distant call of an owl.
"It's so dark," Emily said, staring out the windshield.
"No light pollution. Wait until you see the stars."
You both got out, and Emily immediately tilted her head back, gasping. The sky was a river of light, the Milky Way visible in all its glory, stars so thick they looked like someone had spilled glitter across black velvet.
"Oh my god," she breathed.
"I know." You moved to stand beside her, taking her hand. "This is why I come here. This is what we've lost in the cities. This connection to the cosmos."
Emily squeezed your hand, still staring up. "It's incredible."
"Come on. Let's set up camp, and then we can stargaze properly."
You worked together to pitch the tent, Emily following your instructions with focused determination. It took longer than it would have if you'd been alone, but there was something sweet about teaching her, about watching her figure out the poles and stakes.
Once the tent was up and your sleeping bags arranged inside, you built a small fire in the designated pit. Emily sat on a log, watching you work, and you were aware of her gaze in a way that made your skin warm.
"You're in your element," she observed.
"I am." You sat beside her, close enough that your shoulders touched. "This is where I feel most myself. Most connected."
"I can see that." Emily wrapped an arm around you. "You're different here. More relaxed. Like you can finally breathe all the way."
"That's exactly what it feels like."
You sat together, watching the fire, listening to the night sounds of the forest. After a while, Emily spoke again.
"Tell me about tomorrow. Walk me through it."
So you did. You explained how you'd wake before dawn, how you'd hike to the ritual site as the sun rose. How you'd cast your circle, call the quarters, perform the ceremony. How you'd plant seeds and make offerings and set intentions for the season ahead.
"And I can help?" Emily asked.
"If you want to. You can help me cast the circle, call the quarters with me. You can plant your own seeds, set your own intentions." You looked at her. "This isn't just my ritual anymore. It's ours."
Emily's smile was soft in the firelight, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames, warm and burning for you. "Ours. I like that."
You kissed her, tasting smoke and promise, and felt something settle in your chest. This was right. Sharing this with her, bringing her into your practice, letting her see this part of you. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Eventually, the fire burned down to embers and you both retreated to the tent. It was cold, just as you'd warned, and you huddled together in your sleeping bags, zipped together to share warmth.
"This is cozy," Emily said, pulling you against her.
"Told you we'd have to stay close."
"I'm not complaining."
You fell asleep wrapped in her arms, the sounds of the forest a lullaby, the stars wheeling overhead, and the promise of magic waiting with the dawn.
You woke to Emily's alarm, a soft vibration against your hip where her phone was tucked between the sleeping bags. The tent was still dark, but you could sense the shift in the air. That particular quality of pre-dawn when the world holds its breath before exhaling into morning.
"It's time?" Emily's voice was rough with sleep, warm against your neck.
"It's time."
You both moved slowly, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth you'd created. The air outside the sleeping bags was sharp and cold, raising goosebumps on your skin as you fumbled for layers in the darkness. Emily cursed softly as she pulled on her jacket, and you couldn't help but smile.
"Still glad you came?"
"Ask me again when I can feel my fingers."
But she was smiling too, and when you emerged from the tent, her hand found yours immediately.
The forest was alive with the sounds of waking: birds beginning their dawn chorus, the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, the whisper of wind through pine needles. The sky was just beginning to lighten at the edges, a pale gray bleeding into the darkness.
You shouldered your pack, heavy with ritual supplies, and Emily took the smaller one with water and snacks. "It's about a twenty-minute hike," you said. "The trail gets narrow in places."
"Lead the way."
You'd scouted this path last year, had marked it in your mind as the perfect spot. The trail wound deeper into the woods, away from the campsite, following the curve of the mountain. Your flashlight beam bounced ahead of you, catching on tree trunks and exposed roots, and behind you, you could hear Emily's steady breathing, her footsteps matching yours.
The sky continued to lighten, shifting from gray to a soft lavender. You clicked off the flashlight, letting your eyes adjust to the growing dawn. The world was painted in shades of blue and purple, everything soft-edged and dreamlike.
"It's beautiful," Emily whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.
"Wait until we get to the clearing."
The trail narrowed, and you had to walk single file, pushing through low-hanging branches that released their burden of dew onto your shoulders. Your boots squelched in the damp earth, and somewhere nearby, you could hear the musical trickle of a stream.
Then the trees opened up, and you were there.
The clearing was exactly as you remembered: a perfect circle of grass surrounded by towering pines, with a ring of stones at the center that looked ancient, though you suspected they were just naturally arranged. The eastern edge of the clearing faced a break in the trees, offering a clear view of the horizon where the sun would soon rise.
"Oh," Emily breathed. "This is perfect."
You set down your pack and pulled out a blanket, spreading it on the damp grass. Emily helped you arrange the ritual items. Candles for each direction, a small bowl of water, a dish of salt, the packets of seeds you'd brought, and a bundle of fresh herbs you'd tied together the night before.
"What do we do first?" Emily asked, and you loved the eagerness in her voice, the way she was leaning into this experience.
"First, we ground ourselves. We meditate, connect with the earth, with the energy of the season." You sat cross-legged on the blanket and patted the space beside you. "Sit with me."
Emily settled next to you, close enough that your knees touched. The sky was brightening steadily now, the lavender giving way to pink and gold at the horizon.
"Close your eyes," you said softly. "Feel the earth beneath you. Feel how solid it is, how it supports you. Breathe in the morning air, smell the pine, the damp earth, the promise of spring."
You heard Emily's breath slow, deepen. Your own breathing matched hers, and you felt yourself sinking into that meditative state, that place where the boundary between yourself and the world around you grew thin.
"Feel the balance," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. "Day and night, equal. Light and dark, in perfect harmony. This is the moment of equilibrium, when everything hangs in balance before tipping toward the light." You took a deep breath, "This moment of balance won't happen again for 365 days, the second where everything levels out. Where I believe, there is no good and evil, just human, just earth, just balance."
The first ray of sunlight broke over the horizon, spilling golden across the clearing. You felt it on your face, warm despite the cold air, and heard Emily's soft intake of breath.
"Feel that warmth," you said. "That's the sun returning, the earth waking up. Feel how everything is beginning again. The seeds underground starting to stir, the sap rising in the trees, the animals emerging from their winter sleep."
You opened your eyes and found Emily watching the sunrise, her face illuminated, her expression one of wonder. There were tears on her cheeks, catching the light.
"You okay?" you asked softly.
She nodded, not looking away from the rising sun. "I just—I've never felt anything like this. It's like I can actually feel it, what you're talking about. The earth waking up. The balance." She finally turned to you, and her smile was radiant. "I get it now. Why you do this. Needing this."
"Feeling the first sun of spring versus seeing it is different." You reached for her hand, lacing your fingers together. "The equinox is about balance, but it's also about growth. About planting seeds, literal and metaphorical. About setting intentions for what you want to grow in your life."
"What are you planting this year?" Emily asked.
You looked at her, at the woman who'd driven hours into the woods to sit with you at dawn, who'd opened herself to something completely outside her experience, who'd made space in her life for your magic.
"Courage," you said. "To keep being myself. To keep sharing this part of me. To let myself feel safe in myself for once." You squeezed her hand. "What about you?"
Emily was quiet for a moment, watching the sun climb higher, painting the world in shades of gold and green. "Trust," she finally said. "Trust in things I can't see or measure. Trust in this." She looked at you. "Trust in us."
The sun cleared the horizon fully, flooding the clearing with light, and you leaned in to kiss her, tasting salt from her tears and something sweeter, possibility, the beginning of something new.
"Ready to cast the circle?" you asked.
Emily nodded, her hand still in yours. "Ready."
You stood together, and you guided Emily through the movements. Walking the perimeter of your ritual space, marking the boundary between the mundane world and the sacred. You lit the candles at each cardinal point, speaking the invocations you'd memorized years ago, feeling the energy shift and settle around you like a protective embrace.
Emily watched with quiet reverence, and when you offered her the bowl of seeds, she cupped them in her palms like they were precious gems.
"Wildflower mix, herbs from my garden, native stuff. We plant these with intention," you said. "We speak our hopes into them, our dreams for what we want to grow."
You each took turns pressing seeds into the small pots of earth you'd brought, speaking softly, Emily's voice hesitant at first, then growing stronger. You blessed the seeds with water from the bowl, with salt for the earth, with the smoke from the burning herbs. The ritual felt different with her there, more grounded somehow, as if her presence anchored the magic in a way you hadn't expected.
When it was done, when you'd spoken the final words and thanked the elements, you walked the circle backward, releasing the energy you'd raised. The sun was fully up now, the clearing warm and bright, and Emily was glowing.
"That was incredible," she said, helping you pack up the ritual items. "I felt—I don't know how to describe it. Like the air was humming."
"It was," you said simply bending down to gather candles in order, and she smiled.
The hike back to camp felt easier, lighter, both of you energized despite the early hour. You made breakfast over the camp stove: scrambled eggs with cheese, toast, strong coffee that tasted better than it had any right to in the middle of the woods. Emily sat cross-legged on the picnic table, wrapped in a blanket, watching you cook with an expression of contentment that made your chest ache.
"I could get used to this," she said, accepting the plate you handed her.
"Camping? Or me cooking for you?"
"Both." She took a bite and hummed appreciatively. "Definitely both."
After breakfast, you washed the dishes with water heated on the stove, then suggested a walk. The forest was fully awake now, alive with birdsong and the rustle of small creatures. You followed a different trail this time, one that wound along a creek, the water running fast and clear over smooth stones.
Emily stopped frequently to examine things: a patch of moss, a cluster of mushrooms growing on a fallen log, the way the light filtered through the canopy overhead. You loved watching her discover the woods through fresh eyes, seeing the wonder in her face.
"Tell me about the other sabbats," she said as you walked. "If Ostara is spring, what are the others?"
So you told her, explaining the wheel of the year as you navigated the trail. Beltane's fires and fertility, Litha's midsummer celebration, Lammas and the first harvest, Mabon's balance again in autumn. She asked questions, made connections, and you realized she was building a framework in her mind, trying to understand the pattern of your practice.
"It's all about cycles, circles even," she said eventually. "Everything coming around again, but different each time."
"Exactly." Eyes watching her smile turn slightly proud, like a student who'd just solved a difficult equation.
You found a sunny spot near the creek and spread out the blanket, both of you lying back to watch the clouds drift overhead. Emily's hand found yours, fingers interlacing, and you lay in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the water and the wind.
"I brought my journal," Emily said eventually. "I thought maybe I'd write about this. If that's okay."
"Of course it's okay."
She sat up and pulled the small leather-bound book from her jacket pocket, along with a pen. You watched her write for a while, her brow furrowed in concentration, then pulled out your own journal, the one you used for ritual notes and reflections.
You took off your boots and wrote about the morning, about Emily's tears during the meditation, about how it felt to share this sacred space with someone else for the first time. About the intention you'd set, and how Emily herself was part of that courage, the willingness to be vulnerable, to let someone see all of you.
When you both finished writing, Emily showed you a sketch she'd done of the clearing, surprisingly detailed and beautiful. "I'm not much of an artist," she said, "but I wanted to remember it exactly."
"It's perfect."
The afternoon drifted by in a pleasant haze. You returned to camp and made sandwiches for lunch, then Emily convinced you to teach her about the herbs you'd brought: their properties, how to dry them, what they were used for. She was a quick study, asking intelligent questions, making notes in her journal.
Later, you both dozed in the tent, curled together on top of the sleeping bag and pads, the warmth of the afternoon sun making you drowsy. You woke to find Emily watching you, her expression soft.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi yourself."
She kissed you slowly, thoroughly, and you lost yourself in the taste of her, the feel of her hands sliding under your shirt. But she pulled back before things could go further, smiling at your disappointed sound.
"Later," she promised. "I want to savor this. All of it."
As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you both emerged from the tent. The air was cooling again, carrying the sound of the creek more clearly now, that constant musical rush of water over stone.
"Come on," you said suddenly, grabbing Emily's hand. "There's one more thing we should do."
"What's that?"
"Get in the creek."
Emily stopped walking, looking at you like you'd suggested jumping off a cliff. "The creek. The freezing cold mountain creek."
"It's not that cold. It's spring." You tugged her hand, grinning. "Come on. Water is spiritual, it's cleansing, renewing. Perfect for Ostara. Spring cleaning, but make it witchy."
"Spring cleaning usually involves a vacuum, not hypothermia."
"At least knee-deep," you coaxed, already pulling her toward the sound of rushing water. "Just wade in a little. Feel the energy of it."
Emily followed reluctantly, her fingers tight around yours. "You're insane. You know that, right?"
"You like it."
"I'm reserving judgment."
The creek was wider than you'd expected, maybe fifteen feet across, running fast and clear over smooth river stones. The banks were lined with moss and ferns, and the late afternoon light turned the water golden. You sat down on a flat rock and started unlacing your boots.
"You're serious about this," Emily said, watching you peel off your socks.
"Completely serious." You stood, rolling up your pants to your knees. "Water carries away what we don't need anymore. It's symbolic, washing away the old season, making space for the new. Plus, it feels amazing."
Emily bit her lip, looking between you and the water. "It's going to be freezing."
"Probably." You stepped to the edge, testing the temperature with your toes. Cold, yes, but not unbearable. "But that's part of it. Feeling alive, present in your body. Come on, Emily. Trust me."
Something in your voice must have convinced her, because she sighed and sat down to remove her own boots. "If I get hypothermia, you're explaining it to Rossi."
"Deal."
You waded in first, gasping a little at the shock of cold water against your skin. The stones were smooth under your feet, the current strong enough to push against your calves. You turned back to Emily, who was still standing on the bank, one foot hovering over the water.
"It's not that bad," you lied cheerfully.
"You're a terrible liar." But she stepped in anyway, immediately sucking in a sharp breath. "Oh my god. Oh my god."
"Keep moving. It helps." You reached for her hand, pulling her deeper. The water rose to your knees, then mid-thigh as you found a deeper section. Emily was gripping your hand hard enough to hurt, but she was laughing now, that surprised, delighted laugh that made your heart skip.
"This is insane," she said, but she was smiling, her cheeks flushed pink. "We're standing in a freezing creek for spiritual reasons."
"Exactly. How do you feel?"
She paused, considering. The water rushed around your legs, constant and alive. "Awake," she said finally. "Really, really awake."
"See? Told you."
You stood there together, adjusting to the temperature, and gradually Emily's grip on your hand relaxed. She looked down at the water, watching it flow around her legs, and you saw the moment she stopped resisting and started experiencing it: the cold, the current, the way the light played on the surface.
"Okay," she admitted. "This is actually kind of amazing."
"Right?" You squeezed her hand. "Now, about that spring cleaning..."
Before she could ask what you meant, you bent down and splashed water up at her, catching her stomach and chest. Emily shrieked, stumbling backward.
"You did not just—"
You splashed her again, laughing, and she retaliated immediately, sending a wave of water directly into your face. Within seconds you were both soaked, laughing and shrieking like children, the cold forgotten in the chaos of the water fight.
Emily tried to back away and slipped on a smooth stone, her arms windmilling. You caught her, but your own footing was precarious, and you both went down together in a tangle of limbs and laughter, the water closing over your heads for one shocking, breathless moment.
You surfaced together, gasping and sputtering, completely drenched. Emily's hair was plastered to her face, her clothes clinging to her body, and she looked absolutely furious for about half a second before she started laughing again—that full-body, uncontrollable laughter that made her eyes crinkle and her whole face light up.
"I can't believe you just—we're completely—" She couldn't finish the sentence, still laughing, and you were laughing too, both of you sitting waist-deep in the creek like absolute fools.
"Spring cleaning," you managed between giggles. "Very thorough."
"You're ridiculous." But Emily was smiling, that soft, affectionate smile that made your chest ache. She reached up to push her wet hair out of her face, and something shifted in her expression. The laughter fading into something warmer, more intense.
She moved closer, the water rippling around her, and cupped your face in her cold hands. "Completely ridiculous," she whispered, and then she was kissing you.
The kiss was cold and warm at the same time, her lips chilled from the water but her mouth hot against yours. You wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her closer, not caring about the current or the cold or the fact that you were both absolutely soaked. She tasted like creek water and laughter and something indefinitely Emily, and you wanted to stay in this moment forever.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were bright, her smile soft. "Okay," she said. "I get it now. The water thing. Very spiritual."
"Told you."
"Shut up and kiss me again."
So you did, there in the middle of the creek with the sunset painting everything gold, and it felt like magic. The tangible kind, the kind that had nothing to do with rituals or sabbats and everything to do with this woman in your arms, laughing and soaked and absolutely perfect.
Eventually, shivering and grinning, you helped each other out of the water and back to camp, leaving wet footprints on the stones.
"We need to get out of these clothes," you said, teeth chattering slightly as you reached the tent. Your pants were heavy with water, clinging uncomfortably to your legs.
"Best idea you've had all day," Emily replied, her voice dropping lower. When you looked at her, the playfulness in her eyes had shifted into something deeper. That familiar heat that always made your pulse quicken, but threaded now with something more intentional. Sacred.
You unzipped the tent and crawled inside, Emily following close behind. The space felt charged as you both knelt facing each other in the dimming light filtering through the nylon walls. Water dripped from your hair, from your clothes, and you thought about the creek—about cleansing and renewal, about washing away what no longer served.
"The water carried away the old," Emily said softly, echoing your thoughts as she always did. Her hands found the hem of your soaked shirt. "Now we welcome the new."
She lifted the fabric slowly, deliberately, and you raised your arms to help her. When the cold air hit your skin, you shivered, but Emily's hands were already there. Warm and sure, tracing patterns you both knew by heart. She kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, each touch a familiar prayer.
"Your turn," you murmured, reaching for her shirt. She lifted her arms, and you peeled the wet fabric away, revealing skin you'd mapped a hundred times but never tired of seeing. When her hair fell in damp waves around her shoulders, you couldn't help but lean in to kiss the curve of her neck, that spot just below her ear that always made her breath catch.
It did now, and she smiled. "We should get out of all of it," she said, her hands already working at your bra clasp with practiced ease. "Properly cleansed."
You helped each other out of the rest, no fumbling, no hesitation, just the easy intimacy of bodies that knew each other well. When you were both bare, kneeling in the tent as twilight deepened outside, Emily reached for your hands.
"Balance," she said quietly, her thumbs stroking your palms. "Light and dark. Masculine and feminine. You and me."
"The union of opposites," you agreed, feeling the truth of it settle in your chest. "Creating something whole."
She pulled you down onto the sleeping bags, and you went willingly, your body covering hers in a familiar configuration. But tonight it felt different, weighted with intention, with the magic you'd been building all day. When you kissed her, it was with purpose, with the knowledge of exactly how she liked to be kissed, deep and slow, your tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm you'd perfected together.
Her thigh slipped between yours, pressing exactly where you needed it, and you gasped against her mouth. She knew your body like she knew her own, knew how to touch you, how to move. You rocked against her, feeling the slick heat of her arousal against your hip, and the symmetry of it, both of you wet and wanting, felt like its own kind of balance.
"I want to feel you," Emily murmured against your neck, her hand already sliding down your body with confident purpose. "Want to be inside you while the sun sets. Complete the cycle."
"Yes," you breathed, shifting to give her better access. "Please."
When her fingers slipped inside you, there was no tentative exploration, she knew exactly where to touch, how deep, what angle made you see stars. You cried out, your back arching, and she held you steady with her other hand on your hip, grounding you even as she took you apart.
"That's it," she whispered, her voice rough with her own need. "Let me feel you. Let me in."
You opened your eyes to find her watching you with that intense focus she always had when you made love; like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. The intimacy of it, the way she saw you completely, never failed to overwhelm you.
"Emily," you gasped as she curled her fingers just right, her thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. "God, you—"
"I know," she said, and she did. She knew your body's language, knew when to go faster or slower, harder or softer. Knew that you were close now, could feel it in the way your inner walls fluttered around her fingers. "I've got you. Always."
The orgasm built like the sunrise you'd watched that morning; slow and inevitable, gathering light and heat until it crested in a wave of sensation that stole your breath. You came with her name on your lips, your body shaking, and she held you through it with the same steady presence she'd had all day. Grounding you, centering you, completing you.
When you could breathe again, you kissed her deeply, tasting gratitude and love and magic. "Your turn," you said, already shifting your weight. "Let me worship you properly."
Emily smiled, that soft, tender smile that was only for you. "Is that what this is? Worship?"
"Everything with you is worship," you said honestly, settling between her legs. "Especially today. Especially this."
When you slipped two fingers inside her, she arched beautifully, a low moan escaping her throat. You'd heard that sound countless times, but it never failed to send heat pooling in your belly.
"Yes," she gasped, her hand finding your shoulder, gripping with familiar urgency. "Just like that. Don't stop."
You didn't. You moved with the confidence of intimate knowledge, your fingers curling to hit that spot inside her that made her whole body tense, your thumb circling her clit in the exact rhythm she needed. You watched her face, the way her eyes fluttered closed, the way her lips parted, the flush spreading across her chest, and felt your own arousal building again just from seeing her pleasure.
"Look at me," you said softly, and her eyes opened, dark and hazy with need. "I love you."
The word made her smile even through the pleasure, and then she was there, her body tensing, her inner walls clenching rhythmically around your fingers as she came with a cry that echoed in the small space. You worked her through it, gentling your movements as she came down, until she pulled your hand away with a breathless laugh.
"Come here," she murmured, and you crawled up her body to collapse beside her. She immediately rolled toward you, draping an arm over your waist, pressing her forehead to yours. "That was..."
"Intentional," you finished, and she laughed softly.
"Very intentional." She was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. Outside, the last light was fading from the sky, the forest settling into night around you. "I set an intention this morning," she said finally. "During the ritual."
"I know. Trust."
"Not just trust in general." She pulled back slightly to look at you, her eyes serious. "Trust in this. In us. In the idea that something this good can last, can grow, can be... permanent."
Your breath caught. "Emily—"
"I love you," she said, the words quiet but certain. "I've loved you for a while now, but I wanted to say it here. Today. As part of the intention. As part of the magic we're making."
Tears pricked at your eyes, overwhelmed by the gift of her words, her trust, her love. "I love you too," you whispered. "So much."
She kissed you then, slow and sweet and full of promise. When she pulled back, her expression had shifted. Still tender, but thoughtful now, almost wondering. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Hypothetically..." She paused, her fingers still tracing patterns on your hip, grounding herself in the touch. "Do you see us getting married? Like, is that something you'd want? With me?"
Your heart stuttered in your chest. Outside, the forest had gone quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath. "Are you asking me—"
"Not right now," she said quickly, but she was smiling. "I'm not proposing in a tent after we just had sex, I promise. I just... we're setting intentions today. Planting seeds. And I want to know if that's a seed you'd want to plant. If marriage is something you see growing between us."
You felt your own smile spreading, wide and helpless. "Yes," you said, the word coming out thick with emotion. "God, yes. I'd marry you, Emily Prentiss. Hypothetically and actually and in every possible timeline."
Her breath hitched, and you saw tears gathering in her eyes now too. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You cupped her face, your thumb stroking her cheek. "I want all of it with you. The growing, the blooming, the whole cycle. I want to build a life with you. Make it official. Make it permanent."
"I want that too," she whispered. "I want to marry you. Maybe not tomorrow, but... someday. When it's right. When we're ready."
"We're planting the seed now," you said, thinking of the ritual that morning, of intentions spoken into the dawn. "Speaking it into existence. Making it part of the magic."
"Part of the magic," she agreed, and kissed you again, deeper this time, sealing the promise. When she pulled back, she was smiling through her tears. "So we're doing this? Growing together? Seeing what blooms? All the way to... to marriage?"
"Yes," you said, thinking of the seeds you'd planted that morning, of intentions set and cycles completed, of a future stretching out before you like spring itself, full of possibility and promise. "Yes, we're doing this. All of it."
Outside, the last light faded from the sky, and the forest settled into night around you. But inside the tent, wrapped in Emily's arms, you'd never felt warmer or more at home. You'd just planted the most important seed of all, and you could already feel it beginning to grow.
You woke to birdsong and the soft weight of Emily's arm across your waist. Morning light filtered through the tent fabric, turning everything golden-green, and you could hear the creek still babbling in the distance. The air was cool but not cold, spring asserting itself, promising warmth to come.
Emily stirred against you, her breath warm on your shoulder. "Morning," she mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." You turned in her arms, finding her eyes still half-closed, her hair a beautiful disaster. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in months." She smiled, slow and content. "Turns out camping with you is pretty great."
"Even with the questionable sleeping bag situation?"
"Especially with the questionable sleeping bag situation." She kissed you, soft and unhurried, before finally sitting up with a groan. "Okay. Real world time. We should probably pack up."
Breaking down camp was easier than setting it up had been, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm. Emily rolled the sleeping bags while you deflated the sleeping pads, both of you working in comfortable silence punctuated by occasional laughter when something didn't cooperate. The tent came down smoothly, and you showed Emily how to fold it properly so it would fit back in its bag.
"I feel very accomplished right now," she said, surveying the packed gear. "Like I could survive the apocalypse."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You still can't start a fire without matches."
"Details."
You loaded everything into the car, taking one last look at the clearing that had held so much magic. The fire pit was cold and scattered, the creek still singing its endless song. You'd cleaned up thoroughly, leaving no trace except the memories you'd carry with you.
"Thank you," Emily said quietly, coming to stand beside you. "For bringing me here. For sharing this with me."
You squeezed her hand. "Thank you for being open to it. For trusting me."
The drive back toward civilization was peaceful, the morning sun climbing higher as you wound through the mountain roads. Emily had her window cracked, one hand resting on your thigh as you drove, and you felt that same contentment from the night before, like something had settled into place between you, solid and sure.
"I'm starving," Emily announced after about thirty minutes. "Please tell me we're stopping for actual food and not, like, granola bars."
"I was thinking we could find a diner. Something local."
"God, yes. I want pancakes. And bacon. So much bacon."
You laughed, scanning the roadside for signs. It took another fifteen minutes before you spotted it. A small building with faded blue siding and a hand-painted sign that read "Millie's Kitchen." The parking lot held a handful of trucks and one ancient station wagon, and you could see gingham curtains in the windows.
"Perfect," you said, pulling in.
The inside was exactly what you'd hoped for; vinyl booths, wooden panel walls, and the smell of frying bacon thick in the air. An older woman with steel-gray hair looked up from behind the counter, her smile warm and automatic.
"Morning, darlings! Sit anywhere you like."
You slid into a booth by the window, Emily across from you, both of you reaching for the laminated menus propped between the napkin holder and the salt shaker. The woman, Millie, presumably, appeared with a coffee pot and two mugs.
"Coffee?"
"Please," Emily said gratefully.
"Yes ma'am, thank you," you added, and felt your accent slip just slightly on the 'ma'am'—that soft Southern lilt you usually kept carefully controlled at work bleeding through in the comfortable atmosphere.
Emily's eyes flicked to you, surprised and delighted, but she didn't say anything.
Millie poured, her movements practiced and efficient. "Y'all know what you want, or do you need a minute?"
"Just a minute, if that's alright," you said, the drawl a little more pronounced now, relaxing into it. "Everything looks really good, though."
"Take your time, honey." Millie patted your shoulder and moved to check on another table.
Emily was grinning at you over her menu.
"Shut up," you said, but you were smiling too. "I can't help it. Places like this, it just... comes out."
"I like it." She reached across the table to lace her fingers with yours. "It's cute. Why do you hide it at work?"
You shrugged, considering. "Professionalism, I guess? People hear a Southern accent and make assumptions. Especially in our line of work. Easier to just... neutralize it."
"That's bullshit," Emily said bluntly. "You shouldn't have to hide any part of yourself."
"Says the woman who spent years hiding her entire sexuality."
"Exactly. I'm an expert on the subject, and I'm telling you—it's bullshit." She squeezed your hand. "I want to hear more of it. The real you."
Your chest felt warm. "Okay," you said softly. "I'll try."
Millie returned, order pad ready. "What can I get you ladies?"
"I'll have the pancake special," Emily said. "With bacon. Extra bacon if possible."
"You got it, hon. And for you?"
"Could I get the biscuits and gravy, please?" you asked, your accent fully present now, comfortable. "And maybe some eggs over easy on the side?"
"Absolutely, darling. This'll be right out."
As Millie walked away, Emily was still smiling at you, that soft look in her eyes that made your heart skip. "Biscuits and gravy. Very Southern of you."
"Wait till you see me put hot sauce on them."
"I'm learning so much today."
You laughed, settling back in the booth, Emily's hand still in yours across the table. Through the window, you could see the mountains in the distance, the sky bright and clear. Spring was here, full of promise and new growth, and you were driving toward your future with the woman you loved.
The woman you were going to marry someday.
The thought made you smile, and when Emily caught your expression and smiled back, you knew she was thinking the same thing. The feeling solidified when her ring finger danced over your own.
Sunday night found you in your living room at 10:15, surrounded by camping gear in various states of organization. The tent was spread across your couch, airing out. Your sleeping bags hung over the back of chairs. The cooler sat open by the kitchen, drying. You were on your knees sorting through the smaller items, flashlights, first aid kit, the little bag of crystals you'd brought for the ritual, still wearing the patchwork overalls you'd thrown on after your shower. They were your gardening pair, paint-splattered and dirt-stained, soft from years of wear and washing.
Your hair was still damp, pulled back in a messy bun, and you hadn't bothered with makeup. There was dirt under your fingernails from drying out the ashes you brought from the fire, and you could still smell woodsmoke on your skin despite the shower. You felt loose and grounded in a way you rarely did after a weekend. Like something in your chest had unlocked and stayed open.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Then again. Then a third time in rapid succession.
You knew that pattern.
"No," you said to the empty room, reaching for it anyway.
GARCIA: Case. Wheels up in 45.
GARCIA: Sorry sorry sorry I know it's late
GARCIA: Emily's already on her way
You stared at the messages, then at the chaos of your living room, then down at your overalls. Forty-five minutes meant you had maybe twenty to get to the airstrip if you pushed it. No time to organize everything. Definitely no time to change into your usual work clothes, the carefully pressed slacks and blazer that made you look professional and put-together and nothing like the witch who'd spent the weekend dancing under the moon.
"Fuck it," you muttered, pushing to your feet. Your go bag was already packed, you'd learned that lesson early. You grabbed it from the closet, did a mental inventory (gun, badge, credentials, change of clothes for later), and headed for the door. You'd just have to change on the jet.
The drive to the airstrip was muscle memory, your mind still half in the weekend: Emily's laugh in the creek, the way she'd looked at you in the tent, the quiet promise of someday hanging between you like a spell waiting to manifest. You felt different. Settled. Like you'd planted something real in that clearing and it was already starting to grow.
You parked and grabbed your bag, jogging toward the jet. The stairs were down, lights on inside. You climbed quickly, stepping into the cabin—
And stopped.
The entire team was already there. Garcia, JJ, Reid, Luke, Tara, all of them looking up as you entered. You'd been counting on having a few minutes alone to duck into the bathroom and change, to put your professional mask back on. Instead, you were standing in front of your colleagues in dirty overalls and birks, probably smelling like campfire and incense, feeling suddenly and acutely exposed.
"Well," Garcia said, her eyes going wide. "Someone had a good weekend."
You felt heat creep up your neck. "Sorry, I was cleaning gear when I got the call. Didn't have time to—"
"You look different," JJ interrupted, her head tilting slightly. "Relaxed."
"Really relaxed," Luke added, grinning. "Like, I don't think I've ever seen you this chill."
Reid was studying you with that analytical expression he got. "Your shoulders aren't tense. You're usually much more... contained."
"Gee, thanks, Reid."
"No, it's good!" he said quickly. "You just seem more... yourself?"
You didn't know what to say to that. You dropped your go bag on a seat and tried not to fidget, hyperaware of how different you must look from your usual carefully controlled presentation. At work, you kept your accent neutral, your clothes professional, your witchcraft private. You were competent and capable and just mysterious enough to be interesting without being threatening.
Right now, you were in sandals and overalls with dirt under your nails and your hair a mess, and you could feel the weekend still clinging to you like morning dew.
"So," Garcia said, leaning forward with that gleam in her eye that meant she was about to dig. "Good camping trip?"
"It was perfect," you said honestly, and something in your voice must have given you away because JJ's expression shifted to knowing.
"Oh my god," she said. "You're glowing."
"I am not—"
"You absolutely are," Tara agreed. "That's a 'I had a really good weekend with someone special' glow."
Before you could deflect, you heard footsteps on the stairs. Emily appeared in the doorway, and your breath caught the way it always did when you saw her. She was in her usual work clothes, dark slacks, fitted jacket, but her hair was slightly mussed and there was something soft in her expression that hadn't been there Thursday morning.
She looked settled too. Grounded. Like she'd found something in those woods and brought it back with her.
Her eyes found yours immediately, and you watched her take in your appearance, the overalls, the way you were standing there completely unguarded in front of the team. Something flickered in her expression. Warmth. Affection. A hint of amusement.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, moving into the cabin. "Traffic was—" She stopped, seeming to register the team's attention. "What?"
"Nothing," Garcia said, but her smile was knowing. "Just... you both look different."
"Different how?" Emily asked, though you could see her fighting a smile as she set down her bag.
"Settled," JJ said simply. "Like something shifted."
Luke nodded, studying you both with an expression that was almost reverent. "Yeah. You two look... balanced."
"That's the word," Tara agreed. "There's a balance there that wasn't there before."
Reid adjusted his glasses, his analytical gaze moving between you and Emily. "You're both exhibiting signs of genuine rest and emotional regulation. It's actually quite remarkable."
"Thanks, Reid," you said dryly, but you weren't really listening. Emily had moved past you to set down her bag, and the way she moved, the comfortable ease of it, the way she didn't hesitate to let her hand brush your arm as she passed. It felt like a confirmation of something the whole team could see.
Garcia leaned back in her seat, grinning. "Whatever you two did this weekend, keep doing it. This is good. This is really good."
Emily looked at you, one eyebrow raised in question. You shrugged, feeling your face heat but unable to stop smiling. There was no point in hiding it now, not when you were standing here in your gardening overalls, still carrying the weekend on your skin, looking at her like she'd hung the moon.
You did finally duck into the bathroom to change, emerging in slacks and a button up, hair somehow tamed into a sleek ponytail. Tara nodded at you, "I'm impressed, there's like 4 feet of room in there."
A grateful laugh came from you as you sat beside Emily, smiling at Tara, "A witch never tells her secrets."
The briefing was thorough, three victims in rural Montana, all found near hunting grounds sources. Emily ran the meeting with her usual precision, and you found yourself watching her hands as she gestured, remembering how those same hands had traced intentions into your skin just hours ago.
When the team dispersed to review case files, Emily caught your eye and tilted her head slightly toward the kitchenette on the jet. You followed a moment later, finding her leaned against the counter, hands busy making coffee.
"Hey," she said softly, and there was something vulnerable in her expression that made your chest tighten.
"Hey yourself."
She glanced back toward the team, then stepped closer, her voice dropping. "I just... I needed a second. Before we land. Before we have to be Section Chief and Agent again."
You understood immediately. The weekend had been a world unto itself, sacred space, intentional time, the two of you building something real and solid under the spring sun. Now you were heading back into the chaos, into cases and violence and the weight of the work you both carried.
"I know," you said quietly. "I feel it too."
Emily's hand found yours, hidden between your bodies where the team couldn't see. Her thumb traced over your knuckles, a grounding touch that echoed the way you'd held each other at dawn on Friday morning.
"The things we talked about," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The intentions we set. I meant all of it."
"So did I."
"I know you did." She smiled, soft and certain. "I can feel it. That's the thing, I can actually feel it now. The balance. The... rightness of it."
You squeezed her hand, feeling the weight of the crystal still tucked in your pocket, the one you'd charged under the Ostara sun. "That's the magic," you said. "Not just what we did out there, but what we're carrying forward. The seeds we planted."
"They're going to grow," Emily said, and it wasn't a question.
"They already are."
She looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw everything reflected back. The hypothetical marriage conversation that felt more like a promise, the way you'd made love in the tent with the forest breathing around you, the way her hair glimmered in the spring sun. All of it was there in her eyes, solid and real and yours.
"I love you," she said again, because she needed you to hear it here too, in this liminal space between the sacred and the professional.
"I love you too," you whispered back. "And I'm going to keep loving you when we land. When we're working the case. When we're knee-deep in the worst humanity has to offer. I'm still going to love you."
Emily's breath caught, and for a moment you thought she might kiss you right there, team be damned. But instead she just held your hand tighter, her forehead almost touching yours.
"We're going to be okay," she said, and you realized she was saying it for both of you. "We're going to be real. No more hiding the important parts."
You thought about the overalls you'd worn onto the jet, the way your accent had slipped out at the diner, how she saw you fight with the fire and hadn't flinched. How Emily had watched you be yourself and loved you more for it.
"No more hiding," you agreed.
Emily squeezed your hand once more, then let go, stepping back into her professional space. But something in her posture had changed. She stood taller, more centered. Balanced.
You felt it in yourself too. The grounding from the weekend, the intentions you'd set, the magic you'd woven together, it was all still there, humming quietly beneath your skin. You could carry it into the work. You could be both things at once: the witch and the agent, the lover and the professional, the woman who danced barefoot in creeks and the one who hunted monsters.
"Ready?" Emily asked, and you knew she meant for more than just the case.
"Ready," you said.
You walked back to your seats together, not touching but moving in sync, and when you sat down the team glanced up with knowing smiles.
The jet began its descent, and you felt Emily's ankle hook around yours under the table, hidden but intentional. A small magic, a way of saying I'm here, we're here, we're doing this together.
Outside the window, the Montana landscape spread out below, mountains and forests and the promise of spring breaking through winter's hold. New beginnings. Balance. Growth.
The Wheel kept turning, and you were turning with it, with the woman you loved, carrying the magic forward into whatever came next.
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Charmed, That’s For Sure has an update coming no later than the 21st! I’ve been working really hard on a chapter for Ostara.
Ostara is one of the most important sabbats in my practice, and I think this has been a long winter for everyone. I wanted something warm, cozy, and defrosting for us all to read as we finally get to spring.
This update has also been delayed by my work day starting at 5:30 am and ending at 8 pm, I write for 20 minutes and then go to bed but I’m so motivated !! You should see me click clacking!
A piece of dialogue for this chapter is a direct quote from my own partner shared with their vague consent (faith, trust and pixie dust guys)
"I like that you think about these things. The intention behind everything. The meaning."
“That's what makes it magic. Not the words or the tools or the ritual. The intention. The belief that what we do matters, that our actions ripple out into the world.”
somebody needs to make a story about Emily Prentiss being good friends with a new bau agent’s mom and she falls in love with her but struggles with it because not only is she the daughter of her good friend, but also a subordinate, and way younger.
Saw this post last night and couldn't stop thinking about it because I love ethical age-gap writing, and I'm really normal about Emily. Definitely didn't work on it while I was on the clock, I would never.
Don't know the word count because I didn't look, but it's way longer than intended... oops. God forbid a woman love depth.
tags for Emily kissing you like you're the air she breathes, and poor tension building
Emily Prentiss had always existed in your peripheral vision. A figure who moved through your mother's life with the kind of easy familiarity that spoke of shared history, mutual respect, and the particular bond forged between women who'd survived in male-dominated fields. She was your mother's friend, not yours. A presence at the edges of your adolescence, someone you knew of rather than someone you actually knew.
You were thirteen the first time you really noticed her. Middle school had turned you into a creature of careful observation, hyperaware of social hierarchies and the complex dance of adult relationships. You'd been cutting through the living room to grab your copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the coffee table when you'd heard your mother's laugh. The real one, not the polite one she used for your father's colleagues, coming from the kitchen.
Emily had been sitting at the breakfast bar, jacket draped over the back of the stool, a glass of wine catching the afternoon light. She'd looked up when you entered, and for just a moment, her dark eyes had met yours with an intensity that made you feel suddenly, inexplicably seen. Not as a child to be dismissed, but as a person worthy of acknowledgment.
"Your daughter's gotten tall," Emily had said to your mother, not to you. Emily never pulled you into conversation against your will.
You'd grabbed your book and fled, but the moment had lodged itself somewhere in your memory, a small stone you'd occasionally turn over in your mind without quite understanding why.
High school brought another encounter, this one more substantial and infinitely more mortifying. Your mother had insisted you attend her New Year's Eve party, "You're sixteen now, old enough to learn how to navigate these situations" and you'd spent most of the evening trying to look sophisticated while nursing a single glass of champagne your mother had grudgingly allowed.
Emily had arrived late, and she hadn't arrived alone.
Andrew Mendoza had been handsome in that effortless way some men managed, all easy smiles and casual confidence. You'd watched them from across the room, the way Emily's hand had rested on his lower back, the way she'd leaned in to hear him over the music. You'd felt something twist in your chest. Not quite jealousy, because that would have been absurd, but something adjacent to it. Disappointment, maybe. A vague sense that the world was arranging itself in ways that excluded you.
Your mother had noticed you watching. She always noticed.
"Emily's boyfriend," she'd said, appearing at your elbow with her own champagne. "He's with the FBI too. Seems nice enough."
You'd nodded, pretending the information meant nothing to you, and had spent the rest of the evening studiously avoiding that corner of the room.
The relationship hadn't lasted. You'd gathered that much from overheard phone conversations between your mother and Emily over the following year. By the time you left for college, Andrew Mendoza had become just another ex-boyfriend, another failed attempt at something conventional in Emily Prentiss's decidedly unconventional life.
College had given you distance, both geographical and emotional. You'd thrown yourself into your studies: psychology, criminology, a minor in linguistics that had seemed esoteric until you'd discovered how language patterns could reveal everything about a person's background, education, and intent. You'd been good at it. Better than good. Your professors had started using words like "exceptional" and "promising," and for the first time in your life, you'd felt like you were becoming someone interesting in your own right, not just your mother's daughter.
You were home for winter break during your junior year when your mother had ambushed you.
"There's a party tonight," she'd announced over breakfast, in that tone that meant the decision had already been made. "Political fundraiser. Lots of law enforcement brass. You should come."
"Mom, I have a paper due—"
"That you've already finished, knowing you." Your mother had fixed you with that look, the one that had probably broken countless suspects in interrogation rooms. "It'll be good for you. Networking. You keep saying you want to work in federal law enforcement. Well, this is how it starts."
So you'd gone, wearing a dress your mother had deemed "professional but not matronly," your hair pulled back in a way that made you look older than your twenty years. The venue had been one of those historic DC buildings that reeked of old money and older power, all marble columns and crystal chandeliers.
You'd been prepared to be bored. You'd been prepared to smile politely at aging politicians and career bureaucrats, to nod along to stories about budget committees and jurisdictional disputes.
You hadn't been prepared for Emily.
She'd been standing near the bar, and the years had changed her in ways both subtle and profound. There was silver threading through her dark hair now, catching the light when she moved. Lines had deepened around her eyes and mouth. Not aging so much as settling, as if she'd finally grown into the face she was meant to have. She'd been wearing a black suit that probably cost more than your entire semester's tuition, tailored to perfection, and when she'd laughed at something her companion said, the sound had carried across the room and lodged itself directly in your solar plexus.
Your mother had materialized beside you, following your gaze. "Come on," she'd said. "I'll introduce you properly this time."
"Mom, I've met Emily before—"
"Not like this, you haven't."
And she'd been right.
"Emily, you remember my daughter," your mother had said, and there had been something in her voice. Pride, yes, but also a kind of presentation, as if she were offering you up for inspection.
Emily had turned, and for the second time in your life, you'd felt the full weight of her attention. But this time was different. This time, you weren't a child to be politely acknowledged. This time, when her eyes met yours, something shifted in her expression. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked, followed by something else. Something that made your skin feel too tight and your breath catch in your throat.
"Of course," Emily had said, and her voice had dropped half an octave, intimate despite the crowded room. "Though I have to say, I didn't expect you to grow up quite so... impressively."
The word had hung between you, loaded with meanings you weren't quite ready to examine.
You'd talked for twenty minutes, maybe longer. About your studies, about the evolving field of behavioral analysis, about a paper you'd written on the linguistic markers of deception. Emily had listened with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the room, asking questions that proved she wasn't just being polite, she was genuinely interested, genuinely engaged.
"You should apply to the Bureau when you graduate," she'd said finally. "With your background, your skill set... we could use someone like you."
"At the BAU?" You'd tried to keep the eagerness out of your voice and failed spectacularly.
"Maybe." Emily's smile had been enigmatic. "Let's see how the next year goes."
When you'd finally excused yourself to get another drink, your mother had stayed behind. You'd glanced back once and caught them with their heads together, your mother saying something that made Emily's expression go carefully neutral.
You hadn't thought much of it at the time.
You should have.
Graduation came and went in a blur of ceremonies and celebrations. You'd finished top of your class, had three job offers from various federal agencies, and had been preparing to accept a position with the DEA when your mother had called.
"I talked to Emily," she'd said without preamble. "She's willing to interview you for a field agent position at the BAU."
Your heart had stopped. "Mom, you didn't—"
"I absolutely did. You've wanted this since you were twenty years old. Don't pretend otherwise."
"But I don't want special treatment. I don't want to get in just because you're friends with the Section Chief—"
"Emily doesn't do favors, sweetheart. Trust me. If she's interviewing you, it's because she thinks you might actually be qualified. What you do with that opportunity is up to you."
The interview had been scheduled for a Tuesday in late May, at the BAU offices in Quantico. You'd prepared obsessively, reviewing case files, studying the team's solve rate, memorizing the names and backgrounds of every current team member. You'd bought a new suit: navy, professional, the kind of thing that said "competent" without screaming "trying too hard."
You'd been ready for a rigorous professional evaluation.
You hadn't been ready for the way Emily had looked when she'd stood to greet you in her office.
The silver in her hair had spread, no longer just threads but whole streaks that caught the fluorescent light. She'd been wearing glasses, perched on her nose as she'd reviewed what you assumed was your file. When she'd looked up and removed them, the gesture had been so casually intimate that you'd felt heat rise in your cheeks.
"Thank you for coming," Emily had said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. "I've been looking forward to this."
The interview had been brutal. Emily had pulled no punches, presenting you with hypothetical scenarios that had no clear right answers, asking you to profile her based on her office alone, challenging every assumption you'd made. She'd been professional, thorough, and absolutely merciless.
You'd loved every second of it.
Somewhere around the forty-five-minute mark, you'd been walking her through your analysis of a cold case, a series of murders in the Pacific Northwest, when you'd noticed the shift. The way Emily had leaned forward slightly, the way her eyes had tracked your movements as you'd stood to gesture at the crime scene photos she'd spread across her desk.
"The unsub isn't local," you'd said, pointing to the geographical distribution. "But he's not a drifter either. Look at the timing, every victim was taken on a Thursday, killed within forty-eight hours, bodies discovered on Saturday mornings. That's someone with a rigid schedule, probably professional obligations that keep him in place most of the time. I'd say he travels for work, something that gives him a predictable window of opportunity."
"Go on," Emily had said, and her voice had been rough, almost strained.
"The victims are all women in their forties, professional, attractive but not conventionally beautiful. They're accomplished, a lawyer, a doctor, a professor. He's not just killing women. He's killing women who represent something to him. Authority, maybe. Or success he feels he's been denied."
You'd turned to find Emily watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Intensity, yes. Professional interest, certainly. But underneath that, something else. Something that made your pulse quicken and your mouth go dry.
"That's... very good," Emily had said finally. "Better than good, actually. That's exactly the profile we developed, and it took our team three days to get there."
You'd felt a flush of pride, followed immediately by a different kind of heat when Emily had stood and moved around the desk, close enough that you could smell her perfume.
"I'm going to be honest with you," Emily had said, and there had been something almost hesitant in her voice. "You're exactly what we need. Your analytical skills are exceptional, your instincts are sound, and you have the kind of mind that could make you one of the best profilers I've ever worked with."
"But?" You'd heard the hesitation, the unspoken reservation.
Emily had been quiet for a long moment, and when she'd spoken again, her voice had been carefully controlled. "But you're also your mother's daughter. And your mother is one of my closest friends. That complicates things."
"I can handle complicated," you'd said, and you'd meant it. "I'm not asking for special treatment. I'm asking for a chance to prove myself."
Emily had looked at you then, really looked at you, and you'd seen the war happening behind her eyes. Professional judgment warring with something else. Something neither of you could afford to acknowledge.
"Okay," she'd said finally. "Okay. I'll recommend you for the position. But understand this—if you join this team, I will hold you to the same standards as everyone else. Higher, probably, because I'll be watching for any sign that I made a mistake. Any sign that I let personal considerations cloud my judgment."
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
Emily had extended her hand, and when you'd taken it, the contact had lasted a beat too long. Her palm had been warm, her grip firm, and when she'd finally released you, you'd felt the loss of that contact like a physical thing.
"Welcome to the BAU," Emily said.
Working at the BAU was everything you'd hoped it would be and nothing you'd been prepared for.
The cases were brutal. The kind of darkness that seeped into your bones and stayed there, coloring your dreams and changing the way you moved through the world. You learned to compartmentalize, to build walls between the horror you witnessed and the person you needed to be when you went home at night. You learned to trust your team, to read the subtle signals that meant someone was struggling, to offer support without making it obvious.
And you learned to exist in Emily Prentiss's orbit without combusting.
It wasn't easy.
Emily was exactly the kind of leader you'd expected: brilliant, demanding, fiercely protective of her team. She pushed you harder than anyone else, questioned your conclusions more rigorously, made you defend every profile and every instinct. At first, you'd thought it was because of what she'd said in the interview, that she was watching for signs she'd made a mistake.
It took you three months to realize the truth: Emily was pushing you because you could take it. Because you rose to every challenge she presented. Because watching you work, watching you think, seemed to give her a particular kind of satisfaction that had nothing to do with professional pride.
The team had noticed, of course. Profilers noticed everything.
"She's hard on you," JJ had said one day, catching you in the break room after a particularly grueling case review. "Harder than she is on the rest of us."
"I can handle it," you'd said, and you'd meant it.
JJ had given you a look that suggested she saw more than you wanted her to. "I know you can. I'm just wondering if you should have to."
But you didn't mind. If anything, you craved it. The way Emily's attention felt like a spotlight, bright and hot and impossible to hide from. You craved the moments when you'd present a theory and watch her eyes light up with recognition. You craved the rare praise she offered, each word of approval landing like a physical touch.
You craved her, and that was the problem.
Because Emily was your boss. Emily was your mother's best friend. Emily was twenty years older than you, with silver hair and a lifetime of experience that made your own accomplishments feel small and insignificant.
And Emily, you were increasingly certain, wanted you back.
It was in the way she looked at you when she thought you weren't paying attention, a hunger quickly masked, replaced by professional neutrality. It was in the way she found excuses to keep you late, going over case files that didn't really need reviewing, asking your opinion on matters that didn't really require your input. It was in the careful distance she maintained, never touching you unless absolutely necessary, as if she didn't trust herself with even casual contact.
It was in the way she'd frozen, just for a second, when you'd walked into the bullpen one morning wearing a new suit: charcoal gray, tailored to fit, professional but undeniably flattering. You'd caught her staring, her expression unguarded for just a moment before she'd turned away, jaw tight.
The tension between you had become a living thing, present in every interaction, every meeting, every moment you spent in the same room. The team had definitely noticed. You'd caught Tara watching you both with barely concealed amusement, and Rossi had started making pointed comments about "workplace dynamics" that made Emily's expression go carefully blank.
It had been a Thursday evening, the bullpen mostly empty, when Emily had called you into her office to review your report on the last case. You'd known the report was fine, more than fine, actually, but you'd gone anyway, climbing the stairs to her office with your heart beating too fast.
She'd been standing by the window when you entered, her back to you, silhouetted against the city lights. She'd turned at the sound of your knock, and something in her expression had made you pause in the doorway.
"Close the door," she'd said, and your hand had trembled slightly as you'd obeyed.
You'd crossed to her desk, hyperaware of every step, of the way her eyes tracked your movement. She'd gestured to the report spread across her desk, and you'd leaned over to look, bracing your hands on the edge of the wood.
She'd moved to stand beside you, close enough that you could smell her perfume, could feel the warmth of her body. Her hand had come to rest on the desk, inches from yours, and you'd both stared at the pages without really seeing them.
"This section here," she'd said, her voice lower than necessary, and she'd leaned closer, her shoulder brushing yours. "It's good. Really good."
You'd turned your head to respond and found her face inches from yours, her dark eyes locked on your mouth. The air between you had felt electric, charged with six months of wanting. You'd watched her throat work as she swallowed, watched her lean in just slightly, and your breath had caught.
Then her phone had rung, shattering the moment, and she'd stepped back so quickly she'd nearly stumbled. You'd straightened, your hands shaking, and she'd answered the call with her back to you, her voice perfectly professional, perfectly controlled.
When she'd hung up, she'd kept her distance, her expression carefully neutral. "The report is excellent. You can go."
You'd left without another word, but you'd felt her eyes on you all the way to the door. When you'd glanced back, she'd been gripping the edge of her desk, her knuckles white, staring at the spot where you'd been standing like she was trying to memorize it.
The next day, she'd barely looked at you during the morning briefing.
Until your mother's bridal shower changed everything.
Your mother's engagement had been a surprise to everyone, including you. She'd been single for years after the divorce from your father, seemingly content with her career and her friendships and her role as your occasionally overbearing but ultimately well-meaning parent. Then she'd met Richard, a retired federal judge, widowed, kind in a way your father had never been, and something had shifted.
"I didn't think I'd do this again," she'd told you when she'd announced the engagement. "But he makes me happy. And I'm too old to pretend that doesn't matter."
You'd been thrilled for her. Genuinely, completely thrilled. She deserved happiness, deserved someone who looked at her the way Richard did, like she was the most fascinating person in any room.
The bridal shower had been your idea, actually. Something small and intimate, just close friends and family, an afternoon of champagne and laughter before the wedding itself. You'd helped plan it, had spent weeks coordinating with your mother's friends, arranging catering, finding the perfect flowers.
And of course, Emily had been invited. Of course she had.
You'd known she was coming. You'd prepared yourself for it, had given yourself stern internal lectures about maintaining appropriate boundaries, about not reading too much into casual interactions, about remembering that Emily was your boss and your mother's friend and absolutely off-limits in every possible way.
None of that preparation had mattered when you'd seen her walk through the door.
She'd been wearing a dress, the first time in a very long time you'd seen her in anything other than suits or tactical gear. It was simple, elegant, a deep burgundy that made her silver hair look almost luminous. She'd left her hair down, soft waves framing her face, and when she'd smiled at your mother, you'd felt something crack open in your chest.
"You look beautiful," you'd heard Emily say, embracing your mother. "I'm so happy for you."
"Thank you for coming," your mother had replied. "I know you're busy."
"Never too busy for this. For you."
You'd stayed on the other side of the room, helping your aunt arrange gift bags, trying not to stare. Trying and failing spectacularly.
The afternoon had passed in a blur of games and toasts and the particular kind of joy that came from watching someone you loved be celebrated. You'd given a speech that had made your mother cry, had laughed at stories from her college friends, had felt genuinely, uncomplicated happy.
And through it all, you'd been aware of Emily. Her presence like a magnetic field, pulling at your attention even when you were determinedly looking elsewhere. You'd caught her watching you more than once, her expression unreadable, and each time your eyes had met, the air between you had felt charged, dangerous.
You'd been standing by the gift table, arranging the mountain of wrapped boxes, when Emily had approached.
"Your speech was lovely," she'd said, and her voice had been soft, intimate despite the crowded room. "You're good at this. At making people feel seen."
"It's easy when it's genuine," you'd replied, and then, because you apparently had no self-preservation instinct: "You look beautiful, by the way. The dress is... it's really beautiful."
Emily's expression had shifted, something vulnerable flickering across her face before she'd locked it down. "Thank you. I wasn't sure about it. I don't usually..."
"You should wear dresses more often," you'd said, and the words had come out lower than you'd intended, almost rough.
The silence that had followed had been heavy, loaded with everything you couldn't say. Emily had opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"We should probably—" she'd started, but then your mother had called your name, asking for help with something in the kitchen, and the moment had shattered.
You'd spent the rest of the afternoon carefully avoiding being alone with Emily, and she'd seemed to be doing the same. You'd caught her helping clean up, staying busy, her movements almost agitated.
When your mother had asked you to take your little cousin home, you'd been almost grateful for the excuse to leave. The tension had been becoming unbearable, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down on you until you could barely breathe.
You'd said your goodbyes, had hugged your mother, had carefully not looked at Emily as you'd ushered your cousin out the door.
You'd thought that was the end of it. You'd thought you'd escaped.
You should have known better.
The last of the guests had trickled out around four, leaving behind a pleasant debris of champagne flutes, crumpled napkins, and the lingering scent of expensive perfume. Your mother surveyed the kitchen with the practiced eye of someone who'd hosted countless gatherings, already mentally organizing the cleanup.
"You don't have to stay," she said to Emily, who was already rolling up the sleeves of her burgundy dress. "You've done enough just by being here."
"Please," Emily replied, reaching for a dish towel. "You think I'm going to leave you with all this? What kind of friend would I be?"
Your mother smiled, turning on the tap and beginning to rinse champagne flutes. They fell into an easy rhythm, the kind that came from years of friendship. Your mother washing, Emily drying, both of them moving around each other with practiced familiarity.
They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the running water and the clink of glass. Then your mother spoke, her voice casual but weighted with meaning.
"So how guilty do you feel?"
Emily's hands stilled on the glass she was drying. She didn't pretend not to understand. "So awful. And I hate that I needed to talk to you of all people about it this whole time."
Your mother glanced at her, something soft in her expression. "She's my daughter, Emily. And she's also a grown woman who makes her own choices. I've seen the way you look at her."
Emily set down the glass carefully, like she was afraid it might shatter. "I've tried not to." Her voice was rough, almost desperate. "God, I've tried so hard not to. But she's... she's witty, and she's gorgeous. And I know I shouldn't—I know all the reasons this is wrong. I could list them all day."
"But you want her anyway."
It wasn't a question. Your mother's voice was gentle, understanding in a way that made Emily's chest tight.
Emily was quiet for a long moment, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I want her anyway. And I hate myself for it."
Your mother turned off the tap, giving Emily her full attention. "How long?"
"Since she started." Emily's laugh was bitter, self-deprecating. "No, that's not true. Since the interview. She walked into my office in that navy suit, and she was so confident, so sharp, and I thought—I thought I could handle it. I thought I could be professional. And I have been. I've been so careful."
"I know you have."
"Do you?" Emily's voice cracked slightly. She picked up another glass, drying it with more force than necessary. "Because today, when she told me I looked beautiful, I almost—" She broke off, setting the glass down too hard. The clink echoed in the quiet kitchen. "I almost kissed her. Right there, in front of everyone. I wanted to so badly I could barely breathe."
Your mother was quiet for a moment, processing this. She picked up another flute, rinsing it slowly. "What stopped you?"
"You. Her career. My career. The fact that I'm her boss and I could ruin everything for her if this goes wrong." Emily's voice was rising now, all the fear and frustration she'd been holding back spilling out. "The fact that she deserves better than someone who's too damaged and too old and too—"
"Emily." Your mother's voice was firm now, cutting through Emily's spiral. She set down the glass and turned to face her friend fully. "Stop. You don't get to decide what she deserves. That's her choice."
"She doesn't know what she wants. She doesn't know me."
"Doesn't she?" There was a knowing tone in your mother's voice that made Emily look up sharply. "I've seen the way she looks at you too, you know. I'm her mother. You think I don't notice when my daughter is completely gone for someone?"
Emily made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. She pressed her palms against the counter, her head dropping forward. "That makes it worse. If she—if she feels something too, then I'm the one who has to be responsible. I'm the one who has to say no."
"Why?"
The question hung in the air, simple and devastating.
"Because I'm her boss," Emily said, but she sounded less certain now. "Because of the power dynamic. Because she's your daughter. Because-"
"Because you're scared," your mother interrupted gently. She moved closer, leaning against the counter beside Emily. "And I get it, Em. I do. But you can't protect her from everything, I've tried. And you can't protect yourself from feeling things by just... not letting yourself have them."
Emily's hands were trembling now. She gripped the counter harder, as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. "I don't know how to do this." Her voice was raw now, vulnerable in a way your mother had rarely heard. "I don't know how to want someone like this and not fuck it up. I don't let people in. I don't—I've spent my entire adult life keeping people at arm's length because it's easier. Because I can't lose what I never let myself have."
"That's not living, Emily. That's just surviving."
The words landed like a physical blow. Emily's eyes closed, and your mother saw the tears threatening to spill over.
"What if I hurt her?" Emily finally whispered. "What if I'm not—what if I can't be what she needs?"
Your mother reached out, placing a hand on Emily's arm. The touch was gentle, grounding. "What if you are? What if you're exactly what she needs, and she's exactly what you need, and you're both too scared to find out?"
"She's your daughter." Emily's voice broke on the words.
"Yes. And I love her more than anything in this world. Which is why I'm telling you this." Your mother's voice was serious now, weighted with something that sounded like both warning and permission. "If you're going to do this, if you're going to pursue this, you need to be sure. Not because of me, not because of work, but because of her. She's strong, and she's smart, and she knows her own mind. But she also feels things deeply. If you're going to let yourself want her, you need to be all in. No half measures. No running when it gets hard."
Emily opened her eyes, meeting your mother's gaze. "I don't know if I can promise that."
"Then you need to walk away now. Before it goes any further."
The silence that followed was heavy, loaded with the weight of the decision Emily was facing. Your mother watched her friend's face, saw the war happening there. Fear and desire and hope all tangled together.
"I don't think I can do that either," Emily admitted, and she sounded almost broken. "I don't think I can walk away from her. I've tried. God, I've tried so hard. But every day she walks into the office, and she smiles at me, and she's so fucking brilliant at this job, and I just—I want her. I want to know what she thinks about everything. I want to hear her laugh. I want to wake up next to her and make her coffee and listen to her talk about her cases. I want all of it, and I don't know how to stop wanting it."
Your mother's expression softened. She squeezed Emily's arm gently. "Then don't. Don't stop wanting it. Don't stop wanting her. Just... be careful with her heart. And with yours."
"I don't know what to do," Emily said, and your mother could hear the tears in her voice now. "I've never... I don't let myself want things like this. People like this. It's easier that way. Safer."
"Maybe safe isn't what you need anymore." Your mother pulled Emily into a hug, holding her friend as she finally let herself break down, just a little. "Maybe what you need is to let yourself be happy. To let yourself have something good. You've spent so long protecting everyone else, Em. Maybe it's time to let someone protect you for a change."
Emily held on tight, her face pressed against your mother's shoulder. "I'm terrified," she whispered.
"I know. But you're also brave. You're one of the bravest people I know." Your mother pulled back, looking Emily in the eye. "And I think my daughter is brave too. Brave enough to handle whatever comes. Brave enough to handle you. You are also on a very short list of people I trust with her life."
Emily laughed wetly, wiping at her eyes. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just never listened." Your mother smiled, then sobered. "I mean it, though. If you do this, be all in. She deserves that. And so do you."
Emily nodded, taking a shaky breath. She picked up the dish towel again, needing something to do with her hands. "Thank you. For not... for not being angry. For understanding."
"She's my daughter, but she's not a child. And you're my friend, but you're also a woman who deserves to be happy." Your mother turned the tap back on, returning to the dishes. "Besides, I've been watching this build for months. I was wondering when one of you would finally do something about it."
Your mother just smiled, that knowing smile that made Emily's cheeks flush. "Yet."
They finished the dishes in silence, but it was a different kind of silence now. Lighter. Full of possibility instead of tension.
When they heard the front door open and your voice calling out, your mother caught Emily's eye and smiled. "Ready?"
Emily took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. "No. But I don't think I ever will be."
"Good," your mother said. "That means it matters."
The drive to your aunt's house and back had taken forty-five minutes, and you'd spent the entire time trying to talk yourself down from whatever ledge you'd been standing on. This was ridiculous. You were being ridiculous. Emily was your boss. Emily was your mother's best friend. Emily was completely, entirely, absolutely off-limits.
The fact that you wanted her so badly it felt like a physical ache was irrelevant.
When you walked into the kitchen, your mother was smiling, a knowing, almost mischievous smile that made you quirk a brow at her. Emily's eyes were slightly red, but she'd composed herself, her expression carefully neutral.
"Hey, sweetheart," your mother said. "Can you help Emily finish the dishes? I need to go change."
And then she left, just like that, leaving you alone with Emily in a kitchen that suddenly felt far too small.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Emily kept her eyes on the dish she was drying, her movements careful and controlled. You stood by the sink, acutely aware of the space between you. Less than two feet, close enough to touch if you just reached out.
You turned on the tap and picked up a champagne flute, focusing on the simple task of rinsing away the remnants of celebration. Emily moved beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from her body, and picked up another glass to dry.
The silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. You could feel her watching you, quick glances when she thought you weren't paying attention, her gaze lingering on your hands, your profile, the curve of your neck.
You were holding back. She knew you were holding back. Every movement was careful, controlled, keeping just enough distance between you to maintain the pretense that everything was normal. That you hadn't spent the entire drive back thinking about her.
Emily set down the towel.
You felt her shift beside you, felt the change in the air, and then her hand was on the faucet, turning off the water while you were mid-rinse, soap suds still clinging to the glass in your hands.
"Emily, if we cross—"
"I talked to your mom."
The words hung between you for a heartbeat, and then Emily was kissing you.
Her hands found your hips, gripping the fabric of your dress as she pressed you back against the counter. The champagne flute slipped from your fingers into the sink with a soft clink, forgotten, as your hands came up to tangle in her hair. Wet fingers catching at her roots and insisting you dig in.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, hungry, six months of wanting compressed into a single moment. Her mouth was hot against yours, demanding, and you opened for her with a sound that was half gasp, half moan. She tasted like champagne and something darker, something that made your knees weak.
Her fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, and you could feel her everywhere. The press of her body against yours, the silk of her dress against your skin, the way she was trembling slightly as if she couldn't quite believe this was happening.
When she finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. Her forehead rested against yours, her eyes still closed, her hands still gripping your dress like she was afraid to let go.
"I've wanted to do that," she whispered, her voice rough, "for so fucking long."
You couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. So you kissed her again, softer this time, slower, and felt her melt against you.
When you finally broke apart, the kitchen felt different. The air felt different. Everything felt different.
You finished the dishes together, but the energy had shifted entirely. Every brush of her hand against yours was deliberate now. Every glance was loaded with promise. She'd lean close to put away a glass, her breath warm against your neck, and you'd have to grip the counter to steady yourself.
You moved to the counters next, wiping them down with practiced efficiency, but you kept finding excuses to be near her. To touch her. Her hand would find the small of your back as she reached past you for the spray bottle. Your fingers would brush hers as you handed her a clean cloth.
It was intoxicating, this new permission to want her openly.
You were wiping down the last counter when you heard footsteps on the stairs. Your mother appeared in the doorway, now dressed in comfortable clothes, her hair down. Her eyes swept the kitchen, the clean dishes, the spotless counters, and then landed on you.
Specifically, on your hips, where the fabric of your dress was wrinkled and creased from Emily's grip.
Her smile was knowing, almost smug, and you felt heat flood your cheeks.
"All done?" she asked innocently.
"All done," Emily confirmed, her voice steady despite the flush on her own cheeks.
"Good." Your mother's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Emily, thank you for staying to help. I know you have a long drive home."
It was a dismissal, gentle but clear, and Emily took it with grace.
"Of course," she said. "Thank you for letting me be part of today."
You walked her out, acutely aware of your mother's eyes on your back. The street was empty now, just you, Emily and her sleek black sedan under the streetlights.
Emily's hand found yours in the darkness between the door and her car, her fingers threading through yours with an ease that felt both new and inevitable.
"I'll call you," she said when you reached her car. "Later tonight. Is that okay?"
"More than okay."
She squeezed your hand, then lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles that made your breath catch. "Good. Because we need to talk about what happens next."
"I know."
"And I need to hear your voice again." Her smile was soft, vulnerable in a way you'd never seen before. "I need to make sure this is real."
"It's real," you promised.
She kissed you once more, quick and sweet, and then she was sliding into her car. You watched her drive away, your hand still tingling where her lips had been.
When you went back inside, your mother was waiting in the kitchen, two glasses of wine already poured.
"Don't say anything," you warned.
"I wasn't going to say anything," she said, entirely too innocently, and handed you a glass. "Except maybe... about time."
You groaned, but you couldn't stop smiling.
You'd been home for an hour, had changed into comfortable clothes and made tea you weren't drinking, when your phone rang.
Emily's name lit up the screen, and your heart jumped into your throat.
"Hi," you answered, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
"Hi." Her voice was soft, intimate in a way that made you feel like she was right there beside you. "I'm sorry it took me a while. I needed to drive for a bit, clear my head."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm..." She paused, and you could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm better than okay. I'm terrified, but I'm okay."
You settled back against your pillows, cradling the phone closer. "What are you terrified of?"
"That I'm going to wake up and this will have been some kind of stress-induced hallucination." Her laugh was shaky. "That you're going to realize what a mess I am and change your mind."
"I'm not going to change my mind," you said quietly. "Are you?"
"God, no." The intensity in her voice made your breath catch. "No, I've been changing my mind about this for months, and I'm done. I'm done pretending I don't want you. I'm done keeping my distance. I'm done with all of it."
"Emily—"
"I know it's complicated," she continued, her words tumbling out like she'd been holding them back for too long. "I know there are things we need to figure out. The job, your mom, all of it. But I don't care anymore. I can't care. Not when I've finally got you."
Your eyes stung with tears you didn't expect. "I've wanted this for so long."
"I know. Your mom told me." There was a smile in her voice now. "She also told me I was an idiot for waiting this long."
"She's not wrong."
Emily's laugh was real this time, warm and genuine. "No, she's not. I wasted so much time being afraid."
"You're not afraid now?"
"Terrified," she admitted. "But not of this. Not of you. I'm afraid of messing it up, of not being what you need, of—" She stopped herself. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
"Don't apologize." You pulled your blanket up around yourself, wishing it was her arms instead. "I like hearing what you're thinking."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
There was a long moment of comfortable silence, and then Emily spoke again, her voice softer. "I meant what I said. About wanting to prove myself. But I also meant what I said to your mom. About wanting you. Both things are true."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that? With me being your boss and also... this?"
"We'll figure it out," you said, and meant it. "Together."
You could hear her exhale, like she'd been holding her breath. "Together. I like the sound of that."
You talked for two hours, about everything and nothing. About the complications you'd face, how to navigate professional boundaries, and what this meant for your future at the BAU. Emily was honest about her concerns: the power dynamic, the potential for gossip, and the risk to your career if things went wrong.
But underneath all of that, there was something else. Hope. Possibility. The tentative beginning of something that felt like it could be real.
"I want to see you," Emily said finally. "Not at work. Not as your boss. Just... as me."
"When?"
"Tomorrow? I know it's Sunday, and you probably have plans—"
"I don't," you said quickly. "I don't have plans. Tomorrow is perfect."
You could hear the smile in Emily's voice. "Okay. Tomorrow. I'll text you the address."
"Emily?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For taking a chance on this. On us."
"Thank you for making me want to," Emily replied softly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," you agreed.
After you hung up, you sat in the quiet of your apartment, your phone still warm in your hand, and let yourself feel it—the joy, the anticipation, the terrifying exhilaration of standing on the edge of something new.
Your phone buzzed with a text from your mother: I'm proud of you. Both of you. Be happy.
You smiled, typing back a quick response, and then opened the new message from Emily.
It was an address in Georgetown, followed by: Brunch at 11? Fair warning: I'm a terrible cook, so we might end up ordering in.
You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room, and typed back: I'll bring coffee. See you at 11.
Emily's response came almost immediately: Can't wait.
And neither could you.
You stood outside Emily's building at 10:58, two cups of coffee in hand, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your chest. You'd changed your outfit three times that morning, finally settling on jeans and a soft sweater that felt casual but intentional. Now, staring at the elegant Georgetown brownstone, you wondered if you should have dressed up more, or maybe less, or—
The door opened before you could knock.
Emily stood there in dark jeans and a loose button-down, her hair down around her shoulders, and she was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Before you could say hello, before you could offer her the coffee, she stepped forward and kissed you.
It was soft and sure, her hand coming up to cup your cheek, and every nervous thought in your head dissolved like sugar in water. You made a small sound against her mouth, and she smiled, pulling back just enough to take the coffee cups from your hands and set them on the entry table.
"Hi," she said, her voice warm and a little breathless.
"Hi," you managed, and she kissed you again, slower this time, her fingers threading through your hair.
When she finally pulled away, she was smiling, really smiling, the kind of smile you'd only seen glimpses of before. "Come in. I should probably stop mauling you in the doorway."
"I'm not complaining," you said, following her inside.
Her apartment was beautiful, hardwood floors, exposed brick, bookshelves lining every wall. It was elegant but lived-in, with throw blankets draped over the couch and a stack of case files on the coffee table that she quickly moved aside.
"So," Emily said, handing you your coffee and settling beside you on the couch, close enough that your knees touched. "Full disclosure: I attempted to make pancakes this morning and nearly set off the smoke alarm. I ordered from that place on M Street instead. I hope that's okay."
You laughed, some of the remaining tension easing from your shoulders. "That's more than okay. I appreciate the effort, though."
"I wanted to impress you," she admitted, and there was something vulnerable in her expression. "I want a lot of things, actually. I want to know you. Really know you. Not just the professional version you show at work, but... everything. What you think about at three in the morning. What makes you laugh. What scares you." She paused, her fingers finding yours. "I want to do this right."
Your throat tightened with emotion. "I want that too. All of it."
"Good." Emily squeezed your hand. "But we need to talk about the practical stuff first. The less romantic but equally important things."
You nodded, appreciating her directness. "Work."
"Work," she agreed. "I'll need to file the relationship disclosure paperwork with the bureau. It's standard procedure when there's a supervisory relationship involved. HR will need to review it, make sure there are no conflicts of interest that can't be managed."
"Will it be a problem?" you asked, trying to keep the worry from your voice.
"No," Emily said firmly. "You report to me, but you're not directly supervised in a way that would create issues. I don't control your assignments or evaluations in a way that would be problematic—the team structure is more collaborative than that. But it needs to be documented. Official."
The word 'official' sent a thrill through you. This was real. She was already thinking about how to make it work.
"As for the team," Emily continued, her thumb stroking across your knuckles, "I think we should keep this between us for a while. Not because I'm ashamed or want to hide you, but because I want us to figure out what this is without everyone watching and weighing in. The team means well, but they're profilers. They'll analyze everything."
"I agree," you said. "I want this to be ours first. Before it becomes everyone else's business."
"Exactly." Emily's expression softened. "And at work, things have to stay professional. I can't show favoritism, and you can't expect special treatment. If anything, I'll probably keep being harder on you than anyone else, just to avoid any appearance of impropriety."
"I can handle that," you said. "I don't want special treatment. I just want to be good at my job. And I want you."
Emily's eyes darkened slightly. "You have me. I'm all in on this. On us. I just need to know you understand what you're signing up for. The complications, the scrutiny if people find out, the fact that I'm twenty years older than you and your mother's best friend and your boss. It's a lot."
"I know it's a lot," you said, shifting closer. "But I've thought about nothing else for months. I've weighed every complication, every reason this could be difficult. And none of it changes how I feel. None of it makes me want this less."
Emily studied your face, searching for doubt and finding none. "Okay," she said finally. "Okay. We're doing this."
"We're doing this," you repeated, and it felt like a promise.
She kissed you again, soft and lingering, and when she pulled back, she was smiling. "The food should be here in about twenty minutes. Until then, tell me something I don't know about you. Something real."
So you did. You told her about the year you spent volunteering at a crisis hotline in college, about the way you still called your grandmother every Sunday, about your irrational fear of birds and your secret love of terrible reality TV. And she told you about growing up moving from country to country, about her complicated relationship with her mother, about the fact that she'd always wanted a dog but never felt settled enough to get one.
You talked through brunch, through the afternoon, through the comfortable silence that fell as you curled up together on her couch. And somewhere in those hours, the nervousness faded completely, replaced by a bone-deep certainty that this, Emily, this connection, this risk you were both taking, was exactly right.
When you finally left that evening, stepping out into the cool night air, Emily walked you to the door with her hand gently resting on the small of your back. She kissed you goodbye like she'd been doing it for years, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like you'd shared a thousand evenings just like this one. Her lips lingered on yours for just a moment longer than necessary.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, pulling back with that knowing smile of hers, the one that made your stomach flip. "At work, where I'll be completely professional and probably ignore you."
"I'm counting on it," you said, grinning. "Section Chief Prentiss."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Get out of here before I change my mind about letting you leave."
You left with her laughter following you down the stairs, your heart full, your mind quiet. You were doing this. You were really doing this.
And it felt like coming home.
Walking into the BAU on Monday morning felt different. Everything looked the same, the same bullpen, the same desks, the same case files waiting to be reviewed. But you felt changed, like you were seeing it all through new eyes.
Emily was already in her office when you arrived, visible through the glass walls. She looked up when you entered the bullpen, and for just a second, her professional mask slipped. You saw the warmth in her eyes, the small smile that tugged at her lips before she controlled it.
Then she was Section Chief Prentiss again, nodding at you in greeting before returning to her paperwork.
But you'd seen it. That moment of unguarded affection. And you knew that later, after the workday ended, after the rest of the team went home, you'd see it again.
You'd spent Sunday at her apartment, talking and laughing and learning each other in ways that had nothing to do with work. You'd learned that Emily took her coffee black, that she had a weakness for old movies, that she was surprisingly competitive about board games. You'd learned that she was gentle when she touched you, almost reverent, like she still couldn't quite believe this was real.
And you'd learned that being with her felt like coming home.
"Morning," JJ said, appearing at your desk with her own coffee. "Good weekend?"
"Yeah," you said, and you couldn't quite keep the smile off your face. "Really good, actually."
JJ's eyes narrowed slightly, that profiler's instinct kicking in, but before she could ask any questions, Emily's voice came over the intercom.
"Team, conference room. We have a case."
You grabbed your tablet and followed the others, taking your usual seat at the table. Emily stood at the head, pulling up crime scene photos, her voice steady and professional as she briefed the team.
But when her eyes met yours across the table, just for a second, you saw it again, that warmth, that promise of later.
And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you'd made the right choice. You both had.
somebody needs to make a story about Emily Prentiss being good friends with a new bau agent’s mom and she falls in love with her but struggles with it because not only is she the daughter of her good friend, but also a subordinate, and way younger.
You've been secretly researching something new for your practice, and Emily's determined to figure out what. When you finally reveal your latest creation, you both decide there's only one way to properly test them. What follows is a Saturday afternoon that rewrites what you thought you knew about pleasure, connection, and Emily Prentiss speaking French in your ear.
TW: smut, aphrodisiacs, edibles, body worship, multiple orgasms, Emily speaks French, these witches are in LOVE
The knock came at 6:47 PM on a Sunday, and you were already too high to function properly.
You'd been testing ratios all afternoon, damiana to cannabis, a touch of rose petals, the smallest amount of cacao, and somewhere around batch three, you'd gotten a little too enthusiastic with the taste-testing. Now your limbs felt like warm honey, your thoughts moved like molasses, and when Emily's knock echoed through your apartment, you giggled for a full ten seconds before remembering how doors worked.
"Hi," you said when you finally opened it, grinning like an idiot.
Emily took one look at your face, eyes glassy and red, smile dopey and unguarded, and her expression shifted from concerned to amused in half a second.
"Oh, you're very high," she observed, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.
"Maybe," you admitted, then giggled again. "Okay, yes. Very yes."
Emily set her bag down and cupped your face, studying your pupils with professional assessment that was deeply undermined by the fond smile tugging at her lips. "What were you doing?"
"Science," you said solemnly, then ruined it by dissolving into laughter.
"Uh-huh." Emily guided you toward the couch, her hand warm and steady on your lower back. "When did you eat whatever you ate?"
You had to think about that. Time felt slippery. "Um. Maybe... two hours ago? Three? What day is it?"
"Tuesday."
"Then two hours." You flopped onto the couch, pulling her down with you. "I'm fine. Just floaty."
Emily settled beside you, one arm draped over the back of the couch, her fingers playing with your hair. "Have you eaten actual food today?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Does chocolate count?"
"No."
"Then no."
Emily pulled out her phone. "What do you want? Thai? Pizza? That poke place you like?"
"You're ordering me food?" Your voice went soft, affection flooding through your already-emotional high.
"Of course I'm ordering you food." Emily kissed your forehead. "You're high as a kite and probably haven't had water either. When did you last drink water?"
You gestured vaguely at the kitchen. "There's a cup somewhere."
"That's not an answer." But she was smiling, that private smile she saved just for you. "Thai it is. The usual?"
"You know my usual," you said, wonder in your voice like she'd just revealed she could read minds.
"Pad see ew, extra vegetables, spring rolls, Thai iced tea." Emily was already typing. "I've got you, baby."
You melted into the couch, watching her order food with the same focused competence she brought to everything. Even in her casual clothes, dark jeans and a soft gray sweater, she looked unfairly beautiful. The lamplight caught the silver in her hair, and you reached out to touch it without thinking.
"You're so pretty," you murmured.
Emily glanced up from her phone, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
"So pretty it makes my chest hurt sometimes." You were definitely too high to have a filter. "Like, how are you real? How are you mine?"
Her expression went soft and tender. "I ask myself the same thing about you."
"Liar. I'm a mess."
"You're my mess." Emily set her phone down and pulled you into her lap, your legs draped over hers. "And I love you exactly like this. High and giggly and saying things you'll be embarrassed about tomorrow."
"I won't be embarrassed," you protested, even though you definitely would be.
"Sure, baby." She kissed your nose. "Food will be here in thirty minutes. What do you want to do until then?"
You thought about it, which took longer than it should have. "TV?"
"What do you want to watch?"
"Something nostalgic. Something that won't make me think too hard." You brightened suddenly. "Sabrina the Teenage Witch!"
Emily laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "The 90s sitcom?"
"It's a classic! And it's about a witch, so it's basically research."
"Is that what we're calling it?" But Emily was already reaching for the remote, pulling up the streaming service. "Which season?"
"Start from the beginning. I want to see baby Melissa Joan Hart."
Emily queued up the pilot episode, and you settled against her chest, her arms wrapped securely around you. The familiar theme song started, and you hummed along, feeling safe and warm and loved.
"This show is ridiculous," Emily murmured after the first scene.
"It's perfect," you corrected. "Look at her little spell book. And Salem is iconic."
"The animatronic cat?"
"Don't disrespect Salem like that."
Emily's laugh rumbled through her chest, and you felt it more than heard it. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm, and you let yourself drift, half-watching the show, half-just existing in this moment.
When the food arrived, Emily carefully extracted herself to answer the door, and you grumbled until she came back with the food.
"Okay, up," she instructed. "You need to eat."
You sat up obediently, and she spread the food out on the coffee table, opening containers and arranging everything within reach. She even got you a glass of water, which she made you drink half of before letting you touch the food.
"You're very bossy when I'm high," you observed, shoving a spring roll in your mouth.
"Someone has to make sure you don't forget basic human needs." Emily settled beside you with her own food. "Eat. All of it."
You did, because the food was delicious and because Emily kept giving you these soft, fond looks that made your heart do stupid things. By the time you'd finished, you felt more grounded, the edge of the high mellowing into something comfortable.
"Better?" Emily asked, collecting the empty containers.
"Much better." You pulled her back down onto the couch. "Thank you for taking care of me."
"Always." She kissed your temple. "Now, are you going to tell me what you were actually doing? What were you testing?"
You bit your lip, suddenly shy despite the lingering high. "It's a surprise."
Emily's eyebrows rose. "A surprise?"
"Mhmm. I'm working on something new. For us." You played with her fingers, tracing the rose quartz ring. "But it's not ready yet."
"Should I be worried?"
"No! It's good. I promise it's good." You met her eyes. "I just want to make sure I get it right before I show you."
Emily studied you for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. I trust you."
Those three words settled into your chest, warm and solid. "I love you."
"I love you too." She pulled you closer. "Even when you're too high to remember to eat."
"Especially then," you corrected, and she laughed.
You watched three more episodes of Sabrina, Emily making increasingly sarcastic commentary that had you giggling into her shoulder. By the time she left, late, you felt settled and loved and excited about your secret project.
Wednesday afternoon, you were deep in research mode.
Your desk at the BAU was covered in carefully arranged papers, your laptop open to a tab about damiana's historical uses in Mayan culture. You'd been reading about traditional preparation methods, cross-referencing with modern herbalism texts, making notes in your journal about ratios and infusion times.
You were so focused that you didn't hear Emily approach until her voice came from directly behind you.
"Whatcha reading?"
You jumped, slamming your laptop shut so fast you nearly caught your fingers. "Jesus, Emily!"
She was leaning over your shoulder, eyebrows raised, that knowing smile playing at her lips. "Interesting reaction."
"You scared me," you said, trying to casually shuffle papers over your journal.
"Uh-huh." Emily's eyes tracked the movement. "What's 'dam-something'?"
Your heart kicked into overdrive. "What?"
"I saw the tab. Before you panic-closed your laptop like you were watching porn at work." She was fully grinning now. "Dam-something. Damiana?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a terrible liar when you're flustered." Emily leaned closer, her breath warm against your ear. "What are you researching, baby?"
"Nothing."
"Doesn't look like nothing." Her hand came to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing the side of your neck. "Looks like you're very focused on something you don't want me to know about."
You could feel heat creeping up your neck. "It's for the surprise. The thing I'm working on."
"The thing you were testing when you got extremely high on Sunday?"
"Maybe."
Emily hummed thoughtfully, and you could hear the smile in it. "And damiana is involved?"
"I'm not confirming anything."
"You know I could just Google it."
"Then Google it," you challenged, finally turning to look at her.
She was close, closer than was strictly professional, her dark eyes dancing with amusement and curiosity. "Where's the fun in that? I'd rather watch you squirm."
"You're evil."
"You love it." She straightened up, but not before pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. Subtle enough that anyone watching would miss it, but there enough that you felt it down to your toes. "I'll figure it out eventually."
"Good luck with that," you called after her as she walked back toward her office.
She glanced back over her shoulder, smirking. "I don't need luck. I'm a profiler."
You watched her go, then turned back to your research with a smile you couldn't quite suppress. Let her try to figure it out. The surprise would be worth it.
By Saturday, you were ready.
The edibles were perfect: small, dark chocolate squares infused with cannabis, damiana, rose petals, and a touch of cacao. You'd tested the ratios carefully (maybe too carefully, given Sunday's incident), and now you had a batch that was balanced, potent, and designed for exactly what you had in mind.
Emily showed up at noon with coffee and that expectant look that said she knew something was happening.
"Okay," she said, setting the coffees down and turning to face you. "I've been patient. I've waited. I've watched you be mysteriously secretive all week." She crossed her arms, but she was smiling. "What's the surprise?"
You pulled the small tin from the kitchen counter, holding it out to her. "This."
Emily took it, opening the lid carefully. Inside were twelve perfect chocolate squares, each one marked with a small moon phase pressed into the top. She lifted one, examining it.
"Edibles," she said.
"Not just edibles." You were nervous suddenly, fidgeting with your rose quartz necklace. "They're... enhanced."
"Enhanced how?"
"The cannabis is infused with damiana, rose petals, and cacao." You watched her face carefully. "Damiana is an aphrodisiac. It's been used for centuries in Central and South America for, um. Enhancing pleasure. Increasing sensitivity. Deepening connection."
Emily's eyebrows rose slowly. "You made aphrodisiac edibles."
"I made us aphrodisiac edibles," you corrected. "If you want to try them. No pressure. I just thought—" You were rambling now. "We're always so careful about being quiet, about being appropriate, and I wanted us to have something that was just for us. Something that would let us really feel everything without holding back."
Emily set the tin down carefully, then pulled you close. "You made sex edibles for us."
"When you say it like that, it sounds—"
"Incredibly thoughtful and sexy?" Emily's smile was slow and dangerous. "Because that's what it is."
Your breath caught. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She kissed you, deep and promising. "When do we take them?"
"Now, if you want. They take about an hour to kick in, and the effects last four to six hours." You pulled back to look at her. "I cleared my whole day. No plans, no obligations. Just us."
Emily's eyes darkened. "Just us."
"We don't have to—"
"I want to." She was already reaching for the tin. "How many?"
"One each to start. We can always take more later if we want."
Emily pulled out two squares, handing you one. She held hers up like a toast. "To new experiences."
"To intention and connection," you added.
You both ate them at the same time. The chocolate melted on your tongue, rich and slightly bitter, with an underlying floral sweetness from the rose petals.
"Now what?" Emily asked.
"Now we wait." You took her hand, leading her to the couch. "And we just... be together. No expectations. We'll feel it when it starts."
You settled onto the couch, Emily pulling you against her side. You put on music, something ambient and flowing, all gentle guitar and soft vocals, and just existed together. Emily's fingers traced patterns on your arm, and you played with her free hand, turning the rose quartz ring slowly.
"Tell me about damiana," Emily said after a while. "The history of it."
So you did. You told her about how the Mayans used it in spiritual ceremonies, how it was considered sacred, how it was believed to open the heart and heighten awareness. You explained how it worked physiologically, increasing blood flow, relaxing muscles, enhancing nerve sensitivity. How it worked energetically, helping people drop into their bodies and out of their heads.
Emily listened with that focused attention she gave everything you said about your practice, asking questions, making connections. And somewhere in the middle of explaining traditional preparation methods, you realized you were feeling it.
Everything felt softer. Warmer. The music seemed to wrap around you like silk, and Emily's touch on your arm sent pleasant shivers across your skin. Your body felt heavy and light at the same time, grounded but floating.
"Oh," you breathed.
Emily's hand stilled. "You feel it?"
"Yeah." You turned to look at her, and even that simple movement felt significant. Her face was slightly flushed, pupils dilated, lips parted. "Do you?"
"Yeah." Her voice was lower, rougher. "Everything feels... more."
"More," you agreed.
You weren't sure who moved first, but suddenly you were kissing, and it was like kissing for the first time all over again. Every point of contact felt electric. Her lips against yours, her hand cupping your face, your fingers tangling in her hair. You could feel your own heartbeat, could feel hers, could feel the way your breathing synchronized.
Emily pulled back, both of you gasping. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
"That's just from kissing."
"Uh-huh." You were staring at her mouth, watching the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Even that small movement felt impossibly erotic.
Emily stood, pulling you up with her. "Bedroom. Now."
You followed, but everything felt dreamlike, time stretching and compressing strangely. The walk to your bedroom felt like it took forever and no time at all. Emily closed the door behind you even though you were alone, and you realized it was about creating sacred space, about intention.
She turned to face you, and for a moment you just looked at each other. Really looked. The afternoon light coming through your windows caught in her hair, painted gold across her skin. She was so beautiful it made your chest ache.
"Come here," Emily said softly.
You crossed to her, and she pulled you close, kissing you again. Slower this time, deeper, like she was trying to memorize the taste of you. Her hands slid under your shirt, and the feeling of her palms against your skin made you gasp into her mouth.
"So sensitive," Emily murmured. "Can you feel everything?"
"Everything," you confirmed. "It's like... like every nerve is awake."
"Good." She pulled your shirt over your head, and the air against your skin felt like a caress. "I want you to feel everything I do to you."
She undressed you slowly, reverently, her fingers trailing over each new bit of exposed skin. By the time you were naked, you were trembling, overwhelmed by sensation and anticipation and the way she was looking at you.
"Your turn," you managed.
You undressed her with the same careful attention, pressing kisses to her shoulders, her collarbone, the soft skin of her stomach. Every touch felt magnified, significant. When she was finally naked, you both just stood there, drinking each other in.
"Bed," Emily said, and you went.
She laid you down gently, settling beside you, and for a long moment she just touched you. Not sexually, just... touched. Her fingers traced the curve of your shoulder, the line of your collarbone, the soft skin of your inner arm. Each touch sent waves of pleasure through you, and you realized this was what the damiana did. It made everything feel good, made every sensation a gift.
"You're so beautiful," Emily whispered, her hand coming to rest over your heart. "I can feel it beating."
"It beats for you," you said, and it didn't even feel cheesy, just true.
Emily leaned down and kissed you, and this time when her hand moved lower, sliding over your breast, you arched into the touch with a moan that surprised you both with its intensity.
"Fuck," Emily breathed. "You're so responsive."
"Can't help it." Your hands found her hair, her shoulders, her back, needing to touch her everywhere at once. "Everything feels so good."
Emily's mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting gently, and you could feel each press of her lips like a brand. When she took your nipple into her mouth, you cried out, the sensation so intense it was almost too much.
"Too much?" Emily asked, pulling back.
"No. Perfect. Don't stop."
She didn't. She took her time with your breasts, lavishing attention on each one, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan. Your hands roamed her body, mapping muscle and curve and soft skin, marveling at how good it felt just to touch her.
When Emily's hand finally slid between your legs, you were already so wet, so ready, that her fingers slipped through your folds with ease.
"God, baby," she murmured. "You're soaked."
"Want you," you gasped. "Need you."
"I've got you." She circled your clit slowly, and the pleasure was so intense you saw stars. "I'm going to make you feel so good."
She did. She took you apart slowly, carefully, paying attention to every reaction, every sound. When she finally slid two fingers inside you, you both moaned. You at the feeling of being filled, her at the feeling of how wet and hot you were around her fingers.
"You feel incredible," Emily said, her voice rough with arousal. "So tight. So perfect."
She set a slow, deep rhythm, her thumb circling your clit with each thrust. The pleasure built gradually, a slow wave that kept rising and rising. You could feel everything, the stretch of her fingers, the pressure against your clit, the heat of her body against yours, the sound of her breathing.
"Emily," you gasped. "I'm—I'm going to—"
"Let go," she whispered. "I want to feel you come."
You did, the orgasm rolling through you in waves that seemed to last forever. Your whole body shook with it, pleasure radiating out from your core to your fingertips, your toes, the top of your head. Emily worked you through it, her fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing it out until you were gasping and trembling.
When you finally came down, you realized you were crying.
"Hey, hey," Emily said softly, pulling her fingers out carefully and gathering you close. "You okay?"
"Yeah." You laughed wetly. "That was just... really intense."
"Good intense?"
"The best intense." You kissed her, tasting salt from your own tears. "Your turn."
"Baby, you don't have to—"
"I want to." You pushed her gently onto her back, settling between her legs. "I want to taste you. Want to make you feel what you just made me feel."
Emily's breath hitched, and you could see the moment she gave in, her body relaxing into the mattress. "Okay."
You started slow, kissing down her body, taking your time. Every inch of her skin tasted like salt and something uniquely Emily. When you finally settled between her thighs, you took a moment just to look at her, to appreciate how beautiful she was like this, open and wanting and trusting you completely.
The first touch of your tongue made her hips jerk, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. You did it again, slower this time, learning the taste of her, the feel of her. The damiana made everything more intense for you too. You could feel the heat of her against your mouth, could hear every tiny sound she made, could sense the way her body responded to each movement of your tongue.
"Fuck," Emily breathed, her hand finding your hair. "That feels so good."
You hummed against her, and the vibration made her moan. You took your time, exploring, finding what made her gasp and what made her moan. When you finally focused on her clit, circling it with your tongue, her thighs trembled around your head.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Please don't stop."
You didn't. You worked her higher and higher, adding your fingers when she started begging for more, curling them inside her while your tongue worked her clit. You could feel her getting close—the way her breathing changed, the way her muscles tensed, the way her hand tightened in your hair.
And then she was coming, and it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever witnessed. Her whole body arched off the bed, your name mixed with pleas falling from her lips in three languages—English, then something that sounded like French, then something else you didn't recognize but felt in your bones.
You worked her through it, gentling your touch as she came down, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs. When you finally crawled back up her body, she pulled you into a kiss that was desperate and grateful and full of love.
"Was that French?" you asked when you finally broke apart.
Emily's laugh was breathless. "Yeah. And Italian. I didn't even realize I was doing it."
"It was hot."
"Yeah?" She rolled you onto your back, settling between your legs. "Want to hear more?"
"Yes," you breathed.
"Avec plaisir."
What followed was hours of exploration, of learning each other's bodies in new ways. The damiana kept you both sensitive and aroused, able to come multiple times without the usual refractory period. Emily took you apart with her fingers, her mouth, her words. Switching between English and French and Italian, the foreign words making everything feel more intense, more intimate.
"Tu es tellement belle," she murmured against your skin. "Je t'aime. Je t'aime tellement."
You didn't need to speak French to understand. The meaning was clear in her tone, in her touch, in the way she looked at you like you were something precious.
Between rounds, you lay tangled together, talking and laughing and just existing in the heightened state the edibles created. Everything felt significant. The way the light moved across the walls, the sound of your breathing synchronizing, the feeling of her heartbeat against your palm.
"I can feel your energy," Emily said at one point, her hand resting on your chest. "Is that weird? I can feel it, like... warmth. Like light."
"That's not weird." You covered her hand with yours. "That's real. That's what I've been trying to explain about energy work. You're just sensitive enough to feel it now."
"It's beautiful." She kissed you softly. "You're beautiful. This is beautiful."
"I love you," you said, and it felt like the most important thing you'd ever said.
"Je t'aime," she replied. "Mon coeur. Ma lumière."
"What does that mean?"
"My heart. My light." Emily's smile was soft and vulnerable. "That's what you are to me."
You pulled her into another kiss, and it started all over again, the touching, the tasting, the slow build of pleasure. This time Emily took you from behind, her body pressed against your back, one hand between your legs and the other on your breast, her mouth at your ear whispering in French.
"Sens-tu comme je te désire?" she murmured, her voice rough and intimate. "Can you feel how much I want you?"
You could. You could feel everything, the hard line of her body against you, the way her muscles tensed with each movement, the deliberate slowness of her thrusts inside you. It was different from before, more primal somehow, the angle hitting somewhere deep that made you gasp.
"Yes, god, yes—" you breathed.
Her hand on your breast tightened, fingers finding your nipple and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. The sensation shot straight through you, connecting to the pleasure building between your legs in a way that made your whole body tighten.
"Tu aimes ça?" she asked, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder. "Do you like when I touch you like this?"
"I love it. Love you. Emily—"
"Je sais, mon amour." Her hips rolled against you, and the angle shifted just slightly, and suddenly she was hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. "Je sais. I know. I can feel how close you are."
You could feel her heartbeat against your back, racing as fast as your own. Her breathing was ragged in your ear, mixing with the whispered French that made everything feel more intimate, more vulnerable. The hand between your legs found your clit, and she began a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the depth of her thrusts.
"Viens pour moi," she commanded softly, and there was something in her tone, something possessive and loving all at once, that made you surrender completely. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
Your orgasm built like a wave, everything tightening, narrowing down to just sensation and her and the overwhelming feeling of being completely known and completely wanted. When it hit, it rolled through you in waves, your whole body shaking as you gasped her name.
Emily followed you over the edge moments later, her mouth pressed to your shoulder, her arms pulling you impossibly closer as she came, her entire body trembling against yours.
For a long moment, you both just breathed, still connected, still intertwined.
"Je t'aime," she whispered against your skin, the words soft and final and true.
By the time the sun started to set, you were both exhausted and sated, lying in a tangle of limbs and sheets. The effects of the edibles were starting to fade, leaving behind a pleasant afterglow and a bone-deep satisfaction.
"That was..." Emily trailed off, apparently unable to find words. She laughed, the sound tired and happy. "I can't believe you made those."
"Worth it?"
"So worth it." She pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Though I don't think I can move for at least three hours."
"Good thing we don't have anywhere to be."
You lay there in comfortable silence, watching the light change, feeling the way your bodies fit together. Eventually, Emily's stomach growled loudly, making you both laugh.
"I should feed you," you said.
"I should feed you," Emily corrected. "You're the one who did all the work making those edibles."
"We both did work today."
"Fair point." Emily sat up slowly, wincing slightly. "I'm going to feel this tomorrow."
"Good sore or bad sore?"
"The best sore." She leaned down to kiss you. "Come on. Let's order something decadent and eat it in bed."
You did. Thai food again, because it had become your thing. You ate cross-legged on the bed, stealing bites from each other's containers, talking about everything and nothing. Emily told you about growing up in multiple countries, how she'd learned languages out of necessity and loneliness. You told her about your grandmother, about learning herb lore in secret, about building your practice piece by piece.
"Thank you," Emily said eventually, setting her empty container aside. "For today. For trusting me with this."
"Thank you for being open to it." You took her hand, playing with her fingers. "For not thinking it's weird or too much."
"Nothing about you is too much." Emily pulled you into her lap, and you went willingly. "You're exactly right. Exactly what I need."
"Mon coeur," you said, testing out the French. "Ma lumière."
Emily's smile was radiant. "Your accent is terrible."
"Teach me, then."
So she did. She taught you French endearments between kisses, correcting your pronunciation with gentle patience. And when you finally fell asleep, wrapped in her arms with the taste of her still on your tongue, you dreamed in colors you'd never seen before.
Sunday morning, you woke slowly to the feeling of warmth between your legs, a gentle pressure that pulled you from sleep like rising through water. Your eyes fluttered open to find sunlight streaming through the curtains, and Emily's silver hair spread across your thighs.
"Mmm," you hummed, your hand automatically moving to her head, fingers threading through the silky strands. "Emily..."
She looked up at you, eyes dark and warm, and the sight of her there, mouth on you, completely focused on your pleasure, made your breath catch. She didn't speak, just held your gaze as she continued her slow, deliberate attention, taking her time like you had all the hours in the world.
And maybe you did. No case. No urgency. Just Sunday morning and her mouth and the lazy pleasure building in your body like honey spreading through your veins.
"God," you breathed, your hips lifting slightly. "That's... you're..."
Emily hummed against you, the vibration making you gasp. Her hands slid up your thighs, holding you steady, keeping you open for her. There was something almost meditative about it, the slow rhythm, the morning light, the way she seemed content to stay there forever.
Your orgasm built gradually, a slow tide rather than a crashing wave. When it finally washed over you, it was gentle and deep, making you arch and sigh her name like a prayer.
Emily kissed her way back up your body, taking her time, until she was lying beside you, propped on one elbow with a satisfied smile.
"Good morning," she said, voice rough with sleep.
"Very good morning." You pulled her down for a kiss, tasting yourself on her lips. "What was that for?"
"Do I need a reason to wake up wanting you?"
"No complaints here." You stretched, feeling loose and content. "But now I'm starving."
"Breakfast, then." Emily kissed your shoulder. "I'll make pancakes if you make coffee."
"Deal."
You moved through her kitchen in comfortable synchronicity, her in an oversized FBI Academy t-shirt and you in the sweater she showed up in. The coffee maker gurgled while Emily mixed batter, and you set the table with mismatched plates and the good maple syrup you kept hidden in the back of the pantry.
"Blueberries or chocolate chips?" she asked.
"Both?"
"Greedy." But she was smiling as she added both to the batter.
You ate slowly, feet tangled under the table, talking about nothing important. Emily told you about a bookshop in Paris she used to visit. You told her about the time you accidentally grew wolfsbane in your apartment and had to explain to your landlord why you needed to dispose of toxic plants.
"Shower?" Emily suggested when you'd finished, and you nodded.
You'd meant to just rinse off, to wash away the pleasant stickiness of the morning. But then Emily stepped under the spray and tilted her head back, and you forgot how to think.
Water cascaded over her body, tracing paths you'd mapped with your hands and mouth. She reached for your shampoo and worked it into her hair with long, slow movements. Her eyes were closed, head tilted back, throat exposed, and the sight of her like that—unselfconscious, beautiful, completely at ease—made something tighten low in your belly.
Her hands moved through her hair, fingers working the lather through the strands, and you couldn't look away. Couldn't stop watching the way her muscles moved, the curve of her neck, the water running down her body in rivulets.
"You're staring," Emily said without opening her eyes, a smile playing at her lips.
"Can't help it." Your voice came out rougher than intended. "You're... fuck, Emily."
She opened her eyes then, and whatever she saw in your face made her smile widen. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You stepped closer, crowding her against the tile. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
So you did. You kissed her hard, pressing her against the wall, water streaming over both of you. Your hand slid between her legs and she gasped into your mouth, already wet in a way that had nothing to do with the shower.
"Again?" she breathed. "We just—"
"I know." You kissed down her neck, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. "Can't help it. Need you."
"Oui, mon amour, prends-moi," she whispered, switching to French the way she always did when she was overwhelmed. Gods, knowing you had overwhelmed her senses enough to make it happen twice in less than 24 hours made your breath catch.
You took your time despite the urgency thrumming through your veins, working her up slowly, feeling her get wetter under your fingers. She came with her forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard, your name a broken sound in her throat.
After, you actually washed, her hands gentle in your hair, yours careful on her skin. You dried each other off slowly, trading kisses and touches, before pulling on comfortable clothes and collapsing on the couch.
"Another episode?" Emily suggested, reaching for the remote.
"Of Sabrina? Yes, please."
She queued up the next episode and you settled against her side, her arm around your shoulders, your head on her chest. The opening credits rolled and you felt her sigh, content and relaxed.
One episode rolled into another as the afternoon light shifted to evening gold, and neither of you moved to turn on lamps. You just stayed there, wrapped up in each other, in the quiet domesticity of a Sunday well spent.
"I could get used to this," you murmured eventually.
"Good," Emily said simply. "Because I'm not letting you go."
And wrapped in her arms, watching witches and talking about cats, you believed her completely.
Monday morning, you walked into the BAU together, and if anyone noticed the matching satisfied smiles or the way Emily's hand lingered on your lower back just a second too long, they were kind enough not to mention it.
Garcia, however, cornered you at your desk within the first hour.
"Okay, spill," she demanded, perching on the edge of your desk. "You both look like you had the best weekend of your lives."
You tried to keep your face neutral. "We had a nice, relaxing weekend."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." Garcia leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You're glowing. Like, actually glowing. What did you do?"
"Nothing special. Just spent time together."
"You're a terrible liar." But Garcia was smiling. "Fine, keep your secrets. But whatever you're doing, keep doing it. Emily looks happier than I've ever seen her."
You glanced toward Emily's office, where she was on the phone, and found her already looking at you. She smiled, small and private, and mouthed something that looked like "je t'aime."
You smiled back, touching your rose quartz necklace. "Je t'aime," you mouthed back.
Garcia made a sound like a kettle boiling over. "Oh my god, are you speaking French to each other? That's it. I'm dying. This is how I die. From cuteness overload."
"Garcia—"
"No, no, don't explain. Let me have this moment." She clutched her chest dramatically. "My babies are in love and speaking French and glowing like they discovered the secret to happiness."
"We kind of did," you admitted quietly.
Garcia's expression softened. "Yeah. I can see that." She squeezed your shoulder. "I'm happy for you. Both of you."
"Thanks, Garcia."
She stood, then paused. "Oh, and whatever you made that has you both looking like that? I want some. For science."
"Garcia!"
"What? I'm just saying, if you're making magical sex candies or whatever, your girl Penelope would like to be included in the distribution list."
You buried your face in your hands, laughing despite yourself. "I'm not making you sex candy."
"Your loss. I would have paid top dollar." She sashayed away, leaving you shaking your head.
Your phone buzzed with a text from Emily: What did Garcia want?
You: To know what we did this weekend
Emily: What did you tell her?
You: That we had a nice, relaxing weekend
Emily: Good answer. Though "relaxing" might be a stretch
You: You're the one who wanted round four and five and six
Emily: You're the one who made aphrodisiac edibles
You: Fair point
Emily: Lunch together?
You: Always
You looked up to find her watching you from her office, that soft smile on her face that she only wore for you.
Writing this story has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. What started as an exploration of "what if" became a meditation on resilience, love, and the quiet strength it takes to build a life with someone when the world keeps trying to tear you apart.
Emily Prentiss deserved a story where she wasn't just surviving—where she was thriving, loved fiercely and without apology.
The Ghost Network was always meant to be more than just a plot device. It was a metaphor for the things that haunt us, the threats we can't always see coming, and the way love becomes an anchor in the storm. Watching these two characters refuse to let fear dictate their future, choosing each other again and again, that's what this story was really about.
To everyone who's read, commented, and stayed with this fic through all fourteen years of their timeline: thank you. Your support made this ending possible. Your investment in their love story reminded me why I started writing it in the first place.
This is their happy ending. They earned it. And so did you.
With gratitude and love,
MB
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - VARIOUS DAYS - SEPTEMBER 2012
The week passed in fragments.
Monday, you woke up in Emily's bed and spent twenty minutes staring at Hotch's folder before finally opening it. The job description was exactly what Emily had suggested: consulting position, flexible hours, case selection at your discretion. A path back into the work without the weight of full commitment.
You closed it and didn't open it again until Wednesday.
Tuesday, you and Emily went to the Smithsonian. Wandered through the Natural History Museum like tourists, like people who had nothing more pressing than deciding which exhibit to see next. Emily made terrible jokes about the dinosaurs. You laughed more than you had in years.
That night, tangled together in her bed, she'd whispered against your shoulder: "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," you'd said, and meant it.
Wednesday, you opened the folder again. Read it properly this time, let yourself consider the possibility. The idea of working cases, of using the skills you'd spent years trying to forget, didn't feel quite as suffocating as it had a week ago.
Maybe Emily was right. Maybe ten percent was enough to start with.
Thursday, Derek Morgan knocked on Emily's door at seven in the morning with coffee and what looked like a carefully rehearsed speech.
"Can we talk?" he asked, and you'd stepped aside to let him in.
Emily was still in the shower. You sat across from Morgan at the kitchen table, watching him fidget with his coffee cup in a way that would've been endearing if you weren't so nervous about what he was going to say.
"Look," he started, then stopped. Tried again. "I was an ass. When you first showed up. I was suspicious and protective and I didn't give you a fair shot."
"You were protecting Emily," you said. "I get it."
"Yeah, but that's the thing." Morgan leaned forward, his expression serious. "I've been watching you two this past week. The way you are together. And I realized—that's not my job anymore."
You blinked. "What?"
"Protecting Emily. Making sure she's okay. That's not my job." He smiled, just slightly. "That's your job now. And you're better at it than I ever was."
The words hit unexpectedly hard. You had to look away, blinking against the sudden burn in your eyes.
"I'm sorry," Morgan continued. "For not trusting you. For making this harder than it needed to be. Emily—she's family. And I was scared of losing her again. But I can see now that you'd burn the world down before you let anything happen to her."
"In a heartbeat," you confirmed, your voice rough.
Morgan stood, moved around the table, and pulled you into a hug that was brief but genuine. "Welcome to the family," he said. "For real this time."
When Emily emerged from the bedroom, hair still damp, she found you and Morgan laughing about something, the tension that had existed between you finally, blessedly gone.
Hotch gestured to the chair across from his desk, his expression carefully neutral. You'd learned to read him over the past two weeks. The slight tension around his eyes meant he was worried, the set of his shoulders meant he was prepared for bad news.
You set the folder on his desk. "I want to talk about the position."
"All right."
"I'm interested," you said, and watched surprise flicker across his face. "But I have conditions."
Hotch leaned back in his chair. "I'm listening."
"I choose my cases. If something doesn't feel right, if I think I'm too close or too compromised, I can walk away. No questions, no pressure."
"Agreed."
"I work remotely when possible. I'll come to Quantico for consultations, for testimony, for whatever you need. But I'm not sitting in an office five days a week for eight hours."
"Understood."
"And if it stops working—if I can't do this anymore, if it costs too much—I can leave. Clean break, no hard feelings."
Hotch was quiet for a moment, studying you. "You're building in exit strategies."
"I'm protecting myself," you corrected. "I'm trying to do this work without losing myself in it again. I spent too long trying to undo Prague. That's the only way this works."
"Fair enough." Hotch pulled out a pen, made a note on the folder. "Anything else?"
You hesitated, then: "I need you to understand that Emily, comes first. If there's ever a conflict, if there's ever a choice between the job and her, I choose her. Every time."
Something shifted in Hotch's expression. Not disapproval, but something that looked almost like approval. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
He stood, extended his hand across the desk. "Welcome to the BAU."
You shook his hand, and for the first time since Prague, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - NIGHT - 09/14/2012
You told Emily over dinner.
She'd made pasta—your recipe, the one you'd cooked that first night—and you'd waited until you were both settled on the couch, wine glasses in hand, before bringing it up.
"I talked to Hotch today."
Emily's hand stilled on her wine glass. "Yeah?"
"I'm taking the position. Consulting. Part-time. On my terms."
The smile that broke across Emily's face was incandescent. "Really?"
"Really." You set down your wine, turning to face her fully. "I'm staying. Not just for the testimonies, not just for a few months. I'm staying."
Emily set down her own glass with shaking hands. "You're sure? Because I don't want you to do this for me, I want you to—"
You kissed her, cutting off the spiral of worry before it could fully form. When you pulled back, you kept your forehead pressed against hers.
"I'm doing this for me," you said firmly. "Because I want to try. Because maybe I can do this work without losing myself. Because I'm tired of running." You paused. "But I'm also doing it for us. Because I want to build something here. With you. If you want that."
"If I want—" Emily laughed, the sound caught between joy and disbelief. "Of course I want that. I've wanted that since Prague."
"Then let's do it." You pulled back enough to meet her eyes. "Let's try. Let's build something. Let's—"
Emily kissed you again, deeper this time, her hands coming up to frame your face. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"I love you," she said. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." You brushed away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. "And I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
Emily's hands slid from your face to your shoulders, then down your arms, like she was reassuring herself you were real. Solid. Here.
"Promise?" she whispered.
"Promise."
She kissed you again, and this time there was something different in it. Not just relief or joy, but heat. Want. Seven years of longing finally allowed to surface.
Your hands found her waist, pulling her closer with a gentle but insistent pressure. She came willingly, eagerly even, her body responding to yours as she shifted her weight until she was straddling your lap. Her thighs pressed against yours as she settled into position, her fingers threading through your hair, nails grazing lightly against your scalp in a way that sent shivers down your spine.
"Emily," you breathed against her mouth, her name escaping as barely more than a whisper between kisses.
"Yeah?" Her voice was soft, breathy, tinged with anticipation.
"Bedroom?" The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implication and desire.
She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her face still close to yours, and what you saw there, the want, the need, the unmistakable hunger, made your breath catch in your throat. Her pupils were dilated, her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling with quickened breaths.
"Yeah. Bedroom."
You'd been in Emily's bedroom before. Had slept there, had woken up tangled together in the early morning light. But this was different.
This was deliberate. This was a threshold you were finally, finally crossing.
Emily's hands were already working at the buttons of your shirt as you backed toward the bed, and there was something almost reverent in the way her fingers moved, like she couldn't quite believe she was allowed to do this. You let her push you down onto the mattress, let her settle over you, her weight familiar and perfect and seven years overdue.
"Is this okay?" she asked, her fingers pausing on the last button, and the vulnerability in her voice made your chest ache.
"More than okay," you said, reaching up to pull her down into another kiss. "Emily, I've wanted this—wanted you—for so long."
Her breath hitched. "Me too. God, me too."
She kissed you first, soft and tentative, like she was still afraid you might vanish if she pushed too hard. But you kissed her back with seven years of longing behind it, your hands sliding into her hair, pulling her closer.
Emily made a soft sound against your mouth, her hands finding your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, all the careful control you'd both been maintaining finally cracking.
"Emily," you breathed against her lips. "I need—"
"I know," she said, already pulling you toward the bed. "Me too."
You let her guide you backward until your legs hit the mattress. She paused, her hands framing your face, her eyes dark and intense. Your own expression just as gone, lips parted, eyes locked onto hers.
Emily's breath hitched. Then she was kissing you again, deeper this time, her hands sliding under your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs. The touch sent electricity racing through your nervous system, made you gasp against her mouth.
"Off," Emily murmured, tugging at your shirt. "I need this off."
You pulled back just enough to yank the shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you. Emily's eyes tracked over your exposed skin, her pupils blown wide, and the hunger in her expression made heat pool low in your belly.
"You're staring," you said, but there was no accusation in it. Just breathless wonder.
"I'm memorizing," Emily corrected, her hands already moving to the clasp of your bra. "Seven years. I'm not wasting a second."
The bra joined your shirt on the floor, and then Emily's hands were on you, palms warm against your skin, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that made you arch into her touch.
"Fuck," you breathed.
Emily smiled, that crooked, devastating smile you remembered from Prague. "Not yet," she said, and then she was pushing you back onto the bed, following you down.
Her mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and you couldn't stop the moan that escaped. Your hands fumbled with her shirt, desperate to feel her skin against yours, to eliminate every barrier between you.
Emily pulled back just long enough to strip off her own shirt and bra, and then she was pressing against you, skin to skin, and the sensation was overwhelming. Perfect. Everything you'd been dreaming about for seven years.
"God, I missed you," Emily whispered against your collarbone, her lips trailing lower. "Missed this. Missed us."
"We never had this," you managed, your hands sliding down her back, feeling the flex of muscle under smooth skin.
"Then I missed what we could have had." Her mouth closed around your nipple, tongue circling, and your back arched off the bed.
Your fingers tangled in her hair, holding her there as she lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between gentle and demanding in a way that had you writhing beneath her. When she finally pulled back, you were breathing hard, your skin flushed and hypersensitive.
"Pants," you said, tugging at the waistband of her jeans. "Emily, please."
She made quick work of both your remaining clothes, and then you were finally, completely bare to each other. Emily's eyes tracked over you again, slower this time, taking in every detail.
"Beautiful," she murmured, her hand sliding up your thigh. "You're so fucking beautiful."
You reached for her, pulling her back down into a kiss that was all heat and desperation. Your legs parted to let her settle between them, and the feeling of her body pressed against yours, nothing between you, made you dizzy.
Emily's hand slid between your bodies, fingers trailing through the wetness there, and you gasped against her mouth.
"So wet," she breathed, circling your clit with gentle pressure. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes," you managed, your hips rolling up to meet her touch. "Emily, please—"
"Tell me what you need," she said, her fingers still moving in maddening circles. "I want to hear you say it."
"Inside," you gasped. "I need you to fuck me."
Emily groaned, the sound vibrating through both of you. Then her fingers were sliding lower, teasing your entrance, and you were trembling with anticipation.
"Look at me," Emily commanded softly.
You forced your eyes open, meeting her gaze. The intensity there, the love and desire and seven years of longing, nearly undid you.
"I love you," she said, and then she was pushing inside, two fingers filling you in one smooth motion.
Your back arched, a cry escaping your lips. Emily stilled, giving you a moment to adjust, her free hand coming up to cup your face.
"Okay?" she asked.
"More than okay," you breathed. "Move. Please, Emily, move."
She did, setting a rhythm that had you gasping, your hands clutching at her shoulders. Her thumb found your clit, circling in time with her thrusts, and the dual sensation was almost too much.
"That's it," Emily murmured, watching your face. "God, you're gorgeous like this. So perfect."
You could feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Your hips moved to meet her thrusts, chasing the release that was so close, so close—
"Emily," you gasped. "I'm—I'm going to—"
"Come for me," she said, her voice rough with desire. "Let me see you. I need to see you."
The orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that stole your breath. You cried out, your body arching, inner walls clenching around Emily's fingers as pleasure rolled through you in devastating pulses.
Emily worked you through it, her movements gentling as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your face, your neck, your shoulders.
"Beautiful," she whispered. "So beautiful."
When you could finally breathe again, you pulled her into a kiss, pouring everything you felt into it. Then you rolled, using your weight to flip your positions until Emily was beneath you, looking up with surprise and arousal in her eyes.
"My turn," you said, and the smile that crossed Emily's face was pure sin.
You took your time, mapping her body with your hands and mouth, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her arch into your touch. When you finally slid your fingers inside her, when you felt her clench around you and heard her cry out your name, it felt like coming home.
After, you lay tangled together, sweat-slicked and sated, Emily's head on your chest, your fingers trailing lazy patterns on her back.
"We survived seven years," you corrected gently. "And now we're here."
Emily lifted her head to look at you, and the emotion in her eyes made your throat tight. "Now we're here," she agreed.
You pulled her into a kiss, soft and sweet and full of promise. Outside, the world continued on, but in this moment, in Emily's bed with her warm and real in your arms, nothing else mattered.
You'd found your way back to each other. And this time, you weren't letting go.
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - MORNING - 09/15/2012
You woke to Emily's alarm and the realization that you'd slept through the night without nightmares for the first time in seven years.
Emily stirred beside you, reaching over to silence the alarm before burrowing back against your side.
"Don't wanna get up," she mumbled.
"Then don't."
"Have to. Paperwork." But she didn't move.
You pressed a kiss to her hair. "I need to go back to my place. Start packing."
That got her attention. Emily lifted her head, blinking sleep from her eyes. "Packing?"
"Well, yeah. If I'm staying, I should probably move my stuff here. Unless—" You paused, suddenly uncertain. "Unless you don't want me to? I can get my own place, I just thought—"
"No," Emily interrupted. "No, I want you here. I just—you're really staying."
"I'm really staying." You cupped her face, making sure she was looking at you. "I'm staying, Emily. I'm moving in. I'm taking the job. I'm building a life here. With you."
Emily's smile was brilliant. "Okay. Good. That's—that's really good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She kissed you, morning breath and all. "When do you want to go get your stuff?"
"Today? Tomorrow? Whenever works."
"Today," Emily said decisively. "I'll take the day off. We'll drive up, get your things, drive back. Make it official."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." Emily was already getting out of bed, energized in a way you hadn't seen before. "I want to help. I want to—I want to be part of this. All of it."
You watched her move around the room, pulling on clothes, already planning the logistics in her head. And something in your chest settled, warm and certain.
The drive was long but comfortable. Emily had insisted on driving, claiming she knew the route better, and you'd let her because watching her drive—confident and relaxed, one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching over to squeeze yours—was its own kind of pleasure.
"What are you smiling about?" Emily asked, catching you staring.
"Nothing. Everything. You."
She laughed. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I've got."
Your apartment was small, a sublet you'd been renting month-to-month since leaving Prague. You'd never bothered to make it feel like home. There didn't seem to be a point when you'd spent seven years convinced you didn't deserve one.
Emily looked around, taking in the sparse furniture, the lack of personal touches. "You really were ready to run at any moment."
"Yeah," you admitted. "I was."
"But not anymore?"
"Not anymore."
It didn't take long to pack. You didn't have much: clothes, books, a few personal items that had survived seven years of moving. Emily helped, folding clothes and packing boxes with an efficiency that spoke to years of practice.
"You've done this before," you observed.
"Moved a lot as a kid. Diplomat parents." Emily taped up a box. "I got good at packing light."
"Is that why your apartment is so..."
"Sparse?" Emily supplied. "Yeah. Hard to break the habit."
You crossed to her, pulling her into a hug. "We'll make it less sparse. Together."
Emily held you tight. "I'd like that."
By late afternoon, everything was packed into Emily's car. You took one last look at the apartment, at the space that had been a placeholder, and locked the door behind you. Sliding the key under the mat and letting out a breath.
"Ready?" Emily asked.
"Ready."
Unpacking was slower than packing had been. Emily insisted on finding the perfect place for everything, rearranging her bookshelves to make room for yours, clearing out half her closet with a care that made your throat tight.
"You don't have to do all this," you said, watching her reorganize her dresser.
"I want to." Emily looked up, her expression serious. "I want you to feel like this is your home too. Not just my place that you're staying in. Our place."
"Our place," you repeated, testing the words. They felt good. Right.
By the time you finished, the apartment looked different. More lived-in. More like a home.
Your books sat next to Emily's on the shelves. Your clothes hung beside hers in the closet. Your toothbrush sat in the holder next to hers in the bathroom.
Small things. Normal things. Things that meant everything.
That night, you fell asleep in Emily's arms, in your shared bed, in your shared home, and dreamed of the future instead of the past.
INT. QUANTICO - BAU BULLPEN - MORNING - 09/09/2026
You stood in the bullpen, coffee in hand, watching your team work. Your team. The words still felt surreal sometimes, even after four years as Unit Chief.
The BAU had changed since you'd first walked through these doors. New faces, new cases, new challenges. But the core of it, the dedication, the drive to protect people who couldn't protect themselves, that remained the same.
"Chief?" One of your agents, Tyler Green, young and brilliant, approached with a file. "The profile's ready for review."
"Thanks. Leave it on my desk. I'll look at it after the morning briefing."
Tyler nodded and headed back to his desk. You watched him go, remembering when you'd been that young, that certain, that convinced you could save everyone.
You were older now. Wiser. You knew you couldn't save everyone.
But you could try. And that had to be enough. It was enough.
"You're doing that thing again."
You turned to find Emily leaning against the railing outside her office. The Section Chief's office, with its view of the entire bullpen. She was smiling, that soft smile she reserved for you.
"What thing?"
"That proud-parent thing. Watching your team like they're your kids."
"They're not my kids. They're highly trained federal agents."
"Uh-huh." Emily's smile widened. "Tyler is twenty-nine. You literally packed him a lunch last week."
"He forgets to eat when he's working a case."
"My point exactly." Emily descended the stairs, crossing to you. Even after all these years, even in the middle of the bullpen with a dozen agents watching, she didn't hesitate to press a quick kiss to your cheek. "Good morning, by the way."
"Morning." You caught her hand, squeezed it briefly before letting go. Professional boundaries, even if everyone knew you were married. "Sleep okay?"
"Would've slept better if someone hadn't stolen all the blankets."
"I don't steal blankets. I redistribute them fairly."
"To your side of the bed."
"Exactly. Fair."
Emily laughed, and the sound still made your heart skip after all these years. "You're impossible."
"You love me anyway."
"I really do." She glanced at her watch. "Briefing in ten?"
"Briefing in ten," you confirmed.
Emily headed back toward her office, and you turned back to your team. Fourteen years. Sometimes it felt like yesterday that you'd been standing in this same bullpen, terrified and uncertain, trying to decide if you could do this work again.
And sometimes it felt like a lifetime ago.
Your phone buzzed. A text from Emily: It's technically our anniversary.
You smiled, typing back: Emily, we've been married for ten years. Our anniversary is in December.
Her response came quickly: Yeah, but 14 years ago today, you decided to stay. And I decided to stop being scared of loss if it meant getting to love you.
Your throat tightened. You looked up at her office, found her watching you through the window. She was smiling, that soft, private smile that was just for you.
You typed: Best decision I ever made.
Second best, she replied. First best was saying yes when I proposed.
You cried through the entire proposal. I could barely understand what you were asking.
But you still said yes.
Of course I did. I love you.
I love you too. Now stop texting me and get ready for the briefing. You're the Unit Chief. Set an example.
You laughed, pocketing your phone. Fourteen years. A lifetime and no time at all.
INT. PRENTISS HOME - NIGHT - 09/17/2022
The house was quiet when you got home, the kind of quiet that came after a long day, when the world finally stopped demanding things from you. Emily's car was already in the driveway, which meant she'd beaten you home for once.
You found her in the kitchen, jacket discarded over a chair, sleeves rolled up, pouring two glasses of wine.
"Hey," she said, looking up with that smile that still made your heart skip. Ten years of marriage, and she could still do that to you.
"Hey yourself." You crossed to her, accepting the glass she offered. "How was your day?"
"Long. Bureaucratic. The usual joys of being Section Chief." Emily took a sip of her wine, then set it down. "But it's better now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She stepped closer, her hand finding your waist. "Now I'm home. With my wife."
The word still sent a thrill through you. Wife. You'd been married for a decade, and it still felt like a gift every time she said it.
You set your own glass down and pulled her closer. "Your wife had a pretty long day too."
"Then we should probably do something about that." Emily's voice dropped, taking on that low, intimate tone that meant she had ideas about how to unwind.
You kissed her, slow and deep, tasting wine and promise. Her hands slid up your back, pulling you flush against her, and you felt the familiar heat start to build between you.
This was different from those early days, less desperate, less frantic. But no less intense. If anything, knowing each other this well, knowing exactly how to touch, how to tease, how to make each other come undone, it made everything sharper, sweeter.
Emily's mouth moved to your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that made you gasp, "Em."
"Bedroom?" she murmured against your skin.
"Couch is closer."
She laughed, low and warm, and walked you backward toward the living room. Your hands found the buttons of her shirt, working them open as she guided you. By the time the back of your legs hit the couch, you'd gotten her shirt open, your palms sliding over warm skin and the silk of her bra.
Emily's hands were equally busy, tugging your shirt free from your waistband, fingers tracing patterns on your stomach that made your breath catch. She kissed you again, harder this time, with intent, and you sank down onto the couch, pulling her with you.
She settled over you, one knee between your thighs, and the pressure made you arch up into her. Her shirt hung open, and you pushed it off her shoulders, wanting more skin, more contact, more of everything.
"God, I love you," Emily breathed, her hands working at your belt.
"Love you too," you managed, then her phone rang.
You both froze.
"Ignore it," Emily said, her mouth finding yours again.
You did. The phone stopped ringing. Emily's hand slid lower, and you were just starting to lose yourself in the sensation when the phone rang again.
"Damn it." Emily pulled back, frustration clear on her face. "I'm sorry. I have to—"
"I know. Answer it."
She grabbed her phone from where she'd left it on the coffee table, frowning at the screen. " Section Chief Prentiss."
You watched her face change as she listened, saw the moment she went from frustrated to alert to something else entirely. Something you couldn't quite read.
"When?" A pause. "And you're sure it's him?" Another pause, longer this time. "Okay. Yes. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
She ended the call and just sat there for a moment, still straddling your lap, her shirt hanging open, her expression stunned.
"Em? What is it?"
"They found him." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "The last one. The last member of the Ghost Network. After ten years, they finally found him."
Your heart stopped, then started again, too fast. "What?"
"Derek's SWAT team made the arrest twenty minutes ago. He's in custody." Emily's hands were shaking slightly. "It's over. The Network is gone. Chen's organization has completely fallen. It's actually over."
You stared at her, trying to process it. Ten years. A decade of looking over your shoulder, of wondering if there was still someone out there, some loose end that might unravel everything. And now—
You were already moving, sliding out from under her. "We have to go."
"I—" Emily looked down at your state of undress, at her own. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't—"
"Em." You were already buttoning your shirt, tucking it in. "We both have to go. This is it. The final piece. We need to be there."
She nodded slowly, then stood and started fixing her own clothes with slightly unsteady fingers. You grabbed your jacket from the back of the couch, checked for your badge and gun.
Emily paused at the door, keys in hand. "Ten years," she said, looking back at you. "Ten years, and you've been by my side through all of it."
"Where else would I be?" You crossed to her, pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "Come on. Let's go finish this."
She smiled, that real smile, the one that reached her eyes and made them shine. "Together."
"Always together."
The drive to Quantico was quiet, both of you lost in thought. Ten years. The Ghost Network, the threat that had shaped so much of your life for the past decade, was finally, truly over.
You thought about everything that had happened since that day in 2012 when you'd first learned about Doyle, about the danger Emily had been in. Since you both realized the program you were fed into. You thought about the fear, the uncertainty, the cases that had kept you both up at night.
But you also thought about the life you'd built together despite it all. The apartment that had become a house. The partnership that had become a marriage. The love that had only grown stronger with each passing year.
Emily reached over and took your hand, squeezed once.
You squeezed back.
Fourteen years, and you'd been by her side through all of it.
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Emily Prentiss deserves to be happy so I made it happen. Tooth-rotting fluff, Emily not knowing how to be loved, thank god for JJ and Penelope.
You and Emily reach for the same pastry, a shared danish and a month later, her best friends corner her at work. JJ and Penelope's interrogation bleeds into your lunch date, and it leads to the most horrifying moment of Emily's life.
The thing about secrets is that Emily Prentiss has always been good at keeping them. It's practically in her DNA. Years of diplomatic dinners where one wrong word could spark an international incident, followed by years in the field where silence could mean the difference between life and death. So when she meets you at that coffee shop three blocks from Quantico on a random Tuesday morning, she doesn't think twice about keeping it to herself.
It starts innocently enough. You're reaching for the same pastry in the display case, and when your fingers brush, you pull back with an apologetic smile that makes something in Emily's chest do an uncomfortable flip. You insist she take it, she insists you take it, and somehow you end up sharing it at a corner table while your respective coffees grow cold.
You're a librarian at Georgetown. You have paint on your jeans from crafting that morning. You laugh at Emily's dry observations about the other customers, and when she has to leave for work, you write your number on her napkin in neat, careful handwriting.
Emily stares at that napkin for three days before she texts you.
That was a month ago.
Now, Emily finds herself doing things she hasn't done in years, leaving work exactly on time, checking her phone between case files, and smiling at nothing in particular. It's terrifying. You're terrifying, in the way that genuinely good things often are when you've spent most of your life waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You text her pictures of your cat. You remember that she takes her coffee black with one sugar. You ask about her day and actually listen to the answer, even when she has to be vague about the details. Last week, you brought her homemade soup when she mentioned having a cold, showing up at her apartment with a thermos and a soft smile, not expecting to be invited in, not asking for anything in return.
It makes Emily feel physically ill when she thinks about it too long: this kindness, this sweetness, this complete absence of ulterior motive. She's spent so long armoring herself against the world that she doesn't quite know what to do with someone who approaches her with open hands.
So she doesn't tell anyone. Not the team, not her friends, not even after the fourth date, or the eighth, or the night you fall asleep on her couch mid-movie and she covers you with a blanket and watches you breathe for longer than she'd ever admit.
She should have known she couldn't keep it hidden forever. Not from profilers. Not from Penelope Garcia and JJ, who have made it their personal mission to know everything about everyone they love.
It's a Thursday afternoon, and Emily is in her office tackling the never-ending mountain of paperwork that comes with being Unit Chief, when her door opens without a knock. She doesn't need to look up to know who it is—she can hear the clicking of Penelope's heels and smell JJ's jasmine perfume.
"We need to talk," Penelope announces, closing the door behind them with an ominous click.
Emily doesn't look up from her report. "If this is about the budget meeting, I already told Strauss—"
"It's not about the budget meeting," JJ interrupts, and there's something in her tone that makes Emily's pen still on the page.
She looks up. Both women are staring at her with identical expressions: arms crossed, eyebrows raised, the kind of look that has broken hardened unsubs in interrogation rooms.
"Okay," Emily says slowly, setting down her pen. "What's this about?"
Penelope moves first, circling the desk to perch on the edge of it, while JJ takes one of the chairs across from Emily. They're boxing her in, Emily realizes. Classic interview technique.
"You've been different," JJ says simply.
"Different how?"
"Happy," Penelope supplies, and the word hangs in the air like an accusation. "You've been happy, and you haven't told us why, and we've been very patient, but it's been over a month, and Emily Prentiss, if you don't start talking right now—"
"There's nothing to talk about," Emily tries, but even she can hear how weak it sounds.
JJ leans forward. "You left at 5:30 last Tuesday. On the dot. You never leave at 5:30."
"You smiled at your phone during the briefing on Monday," Penelope adds. "A real smile. The kind that reaches your eyes."
"And you've been wearing that necklace," JJ continues, gesturing to the delicate silver chain at Emily's throat, a gift from you, given just last week, with a shyness that made Emily's heart ache. "I've never seen it before."
Emily's hand moves unconsciously to the necklace, and she knows she's been caught. She could lie, she's an excellent liar when she needs to be, but these are her best friends, and suddenly she's exhausted from the weight of keeping this to herself.
She sighs, long and deep, and slumps back in her chair. "Her name is Y/N."
The squeal that Penelope lets out is barely human. JJ's face breaks into a grin so wide it must hurt.
"Her?" Penelope gasps. "Oh my god, her? Tell us everything. Right now. Every single detail."
"There's not much to tell," Emily protests, but she can feel her cheeks warming.
"Lies," JJ says cheerfully. "Start from the beginning. How did you meet?"
Emily knows resistance is futile. She takes a breath and begins. "Coffee shop. About a month ago. We reached for the same pastry."
"That's adorable," Penelope breathes. "Like a meet-cute from a movie. What does she do? What's she like? Have you kissed her? Of course you've kissed her, it's been a month—"
"She's a librarian," Emily interrupts before Penelope can spiral further. "At Georgetown. She's... she's really sweet."
The way Emily says 'sweet' makes JJ's expression soften. "Sweet in a way that scares you," she observes quietly, because JJ has always been able to read Emily better than almost anyone.
Emily looks down at her hands. "She brought me soup when I was sick. She didn't even come in, just... dropped it off. She bakes bread from scratch. She has a cat named Victor Frankenstein. She remembers everything I tell her, even the small stuff. And she's just... she's good. Genuinely good. It's terrifying."
"Oh, Emily," JJ says, and there's so much understanding in those two words that Emily has to blink rapidly.
"How many dates?" Penelope asks, slightly softer now.
"I don't know. We don't really... we just see each other. Get dinner, or she comes over, or I go to her place. We went to a bookstore last weekend and spent three hours there. She bought me a first edition Dickinson and wouldn't let me pay her back."
"You're in deep," JJ observes.
"I'm not—" Emily starts, then stops. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm trying not to think about it too hard."
"Why haven't you told us?" Penelope asks, and there's no accusation in it, just genuine curiosity.
Emily considers the question. "Because telling you makes it real. And if it's real, then it can fall apart. And I don't... I'm not sure I can handle that right now."
"Or," JJ offers gently, "it's real, and it doesn't fall apart, and you get to be happy."
Before Emily can respond, her phone rings. Your name lights up the screen, and Emily's entire demeanor shifts. Her shoulders relax, her expression softens, and Penelope and JJ exchange a look that speaks volumes.
Emily reaches for the phone, then hesitates, glancing at her friends. They're watching her with barely contained glee, and she knows there's no point in asking them to leave.
She answers. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," your voice comes through, warm and slightly apologetic. "I'm downstairs. I think you forgot about lunch?"
Emily's eyes fly to the clock on her computer. 12:45. You were supposed to meet at 12:30, and she was supposed to come down, but she got so caught up in being interrogated that she completely lost track of time.
"Shit," she mutters. "I'm sorry, I got caught up in—"
"It's okay," you interrupt, and you sound like you mean it. "I know you're busy. I can just head back, we can reschedule—"
Emily looks at Penelope and JJ, who are both leaning forward in their seats like they're watching the season finale of their favorite show. She thinks about keeping you separate, keeping this thing precious and private and protected. Then she thinks about what JJ said, about being happy, about things not falling apart.
She takes a breath.
"Do you want to come up, actually?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line. "Up? To... to your office?"
"Yeah. If you want. No pressure."
"Are you sure?" You sound nervous, which makes Emily smile despite herself.
"I'm sure. Sixth floor. I'll let security know you're coming."
"Okay," you say, and Emily can hear the smile in your voice. "Okay, I'll be right up."
Emily hangs up and immediately looks at Penelope, who has her hand literally pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide and sparkling. "If you scream—" Emily warns.
Penelope makes a muffled sound that might be a squeal, might be a squeak, might be both. JJ is grinning so hard she looks like the Cheshire Cat.
"Be normal," Emily pleads, standing up to smooth down her shirt, then immediately feeling ridiculous for doing so. "Please, both of you, be normal human beings."
"We're always normal," Penelope protests, finally removing her hand from her mouth. "We're the most normal. I'm going to be so normal she won't even believe it."
"That's not reassuring."
"What's she look like?" JJ asks. "Wait, don't tell me. I want to be surprised."
Emily paces behind her desk, suddenly nervous in a way she hasn't been since she was a teenager. "Maybe this was a mistake. I should call her back, tell her—"
"Don't you dare," Penelope interrupts. "You invited her up. She's coming. We're going to meet the woman who made Emily Prentiss smile at her phone during a briefing, and it's going to be wonderful."
There's a soft knock at the door, and Emily's heart does something acrobatic in her chest. She crosses the room and opens it, and there you are.
You're wearing jeans and a soft green sweater that brings out your eyes, your hair slightly windblown, and you're holding two paper bags that smell like the Italian deli three blocks over. When you see Emily, your whole face lights up in a way that makes Emily forget, just for a moment, that there are two profilers watching this entire interaction with rapt attention.
"Hi," you say softly.
"Hi," Emily echoes, and she can't help it, she smiles, real and genuine and completely unguarded.
"I brought lunch," you continue, holding up the bags. "I got your usual, and I wasn't sure if you'd eaten, so I got extra in case...." You trail off as you notice Penelope and JJ for the first time. "Oh. You have company. I'm sorry, I should have—"
"No," Emily says quickly, stepping back to let you in. "No, it's fine. This is... these are my best friends. Penelope Garcia and Jennifer Jareau. They were just... we were just..."
"Interrogating her about you," Penelope finishes cheerfully, standing up and extending her hand. "Hi. I'm Penelope. I've heard absolutely nothing about you until fifteen minutes ago, but I already love you because you make Emily smile like that."
You shake her hand, looking slightly overwhelmed but charmed. "Y/N. It's nice to meet you."
"JJ," JJ introduces herself, also standing to shake your hand. "And ignore Penelope. We're not usually this intense."
"Yes we are," Penelope corrects. "But only because we care."
You look at Emily, who shrugs helplessly. "I told you about them," she says, and you laugh. That soft, genuine laugh that Emily has become slightly addicted to over the past month.
"You did," you agree. "The tech analyst and the one who saved you from a burning building. You didn't mention they were ambush specialists."
"It's a secondary skill set," JJ says, and Emily can see her doing what she always does, assessing, analyzing, forming opinions. But there's warmth in her eyes, approval, and Emily feels something tight in her chest loosen slightly.
"We were just leaving," Penelope announces, grabbing JJ's arm. "Leaving you two to have lunch. Alone. In private."
"We were?" JJ asks, then catches Penelope's meaningful look. "Right. Yes. We were. Lots of work to do. Cases to solve. Bad guys to catch."
They move toward the door, but Penelope pauses, turning back to you. "It was really nice to meet you, Y/N. I hope we see you again soon."
"Me too," you say, and you sound like you mean it.
When they're gone, the door clicking shut behind them, you turn to Emily with raised eyebrows. "So. That happened."
"I'm sorry," Emily says. "They cornered me, and then you called, and I just—"
"Emily," you interrupt, setting the lunch bags down on her desk and crossing to where she's standing. "It's okay. I'm glad I got to meet them. They clearly care about you a lot."
"They're going to tell everyone," Emily warns. "By the end of the day, the entire team will know."
You step closer, and Emily can smell your perfume. Something light and floral that she's come to associate with safety, with softness, with things that don't hurt. "Is that okay?" you ask quietly. "Me being... something people know about?"
Emily looks at you, really looks at you. At the hope in your eyes, the vulnerability, the way you're trying to seem casual about this when she knows it matters to you. She thinks about all the reasons she's kept this quiet, kept you separate, kept herself protected. And then she thinks about what it felt like to say your name out loud to her best friends, to stop hiding something that makes her happy.
"Yeah," she says, and means it. "Yeah, it's okay."
Your smile could power the entire building. "Good. Because I brought you the carbonara you like, and it's getting cold."
You eat lunch in her office, you sitting in one of the chairs across from her desk, Emily in her usual spot, and you tell her about your morning. A story about a patron who tried to check out seventeen books on beekeeping and got into an argument with the automated system. Emily tells you about the paperwork she's been drowning in, and you listen like it's the most interesting thing you've ever heard.
When you leave, forty-five minutes later, you kiss her at the door, brief and sweet and completely chaste, but it still makes Emily's skin warm. "Text me later?" you ask.
"I will," Emily promises.
She watches you walk down the hallway toward the elevators, and she's so distracted that she doesn't notice Penelope's head popping out of her office until she hears, "She's perfect. You're keeping her. This isn't a discussion."
Emily turns to find not just Penelope, but also JJ, Tara, and Alvez all standing in the hallway, various degrees of smugness on their faces.
"Really?" Emily asks. "All of you?"
"Garcia sent a 911 text," Alvez explains, grinning. "Said there was a development in the 'Emily's Secret Life' case."
"I hate all of you," Emily says, but there's no heat in it.
"You like her," Reid observes. "Your pupils are dilated, you're smiling, and you've touched that necklace twelve times in the last minute."
"I'm a profiler, Reid. I know what I'm feeling."
"And what are you feeling?" JJ asks, softer now, the teasing edge gone from her voice.
Emily looks down the hallway where you disappeared, then back at her team, her family, if she's being honest. "Terrified," she admits. "But... good. I'm feeling good."
"She brought you lunch," Penelope sighs dreamily. "And she has a cat named Victor Frankenstein. And she bakes bread. Emily, if you don't marry her, I will."
Tara claps Emily on the shoulder. "Happy for you, Prentiss. She seems great. Little young for you, maybe—"
"She's thirty-four," Emily interrupts. "That's not that young."
"Defensive about your girl," Alvez notes with a grin. "Noted."
They drift back to their respective desks eventually, but not before extracting a promise from Emily to bring you to the next team dinner. Emily agrees, mostly to get them to leave her alone, but also because the idea doesn't fill her with quite as much dread as it might have a few hours ago.
Back in her office, Emily sits down at her desk and sees that you've left a note on one of the napkins from lunch. It's simple, just a few words in your careful handwriting: Thank you for letting me in.
Emily reads it three times, then carefully folds it and tucks it into her wallet, right next to the first napkin you ever wrote your number on.
Her phone buzzes. A text from you: Your friends are lovely. Penelope already found me on Instagram and liked 7 photos. Should I be concerned?
Emily laughs out loud, alone in her office, and types back: That's actually showing restraint for her
Three days later, you're standing outside Emily's apartment with a bottle of wine and a container of tiramisu from the Italian bakery near your place. Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. Not quite racing, but not quite steady either.
You knock, and the door opens almost immediately. Emily's in jeans and a soft gray sweater, her hair down and slightly damp like she's recently showered. She looks younger like this, more relaxed, and the smile she gives you is warm and unguarded.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi." You hold up the wine and dessert. "I come bearing gifts."
"You didn't have to do that." But she's already stepping aside to let you in, and when you pass her in the doorway, you catch the scent of her perfume mixed with something cooking. Garlic, maybe, and tomatoes.
Emily closes the door behind you and takes the wine from you, fingers brushing yours. "Make yourself comfortable. Dinner's almost ready."
You follow her into the kitchen, which is small but efficient, and watch as she stirs something in a pot on the stove. "What are we having?"
"Pasta puttanesca. It's one of the few things I can make without burning down the building." She glances over her shoulder at you. "I hope that's okay."
"It's perfect."
And it is. The dinner is simple but delicious, and you eat at her small dining table with candles she lit without making a big deal about it. The conversation flows easily—you tell her about a difficult student you're working with, and she tells you about a case that's been keeping her up at night. Not the details, never the details, but enough that you understand the weight she carries.
"Do you ever get used to it?" you ask quietly. "The things you see?"
Emily's quiet for a moment, twirling pasta on her fork. "No," she says finally. "But you learn to carry it differently. You learn to find the good things and hold onto them."
The way she looks at you when she says it makes your breath catch.
After dinner, you insist on helping with the dishes despite her protests. You end up standing side by side at the sink, her washing and you drying, and it feels absurdly domestic in a way that makes your chest ache. Emily's shoulder bumps against yours as she hands you a plate, and neither of you moves away.
"This sweater looks good on you." Emily says softly.
You set the plate down on the counter, blushing a tad, "Thank you Emily."
When the dishes are done, you migrate to the couch with the tiramisu and two forks. Emily pours you both wine, and you end up sitting closer than strictly necessary, your thigh pressed against hers. The conversation shifts to lighter things, books you've both read, places you want to travel, the ridiculous names Penelope has apparently given to all her computers.
"She calls one of them 'The Oracle,'" Emily says, shaking her head. "I don't ask questions anymore."
You laugh, and Emily watches you with something soft in her expression. "What?" you ask.
"Nothing. I just—" She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table. "I'm really glad you're here."
"Me too."
There's a moment where neither of you moves, where the air between you feels charged with possibility. Then Emily reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek, and leans in.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like she's giving you room to pull away. But you don't. You lean into it, your hand finding the back of her neck, and the kiss deepens. She tastes like wine and something sweeter, and when she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, you're both breathing a little harder.
"You're terrifying," Emily whispers.
You blink, pulling back just enough to see her face. "What?"
"You're terrifying," she repeats, and there's something raw in her voice. "The way you make me feel. How easy this is. How much I want—" She stops, shakes her head. "It's terrifying."
You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "I'm the least scary person alive."
Emily laughs, the sound soft and a little breathless. "That's what makes it worse." Her thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "You're not supposed to be this easy to fall for."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Who says there are rules?"
"Fair point." Emily kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, and when she pulls you closer, you go willingly.
When you finally break apart, you're half in her lap, her hands steady on your waist. "Stay," she says quietly. "I mean—not like that, unless you want to, but just—stay. A little longer."
"Okay," you say, and settle against her side, her arm around your shoulders. "I can do that."
You stay until the candles burn low and the wine bottle is empty, talking and kissing and existing in the quiet comfort of each other's presence. And when you finally do leave, well past midnight, Emily walks you to the door and kisses you one more time.
"Text me when you get home," she says.
"I will."
"And maybe—" Emily hesitates, then pushes forward. "Maybe we could do this again? Soon?"
You smile, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'd really like that."
The next day, Emily makes it through her last meeting on autopilot. She's supposed to be reviewing case files, but all she can think about is the way you looked in her apartment, that stupid sweater, the taste of wine on your lips.
The second the meeting ends, she's out of her chair and heading straight for Garcia's office. She spots JJ in the hallway and grabs her arm without breaking stride.
"Garcia's office. Now."
JJ's eyebrows shoot up. "What—"
"Now, JJ."
Penelope looks up from her screens when they burst through the door, Emily closing it firmly behind them. "Well, well, well. To what do I owe this dramatic entrance?"
Emily paces the small space between the desk and the wall of monitors. "I'm in so deep."
"We know," JJ says, leaning against the desk with a knowing smile.
"No, you don't understand." Emily runs a hand through her hair. "No one makes me nervous. I've gone undercover with terrorists. I've stared down serial killers. But last night I hesitated. Me. I hesitated before kissing her because I was nervous."
Penelope's face softens into something unbearably fond. "Oh, honey."
"That's actually really sweet," JJ adds.
"It's terrifying," Emily corrects, but there's no heat in it. "I said she was terrifying and she laughed because—" she chuckled one, panicked, "God, she has no idea."
"So what are you going to do about it?" Penelope asks.
Emily stops pacing. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," JJ says slowly, like she's explaining something to a child, "are you going to keep having these perfect dates and pretending this is casual, or are you going to actually do something about it?"
"We're... I mean, we're seeing each other."
"Seeing each other," Penelope repeats flatly. "Emily Prentiss, I have seen you take down unsubs twice your size without blinking, and you can't even define this relationship?"
"I'm not—it's not that I can't—"
"Ask her to be your girlfriend," JJ says simply.
Emily's mouth opens. Closes. "I—"
"Your what?" Penelope prompts, grinning now.
"My girl—" Emily actually stutters over the word. "My girlfriend."
"Oh my God," JJ says, delighted. "You can't even say it."
"I can say it!" Emily protests. "Girlfriend. See? Girlfriend."
"Then go say it to her," Penelope says, shooing her toward the door with both hands. "Go! Right now!"
"I can't just show up at her job—"
"Yes, you can," JJ says, and physically pushes Emily toward the door. "You absolutely can. In fact, you're going to."
"But I—"
"No buts." JJ opens the door and gives Emily one more gentle shove. "Go get your girlfriend, Prentiss."
Emily stumbles into the hallway, turns back to argue, but JJ and Penelope are both making shooing motions, their faces bright with encouragement and barely suppressed laughter.
"You're both terrible," Emily says, but she's already pulling out her phone to text you.
"We're the best friends you've ever had!" Penelope calls after her.
Emily doesn't argue. She's too busy typing: Are you free? I need to ask you something.
Your response comes almost immediately: I'm always free for you.
And Emily, despite her nerves, despite the way her hands are shaking slightly, can't help but smile as she heads to gather her stuff.
The Georgetown library is quieter than Emily expected for a Thursday afternoon. Her footsteps echo too loudly on the marble floors as she makes her way through the main reading room, past students hunched over laptops and ancient texts. She's been here before, picked you up once after a late shift, but today everything feels different. More significant.
She practiced what she was going to say three times in the car. Then deleted the mental script entirely because it sounded ridiculous. Then tried to reconstruct it. Then gave up.
Your office is tucked away on the third floor, a small space you share with two other archivists. Emily knows you're usually there on Thursdays, cataloging new acquisitions. She also knows she's being slightly insane, showing up unannounced like this, but JJ's voice is still in her head: Go get your girlfriend.
Except you're not her girlfriend. Not officially. That's the whole point of this terrifying mission.
Emily finds your office door half-open, and through the gap she can see you at your desk, completely absorbed in whatever you're examining. The late afternoon light slants through the window, catching in your hair, a pencil tucked behind your ear.
Emily's heart does something complicated in her chest.
She knocks softly on the doorframe.
You look up, and your whole face transforms when you see her. That smile, the one that's just for Emily, the one that makes her feel like she's the only person in the world worth smiling at like that.
"Hey," you say, already standing, already moving toward her. "I didn't think you'd get here so fast. Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," Emily says quickly. Then, because she's apparently incapable of being normal about this: "Well. Not fine. I mean, nothing's wrong. Everything's good. I just—I needed to—"
She's doing this badly. She's doing this so badly.
You're watching her with that gentle, patient expression that somehow makes Emily feel both more nervous and more safe. "Do you want to come in? Sit down?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." Emily steps into the office and closes the door behind her, which suddenly feels like a very significant action. "I need to ask you something."
"Okay," you say slowly, and there's the tiniest hint of concern in your voice now. "You're kind of freaking me out a little."
"I'm freaking myself out," Emily admits. She runs a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she can't seem to stop. "This is—I had a whole thing planned. What I was going to say. But it all sounded wrong, and now I'm just—"
"Emily." You step closer, close enough that Emily can smell your perfume. "Whatever it is, just say it."
Right. Just say it. Like it's that simple.
Emily takes a breath. "I've been thinking about what we're doing. This—us. And I know we've been taking it slow, which is good, that's been good. But I also think—I mean, I know that I—"
She's doing it again. Overcomplicating it.
"I want you to be my girlfriend," Emily says, and the words come out in a rush, inelegant and graceless. "Officially. I want to be able to call you that. I want—I want this to be real. More real. I mean, it's already real, but I want it to be—"
"Yes," you say.
Emily stops mid-ramble. "What?"
"Yes." You're smiling now, that soft, devastating smile that Emily is absolutely not prepared for. "I want that too. I've wanted that."
"You have?"
"Emily." You laugh, and it's the sweetest sound Emily's ever heard. "I've been yours since that first coffee. I was just waiting for you to be ready."
Something in Emily's chest loosens, unfurls. "I'm ready," she says, and she means it. "I'm terrified, but I'm ready."
"You don't have to be terrified." You reach for her hand, lacing your fingers together. "It's just me."
"That's exactly why I'm terrified," Emily says honestly. "Because it's you. Because this matters."
You step closer, until there's barely any space between you. "It matters to me too."
Emily kisses you then, soft and sure, and it feels like sealing a promise. When she pulls back, you're both smiling.
"So," you say, a teasing note in your voice. "Does this mean I get to meet your team officially? As your girlfriend?"
Emily groans. "They're going to be insufferable about this."
"I can handle insufferable."
"You say that now." But Emily's smiling, and she can't seem to stop. "Fair warning: Penelope's probably already done a full background check on you."
"I like Penelope."
"Everyone likes Penelope." Emily squeezes your hand. "I should let you get back to work. I just—I needed to ask. In person."
"I'm glad you did." You kiss her again, quick and sweet. "Even if you did show up looking like you were about to defuse a bomb."
"It felt like defusing a bomb," Emily admits.
"Well, you did it." You walk her to the door, still holding her hand. "Text me when you get back to Quantico?"
"I will." Emily pauses in the doorway, looking back at you. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad you said yes."
Your smile is radiant. "I'm really glad you asked."
Emily makes it all the way to her car before she texts the group chat: I did it.
The responses are immediate and enthusiastic and exactly what Emily expected. She's still reading through Penelope's string of heart emojis when her phone buzzes with a text from you: For the record, you're the least scary person alive when you're asking someone to be your girlfriend.
Emily laughs, alone in her car, and thinks that maybe she's starting to believe that being vulnerable isn't the same as being weak.
She drives back to Quantico with the windows down and the radio up, and for the first time in a long time, Emily Prentiss lets herself be completely, unreservedly happy.
"I'm not asking you to make a decision today," Hotch said. "I'm asking you to consider the possibility that maybe, you deserve a second chance in this work. That you deserve to be part of something good again."
In the aftermath of the case, the BAU team gathers to debrief at Quantico, where the weight of everything that's happened settles heavily on everyone involved. Hotch navigates difficult conversations with both Emily and reader about what comes next. Emily and the reader begin the delicate work of rebuilding what was broken.
Thank you so much for staying with this story through all the heartbreak, the revelations, and the slow, messy work of healing. We're almost at the end. Chapter 10 is the final chapter, and I can't wait to share it with you. This penultimate chapter is really about choices and possibilities. Standing at a crossroads, trying to figure out what a future could look like when you've spent so long running from the past.
See you at the end. 6k words, little angst warning but what are you here for?
The conference room felt different in the aftermath.
Same table, same chairs, same walls that had witnessed countless debriefs. But the air was heavier now, weighted with the kind of exhaustion that came from winning a battle at too high a cost.
You sat between Emily and Reid, watching Section Chief Strauss stand at the head of the table with two DOJ officials flanking her like bookends. Brennan was there too, his expression considerably warmer than it had been during your interrogation two days ago.
"The Chen investigation has been officially closed," Strauss said, her voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone delivering good news that didn't feel good. "Director Chen is in federal custody awaiting trial. The remaining Network operatives have been identified and are being processed through appropriate channels."
She paused, and you saw her eyes flick to the empty chair where Lukas should have been sitting. Where he would have been sitting, if Chen hadn't had him killed in his cell.
"The Bureau recognizes the exceptional work done by this team," Strauss continued. "Particularly Agents Prentiss and Morgan, Dr. Reid, and our consultant." She nodded in your direction. "Your actions prevented the exposure of fifty-three undercover operatives and dismantled a criminal network that had been operating with impunity for seven years."
Applause would have been inappropriate. No one moved.
One of the DOJ officials, a woman named Patricia Donovan with steel-gray hair stepped forward. "On behalf of the Department of Justice, I want to personally thank you for your dedication and courage. The evidence you gathered will be instrumental in prosecuting not only Director Chen, but several other individuals who facilitated her operations."
She pulled out a folder, sliding it across the table to Hotch. "Formal commendations for the entire team. And a recommendation for the Attorney General's Award for Distinguished Service for Agent Prentiss and our consultant."
You felt Emily stiffen beside you.
"Thank you," Hotch said, his voice even. "The team appreciates the recognition."
But you could hear what he wasn't saying: Recognition doesn't bring back the dead. It doesn't undo the Espionage accusation against his team.
The meeting continued: logistics, testimony schedules, security protocols for the upcoming trials. You tried to focus, tried to track the details that would matter later. But your eyes kept drifting to Emily.
She sat perfectly still, her posture impeccable, her expression professionally neutral. But you could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers pressed too hard against the pen she was holding. The exhaustion etched into the fine lines around her eyes.
She looked like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.
Finally, mercifully, Strauss dismissed the meeting. The team began to disperse, but Hotch's voice stopped Emily before she could stand.
"Prentiss. My office. Now."
Emily's face went carefully blank. You watched her follow Hotch out, watched the way her shoulders squared like she was preparing for impact.
JJ caught your eye across the table, her expression concerned. Morgan was frowning. Even Reid looked worried.
"She'll be fine," Rossi said quietly, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Hotch isn't going to throw her under the bus."
"Then why does it feel like he's about to?" Morgan muttered.
You stood, needing to move, needing to do something other than sit and wait and worry. Garcia appeared at your elbow, her usual brightness dimmed.
"Coffee?" she offered. "Or something stronger? I have a flask in my desk that I absolutely did not bring to a federal building."
Despite everything, you almost smiled. "Coffee's fine."
INT. QUANTICO - HOTCH'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS
Emily stood in front of Hotch's desk, hands clasped behind her back, waiting for the axe to fall.
She'd known this was coming. Had known from the moment they'd boarded that unauthorized flight to Prague that there would be consequences. Had accepted it as the price of doing what needed to be done.
She just hoped Hotch would let her resign quietly. That he wouldn't make her go through a formal disciplinary hearing, wouldn't force her to defend choices she'd make again in a heartbeat.
Hotch closed the door, moved to his desk, but didn't sit. He pulled out a file, set it on the desk between them.
"The Prague operation," he said.
Emily nodded once. "Sir, I take full responsibility—"
"I authorized it," Hotch interrupted.
Emily blinked. "What?"
"I authorized the operation. Retroactively." He opened the file, turned it so she could see. Official Bureau paperwork, signed and dated. "According to these documents, you requested permission to pursue a lead in Prague on September 5th. I granted that permission. You followed proper protocol."
Emily stared at the papers, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. "But—that's not—"
"It's what the record shows," Hotch said firmly. "And the record is what matters."
"You could lose your job for this," Emily said, her voice barely above a whisper. "If anyone finds out you backdated authorization—"
"Then I'd lose it for the right reasons." Hotch's expression softened slightly. "You did what needed to be done, Prentiss." He spoke like it was the truth of the universe, like it was final under his say. "You stopped a traitor, prevented a catastrophic intelligence breach, and kept your team safe. That's what matters."
Emily felt something crack in her chest, the careful control she'd been maintaining suddenly too heavy to hold. "Lukas is dead because of us. Because we brought him into this."
"Lukas is dead because Chen killed him," Hotch corrected gently. "Because he chose to do the right thing, knowing the risks. That's not on you."
"Isn't it?" Emily's hands clenched into fists. "We made him promises. We told him we'd protect him. And then—"
"And then you did everything in your power to keep that promise," Hotch said. "You went to Prague. You got the evidence. You brought Chen down. Lukas knew what he was risking. He made that choice."
Emily looked away, blinking hard against the sudden burn of tears. "It doesn't feel like enough."
"It never does." Hotch moved around the desk, leaning against it so he was closer to her eye level. "This job—it costs us. Every case, every decision, every person we can't save. It costs us pieces of ourselves. And if we're not careful, we lose track of what we're fighting for."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "Are you okay, Emily?"
The question caught her off guard. Not Agent Prentiss, not the professional distance he usually maintained. Just Emily. Just concern.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know if I'm okay. I don't know if I should be okay. I don't know—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I don't know how to do this anymore. How to keep making these choices, keep losing people, keep—"
"Keep going," Hotch finished. "I know. Believe me, I know."
Emily met his eyes, saw the understanding there. Hotch had lost Haley. Had almost lost Jack. Had made impossible choices and lived with the consequences.
"How do you do it?" she asked. "How do you keep going?"
"I remember why I started," Hotch said simply. "I remember the people we save. The families we protect. The justice we bring to those who can't fight for themselves." He paused. "And I remember that I'm not alone. That I have a team I trust. People who have my back, even when the choices are impossible."
Emily nodded, not trusting her voice.
"You kept your team safe," Hotch continued. "That includes yourself. Don't forget that."
He straightened, moving back behind his desk. Professional distance sliding back into place. "Take the rest of the week. You and Y/n" He paused. "You both need time to process. To rest. That's an order."
"Yes, sir," Emily said.
As she turned to leave, Hotch spoke again. "Emily. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you. Of the agent you are. Of the person you are, you've become. Don't lose sight of that."
Emily's throat tightened. "Thank you, sir."
She left before the tears could fall.
INT. QUANTICO - BULLPEN - CONTINUOUS
Emily made it three steps out of Hotch's office before JJ intercepted her.
"You look like you need a drink," JJ said, falling into step beside her. "Or twelve."
"I'm fine," Emily said automatically.
"That's bullshit and we both know it." JJ steered her toward the break room, away from the curious eyes of the bullpen. "When's the last time you did something that wasn't about the job? This case?"
Emily opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She honestly couldn't remember.
"Exactly," JJ said. "You've been running on adrenaline and coffee for a week. You need to stop. Breathe. Do something normal."
"I don't know how to do normal anymore," Emily admitted.
JJ's expression softened. "Then try. Take her somewhere. Somewhere that isn't crime scenes and safe houses and federal buildings. Just—be together. Without the ghosts."
Emily felt her chest tighten. "I don't want to pressure her. She's been through enough without me adding expectations—"
"I don't think that's the problem," JJ interrupted gently. "I think you're scared she'll leave again."
Emily looked away, unable to deny it.
"Em." JJ waited until Emily met her eyes. "You can't protect yourself from being hurt by never letting anyone close. That's not living. That's just surviving."
"Surviving is what I'm good at," Emily said.
"Yeah, well, maybe it's time to try something else." JJ squeezed her shoulder. "You deserve to be happy. You both do. Don't let fear steal that from you."
Emily nodded, not trusting her voice.
JJ smiled. "Now go. Get out of here. Take her somewhere nice. Somewhere with good food and no talk about cases. And for God's sake, Emily, let yourself have this."
What you hadn't been expecting was the folder Hotch slid across his desk, or the words that came with it.
"I'd like to offer you a permanent position as BAU consultant," Hotch said. "With a potential path to full agent status, if that's something you'd be interested in pursuing."
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up: shoulders tensing, walls slamming into place, every instinct screaming danger.
"I appreciate the offer," you said carefully, "but—"
"I'm not asking for an answer now," Hotch interrupted. "Think about it."
"I don't need to think about it." The words came out sharper than you'd intended. "I'm not interested in,"
"In what?" Hotch's gaze was steady, assessing. "In staying? Or in doing this work again?"
The silence stretched between you, heavy with implications.
"You're good at this," Hotch continued. "Better than good. And the team, they trust you. That's not something I say lightly."
"I can't." Your hands clenched in your lap. "I'm sorry, but I can't do this again."
"I'm not asking you to do what you did in Prague," Hotch said. "I'm asking you to consider whether you want to be part of something that matters. On your terms this time."
He pushed the folder closer. "Take a week. Read this. Then decide."
You took the folder because refusing would have been more awkward than accepting. But you didn't open it. Didn't look at whatever carefully crafted job description and benefits package he'd prepared.
"I know what happened to you," Hotch said quietly. "In Prague. What you sacrificed. What it cost you."
Your eyes snapped to his. "Emily told you."
"She didn't have to. I can read between the lines." He leaned back in his chair. "You walked away from this life because it took everything from you. I understand that. But I also think you're still running from it. And running doesn't heal the wounds. It just makes them harder to see."
"With respect, sir, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Hotch's expression was calm, but there was steel underneath. "I lost my wife because of this job. I almost lost my son. I've made choices that haunt me every single day. So yes, I think I do know what I'm talking about."
You looked away, jaw tight.
"I'm not asking you to make a decision today," Hotch said. "I'm asking you to consider the possibility that maybe, you deserve a second chance in this work. That you deserve to be part of something good again."
He stood, signaling the end of the conversation. "Take the week. Read the file. Talk to Emily. Then decide."
You left his office with the folder clutched in your hand, feeling like you'd just been given a bomb with a timer you couldn't see.
Not the comfortable silence of a safe house in the early morning, but something else. Something that made her skin prickle with unease even before she was fully conscious.
She lay there for a moment, trying to identify what was wrong. The light filtering through the curtains was pale, dawn just breaking. Everything looked normal. Felt normal.
Except it didn't.
Emily sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. Listened.
Nothing. No sounds from the kitchen, no water running, no soft footsteps in the hallway. The kind of nothing that felt like absence rather than peace.
She got out of bed, pulled on yesterday's clothes, and opened her door.
The hallway was empty. Your door was closed.
"Y/n?" she called softly.
No answer.
Emily walked to your door, knocked gently. "Hey. You awake?"
Still nothing.
A thread of worry wound through her chest. You were always up early, always moving, always restless in the mornings. The silence felt wrong.
She tried the handle. Unlocked.
The door swung open on an empty room.
Emily's heart stuttered. The bed was made or never slept in. The dresser drawers were slightly open, empty. The closet door hung ajar, showing bare hangers.
"Y/n?" Her voice was sharper now, edged with panic.
She stepped inside, looking for signs of struggle, for anything that would explain the wrongness of this. But there was no violence here. Just absence. Just the careful erasure of a person who'd decided to disappear.
The fireplace caught her eye. She crossed to it, crouched down.
Ash. Fresh ash, still faintly warm. She could see the corner of what might have been a passport, the edge of a photograph, all of it burned beyond recognition.
Emily's hands were shaking as she stood. This wasn't an abduction. This was a choice.
You'd left.
You'd burned your documents and packed your things and walked out in the middle of the night, and you hadn't said a word. Hadn't left a note. Hadn't—
The door opened behind her.
Emily spun, hand instinctively going for her weapon.
Lukas stood in the doorway, his face carefully neutral in that way that meant he was working very hard to hide something. His eyes swept the room, taking in the empty drawers, the ash in the fireplace, Emily standing in the middle of it all.
"Where is she?" Emily's voice was steady despite the way her world was tilting. "Where's Claire?"
Lukas didn't answer immediately. He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him with a soft click that felt ominous.
"Agent Prentiss—"
"Where. Is. She." Not a question anymore. A demand.
"Gone." The word was flat, final. "She left last night."
Emily's breath caught. "Left? What do you mean, left? We have a mission, we have—" She stopped, reading something in his expression. "You knew. You knew she was leaving."
Lukas's jaw tightened. "I knew she needed to disappear."
"Disappear?" Emily's voice rose. "What the fuck does that mean? We're in the middle of an operation, we're supposed to be—" She broke off, a horrible realization dawning. "The Network. They found out."
Lukas didn't confirm or deny, but his silence was answer enough.
"And you just let her go?" Emily's hands clenched into fists. "You didn't think to tell me? To give me a chance to—"
"To what?" Lukas's voice was sharp now, cutting. "To get yourself killed trying to protect her? To compromise your own cover? She made the right call, Agent Prentiss. The only call."
"The right call would have been to come to me!" Emily was shouting now, past caring about protocol or professionalism. "We could have figured something out, we could have—"
"There was nothing to figure out." Lukas moved closer, his voice dropping to something almost gentle, which was somehow worse. "The Network issued a kill order. She had hours, maybe less. The only way she survives is if she disappears completely. No contact, no trace, no connection to anyone from her old life."
The words hit like physical blows. Kill order. Disappear. No contact.
"No." Emily shook her head, refusing to accept it. "No, there has to be another way. We can protect her, we can—"
"We can't." Lukas's eyes were hard now, all business. "And if you try, if you go looking for her, you'll lead them right to her. Is that what you want?"
Emily's throat closed. She couldn't speak, couldn't breathe past the weight of what he was saying.
"The best thing you can do for Claire Monroe," Lukas continued, relentless, "is forget she ever existed. Move on with your mission. Let her disappear."
"I can't." The words came out broken. "I can't just—"
"You have to." Lukas's voice softened slightly. "For her sake. For yours. This is how she stays alive, Agent Prentiss. This is the only way."
Emily looked around the empty room, at the ash in the fireplace, at the space where you should have been. Evidence of your careful erasure, your methodical disappearance.
You'd left without saying goodbye. Without giving her a chance to fight for you, to find another way, to do anything but wake up to this hollow absence.
"Did she..." Emily's voice cracked. "Did she say anything? Leave any message?"
Lukas hesitated, and Emily saw something flicker across his face. Pity, maybe. Or guilt.
"No," he said finally. "Nothing."
The lie was obvious, but Emily didn't have the strength to call him on it. What would be the point? You were gone. That was the only truth that mattered.
She walked past Lukas, out of your empty room, down the hallway to her own. Closed the door and locked it and stood there in the morning light, trying to understand how her entire world had shifted in the space between sleeping and waking.
You were gone.
And she hadn't even known to say goodbye.
Emily sank down onto her bed, wrapped her arms around herself, and let the tears come. Silent, wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. Grief for what she'd lost, rage at being left behind, terror for what might happen to you out there alone.
Love, sharp and useless and too late.
She'd never told you. Never found the courage to say the words that had been building in her chest for months. And now you were gone, disappeared into the wind, and she'd never get the chance.
The morning light grew stronger, indifferent to her breaking.
Somewhere out there, you were running. Alone. In danger.
And there was nothing Emily could do but let you go.
Lukas stood outside Emily's door, listening to the muffled sounds of her crying. His hand hovered near the handle, then dropped.
He walked down the hallway to Marcus's room. Found him sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, looking like he'd aged a decade overnight.
"She's devastated," Lukas said quietly.
Marcus didn't look up. "I know."
"You could have told her. Given her a chance to say goodbye."
"No." Marcus's voice was rough. "If I'd told her, she would have tried to stop it. Or worse, tried to go with her. This way, she's safe. She stays on mission. She doesn't become a target."
"She's going to hate you for this."
"I know." Marcus finally looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. "But she'll be alive to hate me. That's what matters."
Lukas studied him for a long moment. "You really think she made it out?"
"She's smart. Resourceful. If anyone can disappear, it's her." Marcus's voice held a conviction that sounded like prayer. "She'll make it."
"And if the Network finds her anyway?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But for now, she's got a head start. New identity. Clean break. It's the best chance she's got."
Lukas nodded slowly. "What do we tell The Network?"
"The truth. Claire Monroe is dead. We'll file the paperwork, close out her legend, move on with the operation." Marcus stood, squaring his shoulders like he was preparing for battle. "And we keep Emily focused on the mission. Keep her safe. That's what Y/n would want."
"Is it?" Lukas asked quietly. "Or is that just what you're telling yourself?"
Marcus didn't answer. He walked past Lukas, out of the room, down the hallway toward the kitchen. Moving forward because standing still meant thinking about what he'd done, what he'd cost both of you.
Behind her locked door, Emily cried.
In Munich, you walked through a train station, alone and terrified and free.
And in Prague, the safe house felt like a tomb.
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - EVENING - 09 09 2012
You let yourself into Emily's apartment with the key she'd slipped onto your keyring while you were sleeping, a gesture so casual and yet so significant that you'd spent ten minutes just staring at it that morning.
The apartment was empty, Emily still at Quantico finishing paperwork. You'd left early, needing space to think, to process Hotch's offer and everything it implied.
You set the folder on the coffee table, unopened, and moved to the kitchen.
Cooking had always helped you think. The methodical process of chopping vegetables, measuring ingredients, the alchemy of turning separate components into something cohesive. It was meditative in a way that sitting still never was.
You were halfway through making pasta, nothing fancy, when you heard the door open.
Emily stopped in the doorway, surprise flickering across her exhausted face. "You're cooking."
"I'm cooking," you confirmed, stirring the pasta. "Hope that's okay."
"It's—" Emily set down her bag, her weapon, the careful armor she wore at work. "It's really okay. I just wasn't expecting—"
"Company?" you offered. "Someone using your kitchen? Me still being here?"
"Any of the above." Emily moved into the kitchen, opening the wine fridge and pulling out a bottle of red. "This okay?"
"Perfect."
You worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, you plating the pasta, Emily opening the wine and setting the table. Domestic choreography that felt both foreign and achingly familiar.
You ate quietly at first, the exhaustion of the past week settling over both of you like a blanket. But the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that came from being with someone who understood, who didn't need words to fill every space.
"Hotch offered me a job," you said finally, setting down your fork.
Emily's hand paused mid-reach for her wine glass. She recovered quickly, her expression carefully neutral. "That's, that's good. He wouldn't offer if he didn't mean it."
"I told him no."
"Oh." Emily's voice was very small.
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable anymore. It was heavy, weighted with all the things neither of you were saying.
"I don't know if I can do this work again," you said, staring at your plate. "The cases, the cost, the—"
"You don't have to explain," Emily interrupted.
"Don't I?" You looked up, meeting her eyes. "You're here. You do this every day. If I leave—"
"Then you leave." Emily's voice was too controlled, too careful. "I'm not going to ask you to stay for me."
The words landed wrong, like a door closing when you'd expected it to open.
"Is that what you want?" you asked. "For me to leave?"
"I want you to do what's right for you." Perfectly avoidant and perfectly Emily.
"That's not an answer."
Emily stood abruptly, started clearing dishes even though neither of you had finished eating. "I don't know what answer you want me to give."
"An honest one," you said, standing too.
Emily's hands stilled on the plates, hovering inches from the counter. For a long moment, she just stood there, her back to you, shoulders rigid with tension.
"Honestly?" Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm terrified. I'm terrified you'll stay and resent me for it. I'm terrified you'll leave and I'll spend another seven years wondering if you're alive. I'm terrified that no matter what happens, I'm going to lose you again."
You crossed to her, gently taking the plates from her hands and setting them back on the table. "Emily—"
"I can't ask you to stay." She finally turned to face you, and the vulnerability in her eyes made your chest ache. "I won't. But I also can't pretend I'm okay with you leaving."
"So what do we do?"
Emily's laugh was hollow. "I don't know. I just know I'm not ready to say goodbye."
You reached for her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. "I'm not either. And I'm not leaving. Not like before. Even if I don't take the job, I'm not disappearing."
"You can't promise that," Emily said quietly.
"Yes, I can." You squeezed her hand. "I'm not running anymore. Whatever happens, wherever I end up, you'll know. You'll always know."
Emily's eyes searched yours, looking for the lie, the catch, the inevitable betrayal. But you held her gaze, letting her see the truth of it.
"The investigation isn't over," you continued. "There's going to be testimonies, court hearings, depositions. We were key witnesses to a massive government breach. I'll be here for months, at least."
"Months," Emily repeated, something like hope flickering in her expression.
"At least." You watched her mind let itself feel the moment of hope, her thumb sliding over your hand.
"Stay," Emily said immediately. Then, more carefully: "I mean, if you want. You could stay here. Flying back and forth is expensive. And exhausting. And the guest room is just sitting there empty. Save on a lease, avoid the flying, you don't have to permanently move here yet. It would be practical."
"Practical," you echoed, a smile tugging at your lips.
"Very practical," Emily agreed, but she was smiling too now. "Purely logistical."
"Right. Logistics." You stepped closer. "Nothing to do with the fact that I sleep better when you're next to me."
"Or that I've gotten used to waking up with you," Emily added softly.
"Or that the idea of going back to sleeping alone makes me want to—"
Emily kissed you, cutting off the words. Soft and sweet and full of promise.
When you broke apart, she was still smiling. "Think about it," she said again. "Please."
"Okay," you whispered. "Okay."
You were curled up on the couch together, Emily's head on your shoulder, some mindless TV show playing in the background that neither of you were really watching.
"JJ cornered me today," you said. "Said you needed to get out of your head."
Emily groaned. "JJ needs to mind her own business."
"She said we should do something normal. Something that isn't about the case."
"Like what?" Emily asked, tilting her head to look at you.
"I don't know. What do normal people do?"
Emily laughed, the sound surprising both of you. "I have no idea. It's been so long since I was normal."
"We could try," you suggested. "Tomorrow. No talk about Chen, no talk about Prague. Just us. Doing something that doesn't involve federal crimes or international conspiracies."
"Yeah," you agreed. "But maybe the good kind of terrifying?"
Emily shifted, pressing closer. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. Even if it's just for now."
"Me too," you said, pressing a kiss to her hair.
Neither of you moved to the guest room that night. The pretense of separate spaces had dissolved somewhere between the pasta and the promises, leaving just the truth: you wanted to be together, and for now, that was enough.
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - LATE NIGHT
You were lying in bed, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth of each other. The darkness made it easier to speak, to say the things that felt too vulnerable in daylight.
"I'm scared," you admitted.
"Of what?" Emily's voice was soft in the darkness.
"That I'll stay for the wrong reasons. That I'll leave for the wrong reasons. That there are no right reasons."
Emily was quiet for a moment. "I'm scared too."
"Of what?"
"That I'll ask you to stay and you'll say yes because you think you owe me something. That I'll push you away because I'm too afraid of losing you again. That I'll never stop being scared."
You turned to face her in the darkness, reaching for her hand. "I want this to work. I want you."
Emily's fingers tightened around yours. "I don't know how to say it, but I need you." Her voice cracked slightly, emotion bleeding through the careful control. "I need you, and that terrifies me, because the last time I needed someone this much, they disappeared."
"I'm not disappearing," you said firmly. "Not again. Never again."
"Never is a big promise," Emily whispered.
"Watch me." You pulled her closer, until her head was tucked under your chin, until you could feel her heartbeat against your chest. "I'm not going anywhere. Not without telling you. Not without giving you a say. Not without—"
"Without what?"
"Without making sure you know," you said quietly. "That you matter. That this matters. That seven years ago, I left because I loved you too much to let you die for me. And now—now I'm staying because I love you too much to keep running."
Emily's breath hitched. "You love me?"
"I love you," you confirmed. "I've loved you since Prague. I loved you through seven years of silence. I love you now. And I'll love you tomorrow, and the day after, and—"
Emily kissed you, desperate and fierce and full of seven years of longing. When she pulled back, her cheeks were wet with tears.
"I love you too," she whispered. "God, I love you so much it scares me."
"Then let's be scared together," you said, wiping away her tears with your thumb. "Let's figure this out together. No more running, no more secrets, no more—"
"No more ghosts," Emily finished.
"No more ghosts," you agreed.
You held each other in the darkness, two people who'd been through hell and somehow found their way back to each other. The future was uncertain: the job offer still sat unopened on the coffee table, the testimonies and trials loomed ahead, the question of what came after still unanswered.
But for now, in this moment, you had each other. And maybe that was enough.
Maybe that was everything.
Emily's breathing evened out eventually, sleep finally claiming her. But you stayed awake a little longer, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, feeling the weight of her trust in the way she'd let herself be vulnerable.
You'd spent seven years running from this. From connection, from vulnerability, from the possibility of loss. You'd convinced yourself that love and duty couldn't coexist, that caring too much was a weakness you couldn't afford.
But lying here with Emily in your arms, feeling the solid reality of her presence, you realized something:
You'd been wrong.
Love wasn't the weakness. Fear was.
And you were done being afraid.
Tomorrow, you'd read Hotch's file. You'd consider the possibility of staying, of building something here. You'd figure out what came next.
But tonight, you just held Emily close and let yourself have this. Let yourself believe in the possibility of a future that didn't involve running, didn't involve sacrifice, didn't involve choosing between love and survival.
A future where you could have both.
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - MORNING - 09 10 2012
You woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the smell of coffee. For a disorienting moment, you forgot where you were—then Emily appeared in the doorway, two mugs in hand, hair still damp from the shower.
"Morning," she said softly, like she wasn't sure if you'd regret last night in the harsh light of day.
You sat up, accepting the coffee. "Morning."
She perched on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. Waiting.
"I'm not running," you said, because that's what she needed to hear. What you needed to say.
The tension in her shoulders eased. "Good."
"But I still don't know what I'm doing."
"Also good," Emily said, a small smile playing at her lips. "If you had it all figured out already, I'd be worried."
You sipped your coffee, letting the warmth settle in your chest. "So what now?"
"Now?" Emily set her mug on the nightstand. "Now I take you to get books, because I know you like to read and I'm guessing you didn't pack any for DC."
The observation was so casual, so Emily. Noticing the small things, remembering details you'd mentioned in passing weeks ago. It made something in your chest tighten.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted. "Besides, I need to get out of my head for a while. And there's this place in Georgetown you'll love."
The bookstore was tucked between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing boutique, the kind of place you'd walk past a dozen times without noticing. The sign above the door read "Second Chapter" in faded gold lettering.
Emily held the door open, and a bell chimed as you stepped inside.
The smell hit you first: old paper, leather bindings, that particular mustiness that only comes from thousands of books living together in close quarters. The space was narrow and deep, shelves crammed floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder attached to a brass rail.
"Take your time," Emily said. "I'll be around."
You watched her drift toward the back of the store before letting yourself wander. Your fingers trailed along spines as you moved through the aisles, fiction, history, poetry. You pulled out a worn copy of The Odyssey, flipped through a collection of Mary Oliver poems, considered a biography of Zelda Fitzgerald.
When you finally found Emily, she was in the horror section, leaning against a shelf with a paperback in her hands. Slaughterhouse-Five.
"Vonnegut's not horror," you said.
She glanced up, not startled. Like she'd known exactly where you were the whole time. "No, but the stock boys stashing it here." She held up the book. "Have you read it?"
"Twice."
"So it goes," Emily quoted, and there was something in her voice—recognition, maybe. Understanding. She'd seen enough death to know what Vonnegut meant.
You'd both seen enough.
She slid the book back onto the shelf and straightened. "Find anything?"
You held up your selections. Four books, because you'd never been good at restraint in bookstores.
"Good choices," Emily said, leading you toward the front counter.
The woman working the register looked up and broke into a smile. "Emily! Haven't seen you in a while."
"Hey, Sarah. Been busy."
You set your books on the counter and reached for your wallet, but Sarah waved you off. "Any friend of Emily's doesn't pay here."
"Sarah—"
"Nope." The clerk was already ringing up the books, not charging anything. "Consider it a welcome-to-DC gift."
You looked at Emily, who was trying very hard not to smirk. "You set this up."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Emily said, pulling out her credit card and sliding it across the counter before you could protest.
"Emily—"
"Too late." She signed the receipt, still smirking, and Sarah bagged your books with a knowing smile.
Outside, you stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face her. "You're ridiculous."
"You're welcome."
"Seriously though," you said, falling into step beside her as you walked. "I owe you lunch. At minimum."
Emily glanced over, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. "You don't owe me anything."
"I absolutely do. Bookstore rescue, mysterious clerk discount, the whole operation." You bumped your shoulder against hers lightly. "Lunch. My treat. Non-negotiable."
She considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. There's a place a few blocks from here."
The restaurant was quiet, tucked away enough that you felt like you'd discovered a secret. You were halfway through your pasta when you decided to bring it up.
"So," you said carefully, "the DOJ recommendation came through."
Emily's fork paused mid-bite. She set it down slowly. "Yeah. It did."
"For both of us."
"For both of us," she confirmed, meeting your eyes. There was something careful in her expression now, like she was waiting to see where you were going with this.
You took a breath. "That's... that's a big deal, right?"
"It's a very big deal." Emily leaned back in her chair, studying you. "Why?"
"Because I don't know what to do with it." You pushed some pasta around your plate. "I mean, I know what it means. I know what doors it opens. But I don't know if I want those doors open."
Emily was quiet for a moment. Then: "If you started out with that recommendation on your papers, they'll place you on whatever team you want. And Hotch already promised you the BAU."
The words hung between you. The BAU. A permanent position. A future mapped out in neat lines.
"I know," you said quietly.
"But?"
"But I don't know if I want to be placed anywhere." You looked up at her. "I don't know if I want to be promised anything right now. Everything feels so... fragile. Like if I commit to something, it'll shatter."
Emily's expression softened. "It won't."
"You don't know that."
"No," she admitted. "I don't. But I know that running away from things because you're afraid they'll break doesn't work either. I've tried that."
You set your fork down. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." Emily paused, choosing her words carefully. "You don't have to take the BAU position. You don't have to take any position. But don't close the door just because you're scared. Maybe there's a middle ground."
"Like what?"
"Like consulting. On your own terms. Part-time, if you want. Cases that interest you, not cases you're assigned." She shrugged. "Hotch has probably mentioned it already."
You considered it. The idea of working cases without the weight of a full-time commitment, without having to be present in an office every day, without having to pretend everything was normal when it wasn't. There was something appealing about that. Something that made that small, buried part of you—the part that had loved the work, before everything got complicated—sit up and take notice.
"Maybe," you said slowly. "Like, ten percent of me is interested in that."
Emily smiled, and it was the first genuine, unguarded smile you'd seen from her since this morning. "Ten percent is a start."
"It's not much."
"It's more than zero." She reached across the table and squeezed your hand briefly before pulling back. "You don't have to decide anything this week. But don't close the door. Okay?"
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. Because the truth was, that ten percent was growing. And you weren't sure if that was terrifying or hopeful.
They put Emily in that gay ass watch, turned it backwards, and then never put paint on her nails once. “Why do all our fans think she’s a lesbian?” Don’t piss me off Mark Gordon.
Well. Well. Here we are. This chapter has been living in my head for MONTHS and I'm honestly emotional that I'm done. We're talking confrontations, revelations, and finally getting answers about Prague.
The past seven years of running finally catch up. When the Chen case reaches its breaking point, old ghosts resurface and truths that have been buried since Prague demand to be heard. Sometimes love means disappearing. Sometimes it means staying. And sometimes, after seven years, you finally learn the difference.
As always, thank you for reading, for your comments, for your patience with my slow updates, and for loving these two idiots as much as I do. 7k words
INT. QUANTICO - BAU BULLPEN - EARLY MORNING - 09 07 2012
The conference room door opened with a sharp click that cut through the exhausted silence. Brennan emerged first, his expression transformed from the skeptical interrogator of an hour ago into something harder, more determined. Hotch followed, his face carved from stone but his eyes bright with the kind of focus that meant the game had changed.
"You're back on," Brennan said without preamble. "Full authorization. Whatever resources you need, you have them. But we need to move fast."
You felt Emily straighten beside you, felt the shift in the room as the team snapped to attention despite their exhaustion.
"Chen knows," you said, the pieces clicking together with sickening clarity. "She knows we have the manifesto. She probably knew the second Lukas died. She's had an hour head start."
"At least," Emily added, already moving toward the conference room. "She's going to try to disappear, and every minute we waste gives her more distance."
Reid was right behind her, his mind already racing ahead. "We need copies of every file on that drive. We need to identify every member of her network at Interpol, every compromised operation, every—"
"On it," Garcia interrupted, her fingers already flying across her keyboard. Multiple screens lit up around her like a command center coming online. "Give me ten minutes and I'll have a full network map."
Hotch's voice cut through the sudden flurry of activity. "Morgan, JJ—coordinate with international agencies, but be careful. We don't know who else is compromised. Rossi, work the political angle. I need to know who at DOJ needs to be read in and who we can trust."
The team dispersed with practiced efficiency, each person moving to their station. You and Emily gravitated toward the conference table, spreading out files, pulling up data on laptops, falling into that old rhythm from Prague without conscious thought.
"Financial records," Emily said, pulling up a file. "If she's running, she'll need money. Offshore accounts, probably—"
"Multiple identities," you continued, reaching for another document. Your hand brushed hers, and for a fraction of a second, you both froze. Your eyes met across the table, something electric passing between you.
Morgan noticed. You saw him exchange a look with JJ, saw the slight smile that crossed his face before he turned back to his phone call.
"Here," Emily said, pulling her hand back and pointing to the screen. "Three accounts in the Caymans, two in Switzerland, one in Singapore. All opened within the last six months."
"She's been planning this," you said. "She knew it might come to this."
Reid appeared at your shoulder, his eyes scanning the data. "The pattern suggests she's been systematically preparing for extraction since—" He paused, calculating. "Since August. Three weeks before the first murder."
"She knew someone was coming for her," Emily said quietly.
"Or she was planning to disappear anyway," you countered. "Use the murders as cover, make it look like the Network was cleaning house while she slipped away."
"Either way," Hotch said from across the room, "she's had months to prepare. We need to think like her. Where would she go?"
Garcia's voice rang out, sharp with urgency. "Guys! I found something. And it's bad."
Everyone converged on her station. The screens showed a complex file structure, layers of encryption, and at the center, a single document marked with a red flag.
"Chen has a failsafe," Garcia said, her voice tight. "If she's compromised, if she thinks she's going down, she can trigger a release. Not the ledger, something worse."
"What could be worse than the ledger?" JJ asked.
Garcia pulled up a list. Names. Hundreds of them. "Current undercover operatives. Across multiple agencies. CIA, FBI, MI6, Mossad. Their real names, their cover identities, their locations, their missions. Everything."
The room went silent.
"She's holding hostages," you said, the horror of it settling into your bones. "People who don't even know they're hostages."
Garcia was already processes, her eyes moving rapidly across the screens. "Based on the file structure and encryption protocols, she'd need to manually trigger the release. Which means—"
"Which means we need to find her before she realizes we're coming," Emily finished.
Hotch's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression darkening. "Interpol just reported Chen didn't show up for a scheduled meeting this morning. She's in the wind."
"How long?" Morgan asked.
"Meeting was at 0800 Paris time. That's—"
"Two hours ago," Reid said. "If she left immediately after learning about Lukas, she could be anywhere by now."
"No," you said, something clicking in your mind. "She's not running. Not yet."
Everyone looked at you.
"Think about it," you continued, moving to the board where Garcia had projected the network map. "Chen's spent seven years building this. The Network, her position at Interpol, her leverage. She's not going to just abandon it without trying to salvage something."
"What could she salvage?" JJ asked. "We have the manifesto. We have proof."
"She has the failsafe," Emily said, understanding dawning in her eyes. "She's going to try to negotiate. Use the operatives as leverage to get immunity, protection, something."
"Or," Rossi said quietly, "she's going to eliminate the witnesses who can corroborate the evidence."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"Us," you said. "She's coming for us."
FLASHBACK: INT. PRAGUE - SAFE HOUSE - NIGHT - 04 20 2005
The safe house was too quiet.
You sat at the small kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago. The mission had nearly gone sideways that afternoon.
Lukas had been in a meeting with Network leadership when someone had started asking questions about his background, his credentials, his loyalty. He'd talked his way out of it. Barely. But it had been close. Too close.
Emily emerged from the bedroom, her hair damp from the shower, wearing civilian clothes that made her look younger, more vulnerable. She moved to the kitchen, pouring herself tea and settling into the chair across from you.
"You're still thinking about it," she said. Not a question.
"We almost lost him today," you said, your voice rough with exhaustion and fear. "If they'd figured out he was feeding us information—"
"But they didn't," Emily interrupted gently. "We protected him."
"For how long?" You looked up, meeting her eyes. "How long can we keep doing this before someone gets killed?"
Emily was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the table's surface. "As long as it takes. We made him a promise. We keep our promises."
"Do we?" The question came out sharper than you'd intended. "Keep promises?"
Emily's eyes found yours, and you saw the understanding there. You weren't just talking about Lukas anymore.
"I keep mine," you said quietly. "The ones that matter."
Emily leaned forward slightly, her voice soft. "What matters to you?"
The question hung between you, heavy with implication. Outside, Prague slept, unaware of the danger lurking in its streets, the secrets being traded in its shadows.
"You," you said finally. "This. Making sure people like Lukas don't get sacrificed for someone else's agenda."
Emily's breath caught, just slightly. She reached across the table, her hand covering yours. "We'll protect him. Whatever it takes."
"Promise?" The word came out barely above a whisper.
"Promise," Emily said, and then she was leaning closer, her eyes dropping to your lips, and you were leaning in too, the space between you shrinking to nothing—
The front door opened.
You both jerked back, hands separating, professional distance snapping into place like armor. Lukas stepped inside, his face pale, his hands shaking slightly.
"Sorry," he said, not quite meeting your eyes. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't," Emily said smoothly, but her voice was rougher than usual. "We were just debriefing."
Lukas nodded, but something in his expression said he didn't quite believe it. He moved past you toward the bedroom, pausing at the door.
“I need to believe that this is all going to work out, that I’ll be taken care of.” He looked back at you, “Thank you for being a reason for me to have faith in that.”
You understood the weight of it, the anchor in the storm you were able to be for him. Nodding you answered, “Of course Lukas. Get some sleep.”
"I've got something," Reid said, his voice cutting through the focused chaos of the bullpen. He was surrounded by files, his whiteboard covered in timelines and connections, his eyes bright with the kind of insight that made him invaluable.
Everyone gathered around as he pointed to a series of dates and locations marked on the board.
"Chen's been moving," he said. "Over the past week, she's visited Berlin, London, and Tokyo. Brief trips, less than twelve hours each."
"She's collecting," you said, the pattern suddenly clear. "The other operatives."
"Or eliminating them," Emily added darkly.
Garcia's fingers flew across her keyboard. "Marcus Keller—last known location Berlin. Yuki Tanaka—Tokyo. Cornelia Jones—London." She looked up, her face pale. "They're all on the list. The deep cover operatives who stayed in the Network."
"She's tying up loose ends," Morgan said. "Making sure no one can corroborate the evidence."
"We need to warn them," Emily said urgently. "Now."
Hotch was already moving. "Morgan, JJ—coordinate with local authorities. I want all three in protective custody within the hour. Move fast."
As Morgan and JJ grabbed their phones and headed for the conference room, Garcia's laptop chimed with an alert. She pulled up a new screen, her eyes widening.
"Credit card hit," she said. "One of Chen's Network aliases. She just used it at—" She stopped, her face going pale. "Dulles International Airport."
"She's running," Morgan said.
"No," you said, something cold settling in your stomach. "She's coming here."
Everyone turned to look at you.
You moved to the board. "She knows we have the manifesto. She knows Lukas is dead. She knows her network is collapsing. But she also knows we're the only ones who can corroborate Anton's evidence. We're the witnesses. We were there. We know the truth."
Emily's face had gone pale. "She's coming to eliminate us."
"Then we'll be ready," Hotch said, his voice hard. He turned to Brennan, who'd been watching from the doorway. "We need tactical support. Full perimeter security. And we need it now."
Brennan nodded, already pulling out his phone. "I'll have a team here in twenty minutes."
"Make it ten," Hotch said.
INT. QUANTICO - BAU CONFERENCE ROOM - LATE MORNING - 09 07 2012
The trap was set.
You and Emily sat in the conference room, visible through the windows, deliberate targets. The rest of the team was positioned around the bullpen: Morgan near the stairs, Rossi by the elevator. Reid with Garcia in her tech cave with an armed guard at the door as they worked on getting through to the operatives on Chen's list. Tactical units were scattered throughout the building, hidden but ready.
Hotch's voice came through your earpiece, calm and steady. "Everyone hold position. Wait for my signal."
You glanced at Emily. She was staring at the files spread across the table, but you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand rested near her weapon.
"You sure about this?" you asked quietly.
"No," Emily said. "But we owe Lukas this much. We finish it."
"If this goes wrong—"
"It won't," Emily interrupted, but her voice lacked conviction.
"But if it does," you pressed. "I need you to know—"
Emily turned to face you, and the vulnerability in her eyes made your breath catch. "I know," she said softly. "Me too."
Not quite a confession, but close. The promise of something more, if you survived.
Morgan's voice crackled through the comms. "Movement in the parking garage. Multiple targets."
Your hand moved to your weapon. Emily did the same.
"Hold," Hotch said. "Let them come to us."
The seconds stretched out, each one feeling like an eternity. You could hear your own heartbeat, could feel the adrenaline singing through your veins.
Then you saw her.
Chen stepped into view at the far end of the bullpen, flanked by two operatives in tactical gear. She moved with confidence, like she owned the building, like she wasn't walking into a trap.
Maybe she knew. Maybe she didn't care.
She stopped at the glass doors leading into the BAU, her eyes finding you and Emily through the conference room windows. She smiled, cold and predatory, and pulled out a phone.
A moment later, her voice filled the building through the intercom system. She'd hacked it.
"Agent Prentiss," Chen said, her voice smooth and controlled. "And Claire Monroe, or should I use your real name?"
Emily stood, her hand on her weapon. You followed suit.
"I have to admire your persistence," Chen continued. "Seven years, and you still haven't learned."
"It's over, Chen," Emily called out, her voice carrying across the bullpen. "We have the manifesto. We have the evidence. Interpol knows. DOJ knows. You're done."
Chen laughed, the sound echoing through the speakers. "Am I? Because from where I'm standing, I have a phone in my hand. One button, and fifty-three undercover operatives across twelve countries are exposed. Their names, their locations, their missions, all of it goes public."
You felt the entire building go still.
"You'd kill your own people?" you asked, stepping up beside Emily.
"They're not my people," Chen said. "They're assets. Just like you were. Just like Lukas was."
The name hit like a physical blow. You felt Emily tense beside you.
"You killed him," Emily said, her voice hard.
"I eliminated a threat," Chen corrected. "Just like I'm about to eliminate you."
Her operatives moved forward, weapons raised.
"Now!" Hotch's voice cracked through the comms.
Tactical units emerged from their positions. Morgan and Rossi moved to intercept Chen's operatives. Gunfire erupted, the sharp crack of weapons echoing through the bullpen.
You and Emily took cover behind the conference table as bullets shattered the glass windows. Shards rained down around you, glittering like deadly snow.
Through the chaos, you saw Chen moving, heading for the stairwell.
"She's running!" you shouted.
Emily was already moving toward the door. "Go! I've got this!"
You hesitated, every instinct screaming at you not to leave her.
"Go!" Emily shouted again, returning fire at one of Chen's operatives. "Don't let her get away!"
You ran.
INT. QUANTICO - CORRIDORS - CONTINUOUS
The corridors were a maze, but you knew them now. You'd spent enough time at Quantico over the past week to have the layout memorized. Chen was fast, trained, dangerous, but you were motivated by seven years of guilt and rage.
You caught glimpses of her ahead, turning corners, descending stairs. She was heading for the parking garage.
You pushed harder, your lungs burning, your legs screaming. Behind you, you could still hear gunfire, shouts, the chaos of the confrontation in the bullpen.
The parking garage was dimly lit, full of shadows and concrete pillars. You slowed, weapon raised, scanning for movement.
"You should have stayed in Prague," Chen's voice echoed from somewhere ahead. "Should have kept your head down."
You moved toward the sound, careful, controlled. "We made promises. To Lukas. To Anton. To everyone you used."
"Promises." Chen laughed, the sound bouncing off concrete. "You still don't understand. There are no promises in this world. Only leverage."
You rounded a pillar and there she was, weapon drawn, phone in her other hand.
"Then I guess you're out of leverage," you said, your own weapon trained on her.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Backup from all agencies arriving.
Chen's expression shifted. She knew she was trapped.
"One button," she said, holding up the phone. "That's all it takes."
"You press that button, you lose your only bargaining chip," you said. "You're not stupid enough to do that."
For a moment, neither of you moved. The standoff stretched out, taut as a wire.
Then Emily's voice came from behind Chen. "Drop it."
Chen turned slightly, and you saw Emily emerge from the shadows, weapon raised, her face set in hard lines.
"Both of you," Chen said, and she was smiling now. "Perfect. This saves me time."
"It's over," Emily said. "Drop the phone and the weapon. Now."
Chen looked between you, calculating odds, weighing options. Then, slowly, she lowered the phone.
But she was still smiling.
"You think this is over?" she asked. "You think arresting me changes anything? The Network is bigger than me. Bigger than all of us. I'm just one piece."
"Maybe," Emily said. "But you're, done."
Tactical teams flooded into the garage, weapons raised, voices shouting commands. Chen was surrounded in seconds, forced to her knees, hands secured behind her back.
As they hauled her to her feet, she looked at you and Emily one last time.
"This isn't over," she said quietly. "Not by a long shot."
Then she was gone, dragged away by federal agents, her voice fading into the distance.
You and Emily stood there in the parking garage, weapons still drawn, adrenaline still singing through your veins.
"You okay?" Emily asked.
"Yeah," you said. "You?"
"Yeah."
Neither of you moved. Just stood there, breathing, processing, trying to believe it was really over.
Emily's hand found yours, her fingers lacing through yours.
"Come on," she said quietly. "Let's go access the damage."
INT. QUANTICO - BAU BULLPEN - LATE AFTERNOON - 09 07 2012
The bullpen looked like a war zone.
Shattered glass covered the floor. Bullet holes pocked the walls. Files were scattered everywhere, disturbed by the chaos of the firefight. But it was over. Chen was in custody, being transferred to a black site. Her operatives were either dead or detained. The phone had been secured.
The team was exhausted, running on fumes and the last dregs of adrenaline. Garcia sat at her station in the round table work, working to identify the operatives on Chen's list so they could be warned. Reid was documenting everything for the official report. Morgan and JJ were coordinating with international agencies.
Brennan approached you and Emily, his expression softer than it had been during the interrogation.
"You did good work," he said. "Both of you."
"Lukas and Anton did the work," you said. "We just finished it."
Brennan nodded, understanding. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. About Prague. About all of it. You were right, and we should have listened sooner."
He left, and the team began to disperse. It was late, everyone needed rest, needed to process what had happened.
Morgan clapped you on the shoulder as he passed. "Hell of a week."
JJ hugged Emily. "Glad you're okay."
Garcia appeared, her eyes red-rimmed. "Don't ever scare me like that again. Either of you."
Reid hovered nearby. "Statistically, the odds of you both surviving were actually quite good, given the tactical support and—"
"Kid," Rossi interrupted gently. "Read the room."
Reid blinked, then nodded. "Right. Sorry. I'm glad you're both safe."
Hotch was the last to leave. He paused at the door, looking back at you and Emily.
"Take tomorrow off," he said. "That's an order."
He started to leave, then stopped. "You kept your promise. To Lukas. He'd want you to know that."
Then he was gone, and you and Emily were alone in the bullpen. The building was quiet now, the chaos of the day fading into memory.
You and Emily stood by the windows, two people who'd been through hell more than once and understood that truth better than anyone.
"We should leave," Emily said quietly. "Get some sleep."
"Yeah," you agreed.
Neither of you moved.
"In Prague," Emily said, her voice soft. "That last night. I wanted to tell you something."
You turned to face her. "What?"
"That I—" She stopped, struggling with the words. "That you mattered. More than the mission. More than the operation. More than anything."
"Past tense?" you asked, stepping closer.
"No," Emily said, meeting your eyes. "Present tense. Very present tense."
"Emily—"
"I know we have things to figure out," she continued, the words coming faster now. "I know this is complicated. I know we probably need therapy and time and—"
You kissed her.
Soft, gentle, tentative at first, then deeper, fuller. Brimming with seven years of longing and regret and hope.
Seven years of wondering what if, of dreams that dissolved upon waking, of phantom touches you swore you could still feel. Her hands came up to frame your face, trembling slightly as her fingertips traced the curve of your jaw, and you leaned into the touch like you'd been starving for it. Because you had been. Every day without her had been a slow starvation, a gradual fading of color from the world. But now, with her lips on yours and her breath mingling with your own, everything suddenly blazed back to life in brilliant, overwhelming technicolor.
When you broke apart, Emily was smiling.
"Or we could do that," she said.
"We could do both," you replied. "Therapy and kissing."
Emily laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Sounds like a plan."
You stood there, foreheads touching, a quietness settling over both of you.
"Come home with me?" Emily asked quietly.
"Yeah," you said. "I'd like that."
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - LATE NIGHT - 09 07 2012
Emily's apartment was exactly what you'd expected: neat, organized, with subtle touches of personality hidden in the details. Books on the shelves, photos on the walls, a blanket draped over the couch that looked soft and well-loved.
"Make yourself at home," Emily said, dropping her keys on the counter. "I'm going to shower. There's snacks in the kitchen if you want some."
She disappeared into the bedroom, and you heard the shower start a moment later.
You moved to the couch, intending to sit for just a moment. Just to rest your eyes.
You were asleep before your head hit the cushion.
You woke to the smell of tea and the sound of soft laughter.
Emily stood in the doorway, showered and changed, holding two mugs. She was smiling, that soft, genuine smile you'd only seen a handful of times.
"You tried to sleep on the couch," she said, amusement clear in her voice.
"I was just resting my eyes," you mumbled, sitting up.
"For three hours."
"Three, shit."
Emily handed you a mug, then settled onto the couch beside you. Close, but not quite touching.
"You could have woken me," you said.
"You needed sleep," Emily replied. "We both do. But I figured I'd let you nap, then actual beds."
"Beds plural?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
Emily's cheeks flushed slightly. "I just meant—I have a guest room, if you want—I wasn't assuming—"
You set down your mug and took her hand. "Emily."
She looked at you, vulnerability clear in her eyes.
You smiled, leaning in to kiss her again. Slower this time, sweeter, without the urgency of before. Just the two of you, finally, after seven years of waiting.
When you broke apart, Emily was smiling again.
"So," she said. "Therapy and kissing."
"And kissing," you added.
"And sleep," Emily said. "Actual sleep. In an actual bed."
"Together?"
"Together," Emily confirmed.
You stood, pulling her up with you. "Lead the way."
Emily's bedroom was as neat as the rest of her apartment, but softer somehow. Personal. The bed was large, covered in a dark red comforter that looked impossibly comfortable.
You both climbed in, still fully clothed, too exhausted for anything more than closeness. Emily curled into your side, her head on your shoulder, her arm draped across your waist.
"This okay?" she asked quietly.
"Perfect," you said, pressing a kiss to her hair.
"We should probably talk," Emily murmured, already half-asleep. "About what this means. About what happens next."
"Later," you said. "Right now, let's just sleep."
"Okay," Emily agreed, her breathing already evening out.
You lay there, holding her, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your side. Outside, the world continued on, Chen in custody, the Network collapsing, the truth finally coming to light.
But in this moment, in Emily's bed with her warm and safe in your arms, none of that mattered.
You'd kept your promise. To Lukas. To Anton. To each other.
And now, finally, you could rest.
Your eyes drifted closed, and for the first time in seven years, you slept without ghosts.
INT. EMILY'S APARTMENT - MORNING - 09 08 2012
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, warm and golden. You woke slowly, awareness returning in pieces: the softness of the bed, the weight of Emily's arm still draped across your waist, the steady sound of her breathing.
For a moment, you just lay there, letting yourself have this. Emily, warm and real beside you. Morning light painting everything in shades of amber. The quiet peace of a world where Chen was in custody and the Network was crumbling.
Emily stirred, her fingers flexing against your side. "Morning," she mumbled, her voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," you said softly.
She lifted her head, blinking at you with sleepy eyes, her hair mussed and falling across her face. God, she was beautiful.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"Please."
Emily smiled, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder before sliding out of bed. You watched her go, taking in the way she moved through her space with easy familiarity, the way she ran her fingers through her hair to tame it.
You followed her to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as she started the coffee maker. The apartment looked different in daylight—still neat, still organized, but warmer somehow. There were photos on the bookshelf, books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the back of the couch.
A life. Emily had built a life here.
"How do you take it now?" Emily asked, pulling down two mugs.
"Black is fine."
She nodded, pouring coffee into both mugs with practiced ease. When she handed you yours, your fingers brushed, and the contact sent a spark up your arm.
You both moved to the living room, settling on opposite ends of the couch. Close, but not touching. The space between you felt deliberate.
"So," Emily said after a moment, cradling her mug. "We should probably talk."
"Yeah," you agreed, staring into your coffee.
"About yesterday. About us. About—" She paused, and when you looked up, her expression had shifted. Guarded. "About why you left."
There it was. The elephant in the room. The question that had been sitting between you since the moment you'd walked into the BAU three days ago.
"Emily—"
"No, I need to know." Her voice was steady, but you could hear the hurt underneath. "Seven years. You disappeared for seven years without a word. Without even a goodbye. I thought—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I thought we had something. I thought you felt what I felt. And then you were just gone."
You set your mug down on the coffee table, your hands suddenly unsteady. "I did feel it. I felt everything."
"Then why?" Emily's eyes were bright, searching your face. "Why did you leave without me? Why didn't you at least tell me you were going?"
The words stuck in your throat. Seven years of carrying this secret, of protecting her from the truth. Seven years of knowing that telling her would only hurt her more.
But she deserved to know. After everything, she deserved the truth.
"Someone saw me," you said quietly. "Making an evidence drop. They recognized the Network symbol on a piece of paper in my bag."
Emily went very still.
"They told Marcus," you continued, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. "And Marcus—he tried to protect me. He tried to convince them it was a mistake, that they were wrong. But the Network's leader came to him directly." Your voice cracked. "He told Marcus he had to kill me. It wasn't a request. It was an order."
"Oh my god," Emily breathed.
"Marcus was compromised. If he didn't do it, they would have killed him too. And they would have sent someone else after me. Someone who wouldn't hesitate." You swallowed hard, the memory of that night still sharp after all these years. "He came to me. Told me I had twelve hours to disappear. That if I was still in Prague when the sun came up, he wouldn't be able to protect me anymore."
Emily's hand had come up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
"I wanted to tell you," you said, your voice breaking. "God, Emily, I wanted to tell you so badly. But if I had, you would have tried to come with me. Or you would have tried to help. And that would have put you on their radar too. They would have killed you just for knowing."
"So you just left," Emily said, but there was no accusation in it now. Just devastation.
"I left because I loved you," you said, the words finally, finally spoken aloud after seven years. "Because keeping you alive mattered more than anything else. More than us. More than what we could have had."
A tear slipped down Emily's cheek. "You could have died."
"I almost did. A few times." You tried to smile, but it felt broken. "But I didn't. And neither did you. That's what mattered."
Emily set her mug down with shaking hands, then moved across the couch, closing the distance between you. She took your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling.
"You sacrificed everything," she whispered. "Your career. Your life. Us. All to keep me safe."
"I'd do it again," you said. "Every time. Without hesitation."
Emily's breath hitched, and then she was kissing you, desperate and fierce and full of seven years of grief and longing and love. You kissed her back, your hands coming up to grip her waist, pulling her closer.
When you finally broke apart, Emily rested her forehead against yours, her eyes closed.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "For everything you went through. For every moment you had to face alone."
"I'm sorry too," you said. "For leaving. For not trusting that we could have found another way."
"There wasn't another way," Emily said firmly, pulling back to look at you. "You did what you had to do. You survived. That's what matters."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Emily's expression shifted, something darker crossing her face. "Marcus," she said quietly. "He helped you escape."
"He saved my life," you confirmed. "Even though it cost him everything."
Emily was quiet for a long moment, processing. You could see her putting the pieces together, understanding the full weight of what had happened that night in Prague. The impossible choice Marcus had faced. The sacrifice he'd made.
"We need to make sure his name is cleared," Emily said finally. "When this is all over. When the Network is completely dismantled. He deserves that much."
"Yeah," you agreed. "He does."
Emily reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together. "No more secrets," she said. "No more running. Whatever comes next, we face it together."
"Together," you echoed, squeezing her hand.
Outside, the morning continued on. Somewhere, the world was still turning, still moving forward. But in Emily's apartment, in the quiet space between heartbeats, you both just sat there, holding onto each other, finally understanding the full truth of what you'd lost and what you'd saved.
FLASHBACK: INT. PRAGUE - SAFE HOUSE - NIGHT - 04 23 2005
The door to your room opened without warning.
You were already reaching for your weapon before you registered it was Marcus, his face pale in the dim light from the hallway.
"You need to go," he said, voice low and urgent. "Now."
Your heart stopped. "What—"
"Before sunrise." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His hands were shaking. You'd never seen Marcus's hands shake. "They're sending someone. I bought you a few hours, told them I'd handle it myself, but—" His voice cracked. "You need to be gone before they realize I'm not going to."
The room tilted. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed, mind racing through protocols, escape routes, contingencies you'd planned for this exact scenario even as you'd hoped you'd never need them.
"Emily—"
"Can't know." Marcus's eyes were desperate. "If she knows, if she tries to help, they'll kill her too. You disappear. Tonight. Completely. It's the only way she stays safe."
Your throat closed. You nodded, because what else could you do?
Marcus pulled an envelope from his jacket. "New identity. Cash. Contacts in Munich who don't ask questions." He set it on the dresser, his hand lingering on the wood. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
"This isn't your fault," you said, but your voice sounded hollow.
"Isn't it?" He laughed, bitter and broken. "I brought you into this. I promised I'd keep you safe."
"You are keeping me safe." You stood, crossed to him, gripped his shoulder. "You're saving my life, Marcus."
He pulled you into a fierce hug, the kind that felt like goodbye. "Go," he whispered against your hair. "And don't look back."
When he left, the silence was deafening.
You moved on autopilot, years of training taking over where emotion threatened to paralyze you. The false documents went into the fireplace: passports, legends, anything that could tie Claire Monroe to the Network. You watched them burn, watched your cover identity curl and blacken and turn to ash.
The evidence you'd been gathering—copies of files, photographs, recordings—went into a small bag. Insurance. Leverage. The only thing keeping you alive if the Network ever found you again.
Fifteen minutes. That's all it took to erase yourself.
You stood in the hallway outside your room, bag in hand, and looked at Emily's door.
She was sleeping. You could picture her exactly, curled on her side, dark hair spilled across the pillow, that little furrow between her brows that appeared even in sleep. Peaceful. Safe.
Unaware that you were about to vanish from her life.
Your feet carried you to her door before you could stop them. You pressed your palm flat against the wood, feeling the cool surface, imagining you could feel her warmth on the other side.
You leaned your forehead against the door.
"I love you, Emily," you whispered, so quiet it was barely sound. The words you'd never said when she could hear them. The truth you'd carried for months, maybe longer. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Your hand slipped from the door.
You turned and walked away.
INT. PRAGUE - STREETS - CONTINUOUS
The night air hit your face like a slap, sharp and cold and real.
You moved through the shadows like a ghost, every sense heightened, every instinct screaming danger. Check the corners. Watch the rooflines. Note the cars, the pedestrians, the late-night stragglers who might be more than they seemed.
Your reflection caught in a shop window, just another person hurrying through the night. Unremarkable. Invisible.
Exactly what you needed to be.
You varied your route, doubled back twice, used every counter-surveillance technique you'd ever learned. The city you'd called home for the past year became a maze of threats and escape routes, every street a potential trap.
By the time you reached the river, you were certain you were clean.
You kept moving anyway.
EXT. PRAGUE TRAIN STATION - LATE NIGHT
The station was still busy despite the hour: backpackers, business travelers, people living lives that didn't involve running for their survival.
You bought your ticket with cash, kept your head down, blended into the crowd of people waiting for the Munich train.
That's when you saw him.
Network operative. You'd seen his face in briefings, knew his reputation. Efficient. Ruthless. Standing near the platform entrance, eyes scanning the crowd with professional precision.
"Fuck," you breathed.
You turned smoothly, not too fast, just another traveler adjusting course. Ducked behind a family with luggage, used them as cover as you angled toward a different entrance.
Your heart was hammering but your hands were steady. Training. Always training.
The crowd was your ally. Late night travelers too focused on their own journeys to notice one more person weaving through them. You kept your pace casual, unhurried, even as every instinct screamed run.
The train was boarding. You could see it through the glass, could hear the final call announcement.
The operative's head turned. His eyes swept the crowd.
You slipped between two groups of students, their laughter and chatter providing cover. Moved with them toward the platform, just another face in the mass of people.
He saw you.
Your eyes met across the station, and you watched recognition flare in his face.
You ran.
Not away from the train, toward it. Through the final checkpoint, onto the platform, weaving between passengers loading luggage.
Behind you, shouting. The operative pushing through the crowd.
The doors were closing.
You lunged, squeezed through the gap with inches to spare. The doors sealed shut with a hydraulic hiss.
You pressed against the door, breathing hard, watching through the window as the operative reached the platform.
He stood there, phone already to his ear, eyes locked on yours as the train began to move.
You didn't look away. Couldn't.
The station slid past, and then you were in the tunnel, and he was gone.
You slumped against the wall, legs suddenly weak. Your hands were shaking now, adrenaline crash hitting hard.
You'd made it. First hurdle cleared.
But this was just the beginning.
You found an empty compartment, locked the door, and sat in the darkness as Prague disappeared behind you. As Emily disappeared behind you.
The ache in your chest felt like dying.
INT. MUNICH TRAIN STATION - EARLY MORNING
Dawn was breaking when the train pulled into Munich, pale light washing the platform in shades of gray.
You disembarked with the other passengers, just another tired traveler at the end of a long journey. Your bag felt heavy with the weight of everything you'd lost.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
Unknown number. You stared at the screen, debating whether to answer, whether this was the end after all.
The message was text only: Claire Monroe is dead as far as the Network is concerned.
You read it three times, trying to parse the meaning. A threat? A promise? Confirmation that Marcus had succeeded in convincing them he'd completed the kill order?
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but there was nothing to say. No way to respond that wouldn't compromise whatever fragile safety this message implied.
You deleted it. Pulled the SIM card from your phone and dropped it in a trash can.
Claire Monroe was dead.
And you, whoever you were now, were alone in a train station in Munich, with nothing but a bag of evidence and a new identity that felt like wearing someone else's skin.
The station was filling with morning commuters, people starting their days, living their normal lives.
You could disappear into that crowd. Become no one. Vanish into the vastness of Europe like Marcus had told you to.
But as you walked toward the exit, as the morning light grew stronger and the city woke around you, all you could think about was Emily.
Emily waking up in the safe house, finding you gone.
Emily searching for answers you couldn't give.
Emily moving on with her life while you became a ghost.
The ache in your chest intensified, sharp enough to steal your breath.
I love you, you'd whispered to her door. I love you, and I'm sorry.
You stepped out into the Munich morning, into your new life, into the vast and terrible freedom of being no one.
But Emily was heavy on your mind. Emily would always be heavy on your mind.
So you walked into the light and became a shadow.
You disappeared into the crowds, into the cities, into the endless expanse of a continent that swallowed people whole. You learned to be no one. To carry your grief like a stone in your chest, smooth and cold and permanent.
Never again, you promised yourself as Munich swallowed you whole. Never again.
The badge—whatever badge you might have carried, whatever oath you might have taken—was as dead as Claire Monroe. This work, this life of secrets and lies and sacrifices, had cost you the only thing that mattered. Had cost you Emily.
You were done.
Done believing that justice was worth the price. Done thinking you could protect people without destroying yourself. Done being a weapon for causes that chewed up idealists and spat out ghosts.
The person who'd sat in that Prague safe house and believed the truth mattered? She died the moment you walked away from Emily's door.
What remained was harder. Colder. A survivor, not a savior.
You'd never put yourself through this again. Never let yourself care enough to lose like this. Never believe in anything enough to have it ripped away.
The sun rose over Munich, indifferent to your transformation, and you walked into your new life with nothing but scars and the bitter certainty that love and duty could never coexist.
Oh, you thought getting out of Prague would be simple? You thought that Hotch wouldn't pull a few strings? This chapter took so long because it's so action-heavy, and chase scenes can get so boring and annoying. I didn't want this to turn into a running away from danger story so here's two chapters as a treat.
Next chapter is going to be a RIDE. Chen's not going down without a fight, and our team is about to go full scorched earth. Saddle up cowboys
INT. PRAGUE - SIDE STREET - EVENING - 09 06 2012
The moped circled once.
You noticed it first, the way it slowed as it passed, the rider's head turning to track your movement. Emily's hand tightened on your arm, a silent acknowledgment that she'd seen it too.
"Keep walking," she murmured. "Natural pace."
You did, but your muscles were already tensing, preparing. The moped disappeared around the corner ahead, engine noise fading.
Thirty seconds later, it came back.
This time it approached from behind, engine revving slightly as it closed the distance. The rider wore a black helmet, visor down, face completely obscured. Professional. Anonymous.
"Move," Emily said.
You didn't question it. The moment the word left her mouth, you were both cutting left into a narrow alley, the kind Prague was famous for. Barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, cobblestones slick with rain.
Behind you, the moped's engine roared. Tires squealed as the rider tried to follow, but the alley was too narrow. You heard the bike clatter against stone, heard cursing in a language you didn't quite catch.
Then footsteps. Running.
"Shit," you breathed, already sprinting.
Emily was right beside you, her longer legs eating up ground. You took a sharp right, then left, weaving through Prague's medieval maze. The footsteps behind you never faltered.
"There," Emily gasped, pointing.
A cathedral loomed ahead, its Gothic spires cutting into the darkening sky. The doors were open: evening mass, probably, or just the usual tourist access. You didn't care which.
You hit the entrance at a full run, Emily's hand finding yours as you burst through the heavy wooden doors. Inside, the sudden quiet was disorienting. Vaulted ceilings. Stained glass. The smell of incense and old stone.
A handful of tourists looked up, startled. A priest near the altar frowned.
"Stairs," you said, spotting a small door to the left marked with a sign you couldn't read but recognized—tower access.
You pulled Emily toward it, shouldering through the door and into a narrow spiral staircase. Stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet. You started climbing, taking the steps two at a time, your lungs already burning.
Emily followed, her breathing harsh in the enclosed space. Up and up, the staircase seeming to go on forever. Your thighs screamed. Your chest ached. But you didn't stop.
Finally, the stairs ended. You emerged into a narrow hallway, wooden beams overhead, small windows looking out over Prague's rooftops. Empty. Quiet except for your ragged breathing.
You pressed your back against the wall, trying to catch your breath. Emily did the same, bent slightly at the waist, one hand braced against her knee.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just breathed. Listened for footsteps on the stairs below.
Nothing.
Emily straightened, running a hand through her hair. A laugh escaped her, breathless, slightly hysterical. "I'm usually on the other end of this," she said, still panting. "It's been a while."
Despite everything, the fear, the exhaustion, the very real possibility that Chen's people were still hunting you, you laughed. It bubbled up from somewhere deep, genuine and unexpected.
"What, you don't enjoy being chased through European cities by assassins?" you managed between breaths.
"Surprisingly, no." Emily's smile was crooked, her eyes bright with adrenaline. "I prefer doing the chasing."
"Noted for future reference."
Your phone buzzed against your hip, sharp and insistent. You pulled it out, still trying to regulate your breathing.
Garcia. A text with coordinates and two words: 5m, go.
Five minutes. Five minutes to get to the extraction point.
"Fucking hell," you breathed.
Emily looked over your shoulder at the screen. "Where?"
You pulled up the map, zooming in on the coordinates. "Letná Park. The plateau overlooking the river."
"That's at least a kilometer from here." Your brain making note of how fast she switched measurement systems with ease, like some sort of twisted foreplay.
"I know."
"Downhill most of the way."
"I know."
Emily met your eyes. "We can make it."
"We have to."
She nodded once, sharp and decisive. Then she moved to the window, checking the street below. "Clear. For now."
You pocketed your phone, checking your weapon. Still there. Still loaded. Hopefully you wouldn't need it.
The meeting had been going smoothly until Dmitri pulled the gun.
One moment you were discussing logistics, shipment routes, encryption protocols, the mundane details of criminal enterprise. The next, Dmitri was on his feet, weapon drawn, shouting in rapid Russian about betrayal and infiltrators.
You didn't think. You moved.
Emily was already moving too, both of you operating on pure instinct. You vaulted over the table as Dmitri fired, the shot going wide, punching through the factory's rusted metal wall with a sound like thunder.
Then you were running.
Dmitri ran too, heading for the back exit. You and Emily gave chase, your cover identities forgotten in the immediate need to contain the situation. If Dmitri got away, if he started talking about his suspicions, there could've been endless damage to the case.
The factory was a maze of old machinery and support columns. Dmitri knew it better than you did, taking turns without hesitation. But you and Emily had trained for this. You split up without discussion, Emily going left to cut him off while you maintained pursuit.
Your lungs burned. Your legs pumped. Ahead, you saw Dmitri glance back, his face twisted with fear and rage.
He fired again. The bullet sparked off metal somewhere to your right.
Then Emily appeared from behind a support column, tackling Dmitri from the side. They went down hard, the gun skittering across the concrete floor.
You reached them seconds later, kicking the weapon away. Emily had Dmitri pinned, her knee in his back, her hand forcing his face against the floor.
"Stop," she said in Russian, her accent perfect. "Stop fighting."
Dmitri was breathing hard, still struggling. "You're not who you say you are. I know it. I can feel it."
"You're paranoid," you said, crouching beside him. Your heart was hammering, but your voice was steady. "The stress is getting to you."
"No." Dmitri's eyes found yours, wild and desperate. "Something's wrong. Something's been wrong for weeks. People disappearing. Operations failing. Someone's feeding information—"
"To who?" Emily asked, her voice sharp. "Who would we be feeding information to, Dmitri? We're all in this together."
"Interpol," Dmitri spat. "Police. Someone."
You exchanged a glance with Emily over Dmitri's prone form. This was bad. Worse than bad. If his paranoia spread, if others started questioning—
"We need to take him to Marcus," you said quietly.
Emily nodded. "Agreed."
But as you hauled Dmitri to his feet, as you saw the fear and suspicion in his eyes, you realized something that made your stomach turn.
The Network had gone dark. Darker than you'd understood. These weren't just criminals anymore. They were true believers, zealots who saw enemies everywhere. Who would kill to protect their secrets.
Who would kill you if they ever discovered the truth.
Later, in the safe house, after Marcus had taken Dmitri away for "debriefing" (you tried not to think too hard about what that meant), you and Emily sat in silence.
"That was close," Emily said finally.
"Too close."
"If he'd gotten away—"
"He didn't," you interrupted. "We stopped him."
"This time." Emily looked at you, something haunted in her eyes. "But what about next time? What happens when someone figures it out? When our covers are blown and we're trapped in a room full of people who want us dead?"
You didn't have an answer. Because she was right. Every day you stayed undercover was another day you might not make it out.
"We're careful," you said. "We watch each other's backs. We—"
"We survive," Emily finished. "That's all we can do. Just survive until extraction."
You reached for her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. "We will. I promise."
It was a promise you'd meant. A promise you'd believed.
But sitting there in that Prague safe house, Dmitri's paranoid accusations still ringing in your ears, you'd felt the first real stirrings of doubt.
EXT. PRAGUE - STREETS - EVENING - 09 06 2012
You quietly came out of the cathedral's side entrance, immediately scanning for threats. The street was busy with evening foot traffic, tourists heading to dinner, locals returning from work. Normal. Safe.
Except for the man in the black jacket standing across the street, speaking into a radio.
"Spotted," Emily said quietly.
"I see him."
You turned right, walking quickly but not running. Not yet. Running would draw attention, would make you easier to track.
The man followed.
You checked your phone. Three minutes. The coordinates were close now, just across the river and up the hill to Letná Park.
"We need to move faster," you said.
"I know."
You picked up the pace, weaving through the crowd. Behind you, the man in the black jacket was closing the distance. And now there was another one, approaching from the left.
"Emily—"
"I see them."
You reached the bridge—Čechův most, one of Prague's many spans across the Vltava. The river below was dark, reflecting the city lights. Beautiful. Deadly if you ended up in it.
Halfway across the bridge, you heard it.
The helicopter.
It was distant, coming from the north. But the sound was unmistakable, the heavy thump of rotor blades cutting through air.
Your phone buzzed. Garcia: Incoming. 2m. RUN.
"Fuck," you breathed.
Emily grabbed your hand. "Come on!"
You ran.
Off the bridge, up the hill toward Letná Park. Your legs were already tired from the earlier chase, but adrenaline pushed you forward. Behind you, shouts. The men in black jackets were running too, no longer bothering with subtlety.
The helicopter sound grew louder. Closer.
You rounded a corner, the park entrance visible ahead. And there, on the plateau overlooking the river, you saw it.
The helicopter. Black, unmarked, rotors already spinning. The side door was open, a figure visible inside.
"There!" you shouted over the rotor noise.
But Emily wasn't looking at the helicopter. She was looking behind you, her face pale.
You glanced back. It was the first time you'd seen true fear on her face, her confidence in survival gone.
Chen's men had multiplied. Four of them now, maybe five, all running. And they were drawing weapons.
"Emily, fucking run!" you screamed.
You sprinted the last hundred meters, your lungs burning, your legs screaming. The helicopter was so close. Fifty meters. Forty.
A gunshot cracked behind you.
The bullet hit the ground to your left, kicking up dirt and grass.
Thirty meters.
Another shot. This one closer.
Twenty meters.
The figure in the helicopter was waving frantically, shouting something you couldn't hear over the rotors.
Ten meters.
Emily's hand was still in yours, pulling you forward. You could see the helicopter's interior now, seats, equipment, the pilot's helmeted head.
Five meters.
A hand reached out from the helicopter. You grabbed it, felt yourself being pulled up. Emily was right behind you, her hand releasing yours only to grab the helicopter's frame.
Then you were inside, tumbling onto the metal floor. Emily landed beside you, breathing hard.
"Go!" someone shouted. "Go, go, go!"
The helicopter lifted, tilting slightly as it gained altitude. Through the open door, you saw Chen's men reaching the plateau, saw them raising their weapons.
More gunshots. The helicopter's metal skin pinged as bullets struck it.
Then you were up, over the river, the city falling away beneath you.
You lay on the helicopter floor, chest heaving, Emily beside you. Her hand found yours again, squeezing tight.
"We made it," she said, her voice barely audible over the rotors.
"We made it," you agreed.
The figure who'd pulled you in moved into view. A man in tactical gear, American flag patch on his shoulder. He offered you a hand up.
"Welcome aboard," he said with a slight Southern drawl. "Y'all had us worried there for a minute."
You let him pull you to sitting, Emily doing the same. Through the helicopter's windows, you could see Prague spreading out below, beautiful, ancient, full of ghosts.
"Where are we going?" Emily asked.
The man grinned. "Ramstein Air Base. Germany. Your boss pulled some serious strings to get this authorized."
"Hotch," you said.
"That's the one." The man settled into a seat across from you, handing you both headphones. "Name's Miller. I'll be your escort for the evening. We've got about an hour flight time, then you'll be sent on your merry way home." Like it was simple, like you didn't just break every rule, get shot at and followed across Prague.
You looked at Emily. She looked back. And despite everything, the fear, the exhaustion, the very real possibility that you'd almost died, you both smiled.
"An hour," Emily said. "Think we can stay awake that long?"
"Probably not," you admitted.
Miller laughed. "Well, if you do pass out, I promise not to draw on your faces."
"Appreciated," Emily said dryly.
The helicopter banked, heading west. Below, Prague's lights twinkled like stars. Somewhere down there, Chen's people were regrouping, reporting failure, planning their next move.
But for now, for this moment, you were safe.
You leaned back against the helicopter's wall, Emily's shoulder warm against yours. Your hand was still in hers, and neither of you seemed inclined to let go.
"Hey," Emily said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear over the rotors.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not letting go. On the bridge, when they were shooting, you could have run faster without me."
You turned to look at her, seeing the vulnerability in her eyes. "Emily, I would never—"
"I know," she interrupted. "I know that now. I just—I needed to say it. Needed you to know that I noticed."
You squeezed her hand. "We're partners. That's what partners do."
"Is that all we are?" Emily asked, her voice soft. "Partners?"
You thought about Prague. About seven years of silence. About the kiss in the safe house, about the promises made and broken and made again.
"No," you said. "We're not just partners."
"Good," Emily said. She leaned her head against your shoulder, her eyes already drifting closed.
You smiled, letting your own eyes close.
Miller cleared his throat politely. "Y'all are cute and all, but maybe save the relationship talk for after the debrief? Your boss seemed pretty intense about wanting to hear what you found."
"The USB drive," you said, suddenly remembering. You patted your pockets frantically. "Emily, the drive—"
"I have it," she said, not opening her eyes. "Relax. It's safe."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
You relaxed back against the wall, letting the helicopter's vibration lull you. Outside, the last of Prague's lights disappeared behind you, swallowed by darkness and distance.
You were going home.
And this time, you were bringing the truth with you.
EXT. RAMSTEIN AIR BASE - GERMANY - NIGHT - 09 06 2012
The tarmac was wet from recent rain, reflecting the harsh floodlights in fractured patterns. Your legs felt like lead, each step requiring conscious effort. Beside you, Emily moved with the same mechanical determination, one foot, then the other, the USB drive clutched so tightly in her fist that her knuckles had gone white.
"That's your ride," Miller called from behind you. "Langley's got a team waiting on the other end. Should be wheels up in ten."
You raised a hand in acknowledgment without turning around. The plane sat there like a promise. Small, unmarked, the kind of aircraft that didn't officially exist in any logbook. The rear stairs were already down.
"You think they know?" Emily asked quietly. "About what's on this?"
"If they did, we'd already be dead."
She glanced at you, her face pale in the artificial light. "Comforting."
"I'm not here to comfort you."
"No," she said, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. "You're here to keep me alive. Different job description."
You reach the stairs first, your hand automatically going to the rail. The metal is cold, slick with condensation. Emily follows close behind, her breathing still uneven from the sprint across the tarmac.
Inside, the cabin is utilitarian. No pretense of comfort, just jump seats along the walls and cargo netting. A single figure stands near the cockpit door, silhouetted against the dim interior lighting.
As your eyes adjust, you recognize him. Deputy Director Morrison. Counterintelligence Center.
Your stomach drops.
"Agent Prentiss," Morrison says, his voice smooth, practiced. "We've been waiting for you."
Emily stops on the top step, and you nearly collide with her back. You can feel the tension radiating off her in waves.
"Sir," she says carefully.
Morrison's eyes drop to her clenched fist. "I'll need that USB drive. We have analysts standing by at Langley to begin immediate assessment."
"With respect, sir, I'll be delivering it directly to Unit Chief Hotchner."
The temperature in the cabin seems to drop ten degrees.
Morrison's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture. "That's not how this works, Agent. Chain of command. The drive. Now."
"No, sir." You move up beside Emily, your shoulder brushing hers. A united front.
Morrison's gaze shifts to you, cold and assessing. "You're going to back this play? You understand what you're risking here?"
"Yes, sir," you say evenly. "We do."
"This is insubordination."
"This is proper protocol," Emily counters, her voice steady despite the tremor you can feel running through her. "Evidence of this sensitivity goes directly to the Department of Justice. Not through intermediaries. Not through anyone else. That's the protocol for suspected internal compromise."
Morrison's jaw tightens. "You're suggesting—"
"I'm not suggesting anything, sir. I'm following procedure."
The silence stretches out, taut as a wire. You can hear the distant sound of jet engines, the muffled voices of ground crew outside. Your hand hovers near your weapon, not threatening, just ready.
Morrison knows it. You can see the calculation in his eyes, weighing options, considering angles.
"You're making a mistake," he says finally.
"Maybe," you reply. "But it's our mistake to make."
Another beat of silence. Then Morrison steps back, gesturing toward the jump seats with barely concealed anger. "Fine. Keep your precious drive. But when we land at Langley, you go directly to Hotchner. No stops. No detours. And if anything happens to that intelligence between here and there, it's on both of you."
"Understood, sir," Emily says.
Morrison moves toward the cockpit, pausing at the door. "You're playing a dangerous game. Both of you. I hope you know what you're doing."
He disappears into the cockpit, the door closing with a decisive click.
Emily exhales slowly, finally unclenching her fist. The USB drive has left deep impressions in her palm, angry red marks against pale skin.
"That was—"
"Necessary," you finish, guiding her toward the nearest jump seat. "Sit down before you fall down."
She sinks onto the canvas seat, and you take the one beside her. The engines are already spooling up, the whole aircraft beginning to vibrate with barely contained power.
"We just made an enemy," Emily says quietly.
"We made the right call."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"No," you agree. "They're not."
The plane lurches into motion, taxiing toward the runway. Through the small window, you watch Ramstein Air Base slide past, lights and shadows, secrets and lies, all of it falling away behind you.
Emily's hand finds yours in the darkness between seats. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For backing me."
"Always," you say, and mean it.
The engines roar. The plane accelerates. And then you're airborne, climbing into the night sky, carrying evidence that could bring down a traitor or get you both killed.
Maybe both.
Emily's head drops onto your shoulder, exhaustion finally claiming her. You don't move, don't disturb her. Just sit there in the darkness, feeling the weight of the USB drive in her other hand, pressed between you like a promise.
Or a threat.
Outside, the lights of Germany fade into blackness. Ahead, somewhere in that darkness, Langley waits.
And with it, answers.
Or more questions.
You close your eyes, but you don't sleep. Someone has to keep watch. Someone has to stay alert.
INT. BAU - BULLPEN - QUANTICO, VIRGINIA - EARLY MORNING - 09 07 2012
The BAU looks exactly the same as when you left it three days ago. Same desks, same files, same coffee-stained mugs. But you feel like you've been gone for years.
Emily walks beside you, the USB drive now in her jacket pocket. You both look like hell—rumpled clothes, dark circles under your eyes, the kind of exhaustion that goes bone-deep.
The round table room door opens.
Hotch comes out first, his expression carefully neutral, but you catch the flash of relief in his eyes. Then the rest of them, Reid, Morgan, JJ, Rossi, Garcia trailing behind in a blur of color that seems too bright for this early hour.
"You're back," JJ says, and there's something in her voice that makes your chest tight.
"We're back," Emily confirms.
Morgan's eyes scan you both, cataloging injuries, assessing threat levels. "You two look like shit."
"Feel worse," you say.
"Did you get it?" Hotch asks quietly. Always direct. Always to the point.
Emily's hand goes to her pocket. "We got it."
"And Morrison?" Rossi's voice is careful.
"Tried to take it at Ramstein," you say. "We declined."
Reid's eyebrows shoot up. "You refused a direct order from a Deputy Director?"
"We followed proper protocol for internal compromise investigations," Emily says evenly. "The evidence goes to the Director. No intermediaries."
Hotch's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Approval, maybe. Or concern. "Garcia, set up in the conference room."
"On it, sir." Garcia's already moving, her heels clicking rapidly across the floor.
Penelope's fingers fly across her keyboard, multiple screens lighting up around her. You've never really seen her work before, not when she has a real task, something to crack. The speed, the precision, the way she navigates systems like she's conducting an orchestra.
Emily hands her the USB drive.
"Please tell me this is what I think it is," Garcia says, plugging it in.
"Depends what you think it is," you say.
"Evidence of a mole in Interpol who's been working with an international criminal network for at least seven years and is responsible for multiple agent deaths and compromised operations across three continents."
You blink. "Yeah. That."
"Oh, thank God. I was worried it might be something boring." Her screens fill with data, files, folders, encrypted documents. "Okay, babies, let's see what secrets you're hiding."
The team crowds around. Hotch stands at Garcia's shoulder, watching. Reid's already analyzing file structures. Morgan inches from the screen, shoulders broad like he could intimidate the pixels.
"How long?" Hotch asks.
"To download everything? Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. To decrypt and analyze? Days." Garcia's hands never stop moving. "But I can prioritize, pull the most relevant—"
Her phone rings.
She ignores it.
It rings again.
"Garcia," Hotch says quietly.
She answers, putting it on speaker. "Penelope Garcia."
"This is Deputy Director Morrison, Air Force Counterintelligence." His voice is clipped, angry. "You are currently accessing classified intelligence without proper authorization. Cease immediately."
Garcia's hands freeze over the keyboard. Her eyes find Hotch's.
"Agent Garcia is operating under my authority," Hotch says, leaning toward the phone. "We have evidence of—"
"I don't care what you think you have, Agent Hotchner. That drive contains classified intelligence. Your analyst does not have clearance. Shut it down. Now."
The silence in the room is absolute.
Garcia looks at Hotch. Hotch looks at the screens, the download bar at sixty-three percent.
"Do it," he says quietly.
"But—"
"Do it."
Garcia's face crumples, but her hands move. The download stops. Sixty-three percent. Not everything, but—
"It's done," she says into the phone.
"Good. Agents Prentiss and—" He says your name like it tastes bad. "—will remain at Quantico until DOJ arrives to take their statements. No one else accesses that drive. Am I clear?"
"Crystal," Hotch says, and ends the call.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then Garcia spins her chair around, a smile spreading across her face. "He said stop accessing. He didn't say delete what I already got."
"Garcia—" Hotch starts.
"Sixty-three percent, sir. That's a lot of data." Her fingers are already moving again, pulling up files on the screens. "Financial records, communication logs, operational reports dating back to—oh my God."
"What?" Emily moves closer.
"2004. There are files here from 2004." Garcia's voice has gone quiet, almost reverent. "This is... this is everything."
You and Emily exchange a glance. 2004. The year it all started. The year The Network starting drifting darker.
"Can you search for specific keywords?" you ask.
"Can I search for—honey, I can search for anything. What do you need?"
"Chen," Emily says. "Sarah Chen. And anything about Network infiltration or long-term operations."
Garcia's hands fly. Files flash across screens. Then she stops.
"Oh," she breathes. "Oh no."
"What is it?" Hotch demands.
Garcia pulls up a document. It fills the main screen, pages and pages of text, dense and detailed.
"It's... it's a manifesto," Reid says, leaning in to read. "A strategic plan."
The header is simple:
NETWORK INTEGRATION: LONG-TERM STRATEGIC OBJECTIVES
Author: S. Chen
Created: 09 15 2004
Last Modified: 08 22 2011
"Traditional intelligence operations focus on information extraction, a fundamentally limited objective. True power lies not in stealing secrets, but in controlling the institutions that generate them. This proposal outlines a comprehensive strategy for The Network dominance of Western law enforcement and intelligence structures through systematic infiltration and institutional capture.
By occupying positions of legitimate authority within agencies like Interpol, CIA, FBI, and DOJ, Network operatives gain the ability to shape policy decisions, influence operational priorities, protect Network assets, and eliminate threats before they materialize. More critically, we gain the power to direct investigations toward or away from specific targets, to classify or declassify information strategically, and to control the flow of intelligence between agencies and governments.
This is not espionage. This is institutional control. We will not merely observe Western intelligence—we will run it. We will decide which operations succeed and which fail. We will determine which politicians rise and which fall. We will shape the geopolitical landscape itself.
The Network's future depends not on operating against these institutions, but on becoming them. This is colonization from within."
Your blood runs cold.
"She wrote it down," Emily whispers. "She actually wrote it all down."
You start reading, and with each line, the horror grows. It's all there. The plan to infiltrate Interpol, to use her position to feed information to the Network, to systematically compromise operations and eliminate threats. Names, dates, operations. A seven-year plan, meticulously detailed.
And the modifications in 2011, those are worse. Expansion plans. New targets. A vision for what the Network could become with Interpol and CIA resources behind it.
"This is a confession," Rossi says quietly. "This is everything we need."
"Why would she keep this?" JJ asks. "Why document it?"
"Insurance," you say, the pieces clicking together. "Or leverage. If the Network ever turned on her, she'd have proof of what she'd done for them. Mutually assured destruction."
"She was always thinking three moves ahead," Emily adds, her voice hollow.
Reid's still reading, his eyes moving rapidly across the screen. "There are references here to other operations. Other agents. If even half of this is accurate—"
The conference room door slams open.
Everyone spins.
Two men in dark suits stand in the doorway, badges already out. DOJ.
"Emily Prentiss?" the taller one says. His voice is flat, professional. "We need you and—" He looks at you. "—to come with us. Now."
"On whose authority?" Hotch steps forward, positioning himself between them and you.
"Department of Justice, on behalf of Interpol's Inspector General's office. We have questions about unauthorized intelligence operations, theft of classified materials, and potential violations of the Espionage Act."
The room goes very still.
"They're not going anywhere without counsel," Hotch says. "They're questioned on my floor under my watch."
The taller DOJ officer, his badge reads Special Agent Brennan, considers this for a long moment. Then nods, once. "Fine. Your floor. But separately, and we ask the questions."
"Agreed," Hotch says. He looks at you, then Emily. His expression is carefully neutral, but you can read the message in his eyes: Be careful. Tell the truth, but be careful.
They take Emily first.
INT. BAU - BULLPEN - CONTINUOUS
Through the window, you watch Emily sit across from Brennan. JJ stands beside you, arms crossed, her jaw tight. Hotch is on the phone with someone, probably the FBI's legal counsel.
You can't hear what's being said, but you can read Emily's body language. She's leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. Defiant.
Brennan leans forward, says something.
Emily's response is short. Sharp.
"She's not giving them anything," JJ murmurs.
"She shouldn't have to," you say. "We didn't do anything wrong."
"You conducted an unauthorized operation on foreign soil."
"We followed a lead. That's our job."
JJ doesn't respond. She just keeps watching.
Inside, Brennan's getting frustrated. You can see it in the way he gestures, the way he leans back and exchanges a look with his partner, a shorter man with wire-rimmed glasses who's been taking notes.
Emily says something, and even through the glass, you can see the steel in her expression.
"What do you think she's telling them?" JJ asks.
"The truth," you say. "That Chen needs to be stopped and this is a waste of time."
INT. BAU - CONFERENCE ROOM - EMILY'S INTERROGATION
"Let's go through this again," Brennan says. His voice is patient, but there's an edge to it now. "You received intelligence about a potential threat—"
"Not potential," Emily interrupts. "Active. Chen is actively compromised. She's been working for the Network since at least 2005."
"According to a source you met with in Prague. Without authorization. Without backup. Without informing your superiors or Interpol."
"We informed our unit chief."
"After you'd already left the country."
Emily doesn't flinch. "Chen has access to ongoing investigations, agent identities, operational details. Every day she remains in place, people die. Like Daniel Cross, who risked everything to gather evidence you're currently trying to bury under bureaucratic bullshit."
Brennan's jaw tightens. "Agent Prentiss—"
"How many more people have to die before you stop wasting time questioning the people trying to stop her and actually do something about the mole in Interpol?"
"We're not convinced there is a mole."
Emily laughs. It's a sharp, bitter sound. "Then you're not paying attention. Or you're part of the problem."
The shorter agent looks up from his notes. "Are you accusing—"
"I'm stating facts. Chen is compromised. We have documentation proving it. A manifesto detailing her infiltration plan, her objectives, her timeline. It's all there. And instead of acting on it, you're in here questioning me about procedure."
"Procedure exists for a reason," Brennan says.
"So does justice," Emily fires back. "And right now, you're obstructing it."
Brennan stares at her for a long moment. Then he stands. "We'll take a break. Don't leave the building."
Emily doesn't move. "Wasn't planning on it."
Brennan emerges from the conference room, his expression tight. He looks at you. "You're next."
JJ steps forward. "They have a right to counsel—"
"They're not under arrest," Brennan says. "Yet. This is a voluntary interview."
"Doesn't feel voluntary," you say.
"Then you're welcome to decline and we can do this at DOJ headquarters. Your choice."
You look at Hotch. He nods, once. It's okay. Go.
"Fine," you say. "Let's get this over with."
You sit across from Brennan and his partner. Through the window, you can see Emily now standing with JJ and Hotch. She's watching you, her arms crossed, that protective gleam in her eye.
"Let's start from the beginning," Brennan says. He's calmer now, more controlled. Maybe he thinks you'll be easier than Emily. "When did you first suspect there was a mole in Interpol?"
You take a breath. Keep your voice steady, factual. "We were investigating murders related to a mission we did for Interpol in 2005."
"And you didn't report this through proper channels?"
"We did. Section Chief Erin Strauss informed us that she would pass it off to you guys or some other department and here we are."
"But you didn't inform Interpol."
"No. Because if there was a mole, informing Interpol would tip them off."
Brennan makes a note. "Go on."
"When we got close to discovering her she shut us down, said we weren't allowed to look any further into the case, not just her, but the BAU's active case."
"Circumstantial," the shorter agent says.
"Yes," you agree. "Which is why we needed more. We spoke with a source, Anton Volkov. Former Network operative who'd worked with Prentiss and I on the original Prague mission. He reached out through back channels, said he had proof of her infiltration."
"And you went to Prague to meet him."
"Yes."
"Without authorization."
"With authorization from FBI officals," you correct. "This is an FBI investigation into potential threats to U.S. intelligence operations. We had jurisdiction."
"You had jurisdiction to investigate domestically. Not to conduct operations on foreign soil."
"We weren't conducting an operation. We were meeting a source. That's standard investigative work."
Brennan leans forward. "And what did this source tell you?"
"That Chen was recruited by the Network in 2004. That she was placed in Interpol specifically to provide intelligence, disrupt operations, and identify targets. That she's been doing it for seven years. And that she has a manifesto: a detailed document outlining her infiltration plan, her objectives, her methods."
"The document you stole from Interpol servers."
"The document Anton gave us," you say. "From Chen's Network files. Files she kept as insurance against the Network turning on her."
"Convenient," the shorter agent says.
"True," you counter. "You've seen it. Garcia pulled it from the USB drive. It's all there—dates, operations, names. Everything you need to prove Chen is compromised."
"If it's authentic," Brennan says.
"It is."
"You're certain."
"Yes."
"Based on what? The word of a former criminal? A man with every reason to lie, to fabricate evidence, to manipulate you into doing exactly what you did?"
You hold his gaze. "Based on seven years of working with Emily Prentiss. Based on the fact that Chen's men tried to kill us in Prague. Based on the fact that Anton risked his life to get us that information seven years ago and again this week. Based on the fact that everything in that manifesto aligns with the pattern of murders that I was brought in to consult on in the first place."
"Or," Brennan says slowly, "based on the fact that you and Agent Prentiss have a personal relationship that clouds your judgment. That you're so invested in protecting each other that you're willing to believe anything that justifies your unauthorized actions."
The words hit like a slap.
You keep your voice level. "This has nothing to do with our personal relationship present or past. This is about stopping a traitor before more people die."
"People like Daniel Cross?"
"Yes. Exactly like Daniel Cross."
Brennan sits back. "Tell me about Prague. After you met with Volkov."
You walk him through it. The meeting in the safe house. Anton's information. The attack. The chase through the streets, across the Charles Bridge, the helicopter extraction.
"Chen's men," you say. "They knew where we were. They knew what we were doing. Because Chen told them."
"Or because Volkov set you up," the shorter agent suggests.
"Then why give us the USB drive? Why risk exposure?"
"To make it look authentic. To make you believe."
You shake your head. "You're reaching. The simplest explanation is the truth: Chen is compromised, and she's trying to cover her tracks."
Brennan studies you for a long moment. Then he stands. "Wait here."
He and his partner step out of the room.
Through the window, you watch Brennan pull out his phone. He steps away from the conference room, his back to you.
Hotch, JJ, and Emily are watching too.
Brennan's posture changes. He goes very still.
Then he turns, and even from here, you can see the shift in his expression.
He says something to his partner. The shorter agent's eyes widen.
They both look at the conference room. At you.
Brennan walks back, his phone still in his hand. He opens the door.
"Lukas Novak was found dead in his holding cell an hour ago," he says. His voice is flat, professional, but there's something else underneath. "Single gunshot wound to the head. Silencer. Security footage was looped. Whoever did this had access, had clearance."
The room goes silent.
You feel the air leave your lungs.
"He was killed because he helped us," you say quietly. "Because he gave us the proof."
Brennan doesn't respond immediately. He's looking at you differently now. Not like a suspect. Like a witness.
"We'll need full statements," he says finally. "Everything you know about Chen, the Network, Novak's information. Everything."
"We've been trying to give you that," you say. Your voice is steady, but inside, you're reeling. Lukas. Dead. Because of you. Because he trusted you.
"I know," Brennan says. And for the first time, he sounds almost apologetic. "We'll coordinate with Interpol's internal affairs division. If Chen is compromised, we'll find the evidence."
"You already have the evidence," you say. "It's on that USB drive. It's in that manifesto. Lukas died to get you that evidence. Don't let it be for nothing. And get eyes on his sister, please."
Brennan nods before he leaves, immediately back on the phone, his agents around him like a hive at work.
You sit there, alone in the conference room, staring at the table.
Lukas Weber. Dead.
Another ghost to add to the collection.
Another name on the list of people who trusted you and paid the price.
Through the window, you see Emily. She's looking at you, and even from here, you can see the grief in her eyes. She knows. She's thinking the same thing.
This is our fault.
We got him killed.
The door opens. Emily steps in, ignoring protocol, ignoring the DOJ agents watching. She sits beside you, her hand finding yours under the table.
"It's not your fault," she says quietly.
"He's dead because of us." Your hand squeezed tight around hers, muscles rigid with years of guilt and rage, seeping into every limb like lactic acid.
"He's dead because of Chen. Because of the Network. Because he chose to do the right thing." Her grip tightens. "We finish this. For him. We make sure it wasn't for nothing."
You nod. You don't trust yourself to speak.
Outside, Hotch is talking to Brennan. JJ's on the phone. Garcia's probably already digging deeper into the manifesto, finding more connections, more proof.
The machine is moving now. The truth is out.
But Lukas Weber is still dead.
And somewhere, Chen is watching. Planning her next move.
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"It took years to build my practice," you continued. "To unlearn the guilt, to trust my intuition, to understand that connecting with the earth isn't evil, it's sacred."
Emily shows up at your door on the winter solstice with a gift that changes everything. Confessions are made, and you teach her about Yule while wrapped up in blankets and each other.
TW: religious trauma mentioned, smut, these bitches are in love, not all witches worship Hecate
The knock came at 7:13 PM on December 21st, the winter solstice, the longest night of the year.
You'd been expecting Emily—she'd texted earlier saying she had something for you—but when you opened the door, she was holding a canvas wrapped in brown paper, snowflakes melting in her hair, cheeks flushed from the cold.
"Hi," she said, breathless, like she'd run up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.
"Hi yourself." You stepped aside to let her in, watching as she carefully leaned the canvas against the wall. "What's that?"
Emily shrugged out of her coat, shaking snow from her shoulders. She was wearing that burgundy sweater you loved, the one that made her eyes look impossibly dark. "Your Christmas present. Well, Yule present? I'm still learning the terminology."
Your heart did that stupid flutter thing. "Emily, you didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." She picked up the canvas again, holding it carefully. "Can I show you?"
You nodded, suddenly nervous in a way you couldn't explain.
Emily unwrapped the paper slowly, revealing the painting beneath. And then your breath caught.
It was the moon. Not just any moon, the moon. The waxing crescent from that first night on your fire escape, rendered in silvery whites and deep indigos, surrounded by the hazy glow of city light pollution. The artist had captured it perfectly: the way it had hung in the sky above you, the way it had witnessed everything that started that night.
In the bottom corner, in small, elegant script: April 21st, 2025
The night you first kissed. When she broke one wall and the rest of you poured out.
"Emily—" Your voice cracked. You pressed your hand to your mouth, tears already blurring your vision.
"Hey, no, don't cry." Emily set the painting down carefully and pulled you close. "Is it too much? I thought—I wanted you to have something that honored your practice, that showed I was paying attention—"
"It's perfect," you managed, the words coming out thick with emotion. You pulled back just enough to look at her, tears streaming freely now. "It's so perfect it's actually sickening how seen I feel right now."
Emily's laugh was soft, relieved. She cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears. "You deserve to be seen. All of you. The crystals and the herbs and the moon phases and the way you cast protection spells before every case even though you think no one notices."
You sniffled and Emily kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.
"I commissioned a local artist," she said softly. "Told her I needed the moon from a specific night. She thought I was proposing or something equally dramatic." A pause. "I didn't correct her."
Your heart squeezed. "Emily Prentiss, you're going to make me cry again."
"Then my work here is done." She kissed you properly this time, soft and sweet. "Want to smoke? I know it's freezing, but—"
"We can crack the window," you finished. "Stay warm inside."
"Perfect."
Ten minutes later, you were both settled on the floor by your bedroom window, cushions beneath you and blankets wrapped around your shoulders. The window was open just enough to let the smoke drift out into the snowy night. The city was muffled and quiet, wrapped in white.
You took a hit and passed the joint to Emily, watching as she exhaled smoke that curled toward the open window. She looked beautiful like this: relaxed, present, the stress of work melted away.
Emily took another hit, then paused, joint halfway to her lips. She just stared at you for a long moment, something shifting in her expression.
"What?" you asked.
"Didn't we steal Christmas from you guys?"
You blinked, then laughed so hard you nearly dropped the joint when she passed it back. "What?"
"Christians," Emily clarified, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "We stole Christmas from pagans, right? The whole thing is just rebranded Yule."
"I mean, yeah." You took a hit, grinning. "Pretty much. The tree, the decorations, the feast, the gift-giving—all pagan winter solstice traditions. The early church just slapped Jesus's birthday on top of it and called it good. Stealing, but out of laziness."
Emily leaned back against the wall, pulling her blanket tighter. "Tell me about it. The real version."
"Yule?"
"All of it. The origins, what it means to you, how you celebrate." Her eyes were intent, curious. "I want to know."
You were quiet for a moment, watching snow fall past the window. "Yule is about the return of the light. The winter solstice is the longest night, but it's also the turning point. After tonight, the days start getting longer again. It's about hope, about knowing that even in the darkest times, the light always comes back."
Emily's hand found yours under the blankets.
"There's a lot of symbolism," you continued. "The evergreen tree represents life persisting through winter. The wreath is the wheel of the year, the cycle continuing. Candles and fires are sympathetic magic, lighting them to encourage the sun to return." You smiled. "And the gift-giving is about abundance, about sharing what you have during the lean times."
"That's beautiful," Emily said softly.
You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "It's just how I was raised. Well, sort of. It's complicated."
Emily's thumb brushed across your knuckles. "Complicated how?"
You took another hit, buying time. "My family was Pentecostal, remember? But my grandmother—my mom's mom—she practiced in secret. Kept the old ways alive even though it could have gotten her ostracized from the church." You exhaled slowly. "She taught me things when my parents weren't looking. Herb lore, moon phases, the sabbats. I didn't understand what it was at the time, just thought Grandma was eccentric."
"When did you figure it out?"
"After she died. I was sixteen. She left me a box of her things: journals, dried herbs, crystals, a deck of tarot cards." You smiled at the memory. "My mom tried to throw it all away, said it was devil worship. I hid it under my bed and started reading at night with a flashlight."
Emily was quiet, listening with that focused attention she gave to everything you said.
"It took years to build my practice," you continued. "To unlearn the guilt, to trust my intuition, to understand that connecting with the earth isn't evil, it's sacred." You looked at her. "That's why intention matters so much to me. Why I'm so careful about the energy I put out into the world."
"The threefold rule," Emily said, and your heart squeezed that she remembered.
"Yeah. Whatever energy you send out—good or bad—comes back to you three times over. It's like magnified karma." You passed her the joint. "So I try to be deliberate. To make sure that what I'm putting out there is what I want to receive."
Emily took a hit, her eyes never leaving yours. "What else?"
"What do you mean?"
"I want to know every part of your practice, remember?" She smiled. "So tell me. What else guides you?"
You felt heat rise to your cheeks despite the cold air from the window. "You really want to know?"
"I really want to know." A dumb smile forming on her lips.
So you told her. About Hecate, the ancient triple moon goddess who has watched over women since time immemorial, and how you found comfort in knowing there was a piece of her for each stage of a woman's life: maiden, mother, crone.
You explained how the maiden represents youth, new beginnings, and infinite possibility. How the mother embodies nurturing, creation, and the full bloom of power. And how the crone holds wisdom, transformation, and the sacred knowledge that only comes with age and experience. You told her how discovering Hecate felt like finally seeing yourself reflected in the divine, how it gave you permission to embrace every version of yourself across time.
You talked about how you balanced herb use with modern medicine, never choosing one over the other but letting them work together. About how your altar changed with the seasons, how you cleansed your space with smoke and sound, how you charged your crystals under the full moon.
Emily asked questions, good questions, thoughtful questions that showed she was really listening. She wanted to know about specific herbs, about how you chose which crystals to work with and when, about the difference between a spell and a prayer.
And with every question, every genuine curiosity, you felt more seen. More loved, though you didn't say that word. Instead, you reached for her hand, playing with the rose quartz ring on her finger, turning it gently.
"Thank you," you said quietly.
"For what?"
"For asking. For caring. For not treating my practice like it's silly or superstitious or something to be tolerated." You met her eyes. "You respect it. You respect me."
Emily set the joint down in the ashtray and pulled you into her lap, blankets and all. "Your practice is part of who you are. And I love who you are." She paused, then corrected herself: "I'm falling in love with who you are. Every part."
Your breath caught, the original slip not lost on you.
"The way you move through the world with intention," Emily continued, her voice low and earnest. "The way you see magic in ordinary things like sunlight coming through tree branches. The way you've built something beautiful out of pain and guilt and religious trauma." Her hands framed your face. "You're not just practicing witchcraft. You're practicing radical self-acceptance. And that's the most powerful magic I've ever seen."
You kissed her. Long and deep and full of everything you couldn't quite say yet. When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"This version of you I get to see outside of work is beautiful too," you murmured. "When the chief is left behind and I get to be with just Emily."
Her smile was soft, vulnerable. "I like being just Emily with you."
"Good." You kissed her again, quick and sweet. "Because I have something for you too."
You climbed off her lap and moved to your dresser, returning with a small gift bag. Emily's eyes lit up as you settled back onto your cushion.
"You didn't have to—"
"Shut up and open it."
She laughed and pulled out the first item: a candle in a simple glass jar, the wax a deep amber color. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled.
"Bergamot," she said, surprised. "And... cedar? Something else I can't place."
"Frankincense," you supplied. "And a touch of black pepper." You watched her face carefully. "I made it myself. Poured it during the new moon, set intentions into the wax as it cooled."
Emily's eyes went soft. "What kind of intentions?"
"Protection. Cleansing. Peace." You shrugged, suddenly shy. "I wanted you to have something that would make your space feel safer. Something that would help clear the energy after bad cases."
"Baby—" Emily's voice cracked slightly.
"There's more." You gestured to the bag.
She pulled out a small pouch, deep red velvet with her initials painted on it in gold. She opened it carefully, pouring the contents into her palm: black tourmaline, obsidian, clear quartz, and a small piece of folded paper.
"Protection stones," you explained. "The tourmaline and obsidian are for cases. They absorb negative energy, create a shield. The clear quartz is for clarity and grounding." You nodded at the paper. "Read it."
Emily unfolded it carefully. Your handwriting, simple and clear:
For my Emily. May you be protected. May you be grounded. May you always find your way home.
She stared at it for a long moment, then carefully refolded it and tucked it back into the pouch.
"It's not magic-magic," you said quickly. "It's just something to hold onto when things get heavy. A reminder that someone's thinking about you, that you're not carrying everything alone."
Emily didn't say anything. She just pulled you back into her lap and buried her face in your neck, her shoulders shaking slightly.
"Emily?" You ran your fingers through her hair. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Her voice was muffled against your skin. "I'm just—no one's ever—" She pulled back, and her eyes were glassy. "Thank you. This is the most thoughtful gift anyone's ever given me."
You kissed her forehead. "You're welcome."
She tucked the pouch carefully into her pocket, then picked up the candle again, studying it like it held secrets. "Will you teach me how to use it? The intention-setting part?"
"Of course."
"And the stones—do I need to charge them or cleanse them or—"
"I'll teach you everything," you promised. "We can make it part of your routine. Light the candle when you get home from work, hold the stones when you need grounding. It doesn't have to be complicated."
Emily nodded, then set the candle down carefully. "Okay. Good. Because I want to do this right. I want to honor what you've given me."
Your heart felt too big for your chest.
"There's one more thing," you said, reaching behind the cushions for the box you'd hidden there earlier.
Emily's eyes widened. "Baby, you've already—"
"Open it."
She did, and then she went completely still.
Inside were the boots. The ones she'd been eyeing for months at that boutique in Georgetown. Cognac leather, perfect height heel, the kind of boots that were somehow both practical and devastatingly sexy. The ones she'd tried on three times and walked away from every time because she "didn't need them."
"You didn't," Emily breathed.
"You're a shoes girl," you said simply. "And you deserve to have the things you want, not just the things you need."
Emily looked up at you, and there were actual tears in her eyes now. "How did you even—"
"I asked Garcia to distract you while I went back and bought them." You grinned. "She was very enthusiastic about the mission."
"I'm going to cry again," Emily warned.
"Then cry." You pulled her close. "I've got you."
She did, quietly, her face pressed against your shoulder while snow continued to fall outside the window. When she finally pulled back, she was smiling through the tears.
"I love you," she said suddenly. "I know we said we were falling, but I'm not falling anymore. I've landed. I love you."
Your breath caught. "Emily—"
"You don't have to say it back," she said quickly. "I just needed you to know. Tonight, on the longest night, when you're celebrating the return of the light, I needed you to know that you're my light. You're what I come home to. You're what makes the darkness bearable."
You kissed her, tasting salt and smoke and something that felt like forever.
"I love you too," you whispered against her lips. "I've loved you since that first night. Maybe even before."
Emily's smile was radiant. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her hands sliding under your blanket to find warm skin. Her fingers sliding across your ribs as she managed to make you breathless with the same ease she always has.
"Bedroom," you managed between kisses.
"Yeah," she breathed.
She laughed and helped you gather the blankets and the ashtray.
Emily set the boots down carefully by the door, then placed the candle on your coffee table, the pouch still tucked safely in her pocket. She turned to you and pulled you close.
"Best Yule ever," she murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She kissed your temple. "Thank you. For the gifts, for sharing your practice, for loving me even though I'm a disaster who doesn't know the difference between a sabbat and an esbat."
You laughed. "You're learning."
"I'm trying." She pulled back to look at you. "I want to understand your world. All of it. The parts you show everyone and the parts you keep hidden. I want to know what herbs you use for what, and which moon phase is best for which intention, and why you arrange your altar the way you do. I want it to be second nature for me to know."
"That's a lot of information."
"I've got time." Emily's smile was soft. "We've got time."
You led her to the bedroom, both of you glowing with something only love and true care can give. The painting of the moon leaned against the wall where you'd left it, and you paused to look at it again.
"I'm going to hang it above my altar," you said. "So I see it every day."
Emily wrapped her arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. "Good. That's where it belongs."
You turned in her arms, and she kissed you slow and deep, walking you backward toward the bed. You fell together, tangled and laughing, and she covered your body with hers.
"I love you," she said again, like she was testing out the words, getting used to the shape of them.
"I love you too," you replied, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
She looked the softest you'd ever seen her: eyes a little red, hair falling perfectly around her, smile dripping in love, thumb brushing your cheek.
Emily leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your eye. Her lips moved to your cheek, your jaw, the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
"I almost said it that night you helped me in that hotel room," she murmured against your skin, kissing down your neck. "When you explained what each step meant. You were so earnest, so caring."
Your breath hitched.
"And when you fell asleep on my couch after that case in Portland." Another kiss, this one lingering at your pulse point. "You looked so peaceful. I watched you for twenty minutes, just... feeling it."
Tears pricked at your eyes.
"And tonight, when you opened the door." She pulled back to look at you, her own eyes shining. "Before I even gave you the painting. You smiled at me like I was the best thing you'd seen all day, and I almost said it right there in the hallway."
A tear slipped down your cheek. Emily caught it with her thumb, then kissed where it had been.
"I was so scared," she whispered. "But I'm not anymore."
You pulled her down into a kiss, melting completely, overwhelmed by how much she'd been holding back, how much she'd been feeling all along.
The kiss deepened, Emily's hands sliding to the hem of your shirt. She pulled back just enough to look at you, asking permission with her eyes. You nodded, and she lifted the fabric slowly, reverently, her fingertips trailing over newly exposed skin.
"You're so beautiful," she breathed, kissing your collarbone, your sternum, the soft skin above your heart. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you."
Your hands found her hair as she kissed lower, taking her time, worshipping every inch of you. She undressed you piece by piece, each article of clothing removed with careful attention, like unwrapping something precious. Her lips followed the path of her hands, down your ribs, across your stomach, along your hip bones.
"I love you," she whispered against your skin, over and over, like a prayer. "I love you so much."
You were trembling, overwhelmed with sensation and emotion, tears streaming freely now. Emily looked up at you, her own eyes wet, and moved back up to kiss them away.
"I've got you," she murmured. "I've got you, sweetheart."
She settled between your thighs, her touch gentle and sure, knowing what made you gasp, what made you arch into her. She took her time, whispering how perfect you were, how long she'd dreamed of this life, how she wanted to memorize every sound you made.
When her fingers finally slipped inside you, you broke apart, crying out her name. She moved with careful devotion, her other hand laced with yours, watching your face like you were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
"That's it," she breathed. "Let me love you. Let me show you."
The pleasure built slowly, Emily coaxing you higher with patient attention, her lips on your neck, your jaw, your mouth. When you finally came undone, it was with her name on your lips and tears on your cheeks, overwhelmed by how deeply you felt everything.
Emily worked you through it gently, then moved up to gather you in her arms. You were shaking, emotional, completely undone. She held you close, pressing kisses to your hair, your forehead, anywhere she could reach.
"Happy solstice, my love," she whispered against your temple as you both caught your breath, hearts beating in sync.
You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the candles burning low around you. Emily's fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you could feel her breathing slowly evening out.
"I'm starving," Emily announced suddenly, making you laugh against her shoulder.
"Now? Really?"
"Loving you is hard work," she teased, already pulling you up. She grabbed your shirt from the floor, slipping it on while you found your underwear, both of you stumbling and giggling like teenagers.
In the kitchen, Emily opened the fridge while you hopped up on the counter, watching her move around in your oversized Fleetwood Mac shirt. She turned with cheese and crackers, grinning, and you pulled her between your legs for a kiss that tasted like happiness.
"You're ridiculous," you murmured against her mouth.
"You love it."
"I love you."
Emily set the food down, reaching for the crackers, and you slid off the counter. Coming up behind her, you turned her around slowly, pressing her back against the counter. This kiss was different, deeper, hungrier, your tongue sliding across her bottom lip.
"Baby," Emily breathed, her voice catching in her throat, but you were already kissing down her neck, your lips tracing a slow, deliberate path along her skin, hands sliding under your own shirt as you pulled it over her head in one fluid motion.
"My turn," you whispered against her collarbone, your breath warm on her skin as you sank to your knees and looked up at her with clear intent, your gaze full of adoration and desire. "Let me worship you."
Emily's hand found your hair, her fingers threading through it gently, then gripping tighter as anticipation built between you. Her eyes were dark with want, pupils dilated, her chest rising and falling with each quickened breath. "Please," she said, the single word carrying the weight of all her longing.
The longest night gave way without ceremony, darkness loosening its grip as if it finally understood it had lost. Somewhere between breath and touch, between devotion and surrender, you crossed a threshold you could never uncross. Love settled into you like a vow made without witnesses: ancient, deliberate, and irreversible. And when the light returned, it would find you changed, held, and no longer alone.
I saw your post about your witch fics, and I wanted to say how much I admire them!! I think self-insert fanfics have been getting better lately at understanding how physical representations don’t always fit the reader, but I think there’s another conversation to be had about culture and morals/religion. Our culture and our practices and traditions shape who we are and how we interact with the world! And while I do think having fics be more inclusive is a good thing, I think it is equally important to have fics that embrace and explore specific experiences!! Anyway, just wanted to say I love your fics. <3
Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words. Conversations like these are what I dreamed of sparking with this series.
Sorry for how long I’m about to ramble, I got a lot to say.
Self insert fics have been so white, skinny, Christian centered for a long long time while it feels like the rest of the world evolved around it. Characters consistently comb their blonde hair back into a messy bun and make comments about hourglass figures, while those of us who don’t look like that immediately feel dejected.
That same thing happens when I read a story and they get married in a church, or a character makes a decision that is 100% against my morals as a witch. I wanted to create a one-shot series where other witches who have experienced that same dejection, somewhere to feel seen.
I’ve written so many ambiguous fics where literally anyone could insert themselves and I wanted to do something for people like me. People who were rose quartz around their neck and burn incense after a bad day. People who smile and nod when conversations about religion come up. People who can’t seem to escape Christianity on every corner (literally, if you threw a rock it would hit 10 churches on my road).
This series is for them, not for me. Let me clear and crisp. It’s a little self indulgent, I’ve made that clear from the first chapter. But it’s also for the (not surprisingly) large portion of Emily stans that happen to be witches, or spiritual. I wanted people to be able to see their way of thinking and seeing the world represented in a way it usually isn’t.
Witches are often written in the supernatural or magical sense. Levitating cars, or blasting enemies with magic beams. Real, living breathing witches don’t have magical powers I fear. I wanted to showcase the craftsmanship side of it, the intentions, the threefold rule and so much more.
This next chapter is going to be chalk full of information about readers practice, deities, etc, because I’m lowkey trying to educate yall too
Let me crisp about something else. Fanfiction writers owe you nothing but good tags and trigger warnings. If your writing an x reader fic and mention hair color, tag it. If they’re gonna go to church, tag it. If they’re of a certain body type, tag it. Writers can imagine their stories however they want, but don’t cherry pick your tags.
I think there’s so much more room for cultural representation in fanfic for not just witchcraft, but every other small religion, ethic group and community. It’s up to us, the members of those groups, to step up and be the representation we want to read.
Just start writing, let it flow, think about how your experiences shape you and just write.
Next chapter out before Christmas <3
Love, MB
Okay I’m going to write the next chapter and classified connections
