Prentissmylove

His weapon remains raised as fragments of shattered glass continue to rain from the ceiling around him, sparkling in the light before crashing onto the floor below. People who hadn’t reached cover in time shield their heads as they stumble toward the nearest stores, desperate to get out of the open.

Another shot cracks through the air, again into the ceiling.

The sound reverberates through the restaurant, rattling the windows in front of you. Without thinking, you press yourself closer against Claire. Her fingers are wrapped so tightly around your wrist that they’re beginning to hurt, but neither of you notices.

Then movement catches your eye.

Dark tactical vests appear from both sides of the lower level, spreading through the corridor with practiced precision. White letters flash across their backs as they move.

FBI.

Several agents close in at once, weapons raised, their voices carrying even through the glass.

“FBI! Drop the weapon!”

The man turns sharply at the command. For a moment, it almost looks as though he’s going to raise the gun again. But instead, he only smirks and bolts.

He disappears into one of the side corridors, knocking over a display stand as he runs. The agents are after him instantly, vanishing around the corner only seconds later until nothing remains but the echo of hurried footsteps somewhere deeper inside the mall.

The restaurant falls strangely quiet. Nobody moves, and nobody seems willing to believe it’s over.

Then, somewhere beyond the corridor where the agents disappeared, another shot rings out. Every head jerks toward the sound.

A few seconds later, the speakers crackle overhead.

“Evacuation routes are active. Follow staff direction. Keep moving toward exits.” The unfamiliar voice booms over your head, shattering the tense chaos of the mall and the calm that had crept in over the last few minutes.

The people around you look around frantically, searching for someone who can show them the way out. You find yourself doing the same. More than anything, you just want to get out of here.

Rising onto your tiptoes, you try to see over the crowd, your fingers digging into Claire’s shoulder as she follows your gaze. A blonde woman wearing an FBI vest stands by the railing on the lower level, one arm extended as she directs people to the left while her eyes constantly sweep the floors above. People hurry past her, stumbling over one another in their rush before disappearing around the corner she keeps pointing toward.

“Come on,” you murmur, turning back to Claire.

Her breathing is loud and uneven now, every inhale catching before it fully reaches her lungs. You can feel the panic taking hold of her more with every passing second, and you make yourself a silent promise to stay calm, even if your own heart feels like it’s trying to break free from your chest.

You take hold of her hand and gently pull her after you. She follows without hesitation. You realize she’s no longer making decisions of her own. She’s simply following your lead, too overwhelmed by fear to think beyond the next step. Only minutes ago, she had been the one guiding both of you through the maze of corridors. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the roles have quietly reversed.

You turn left and finally reach the corridor where the crowd has disappeared.

The corridor is packed with people. They are no longer running, but they still stumble forward with lingering uncertainty. The panic hasn’t completely faded, but relief hangs in the air now—the growing belief that they are finally safe. You rise onto your toes, trying to see how much farther it is to the exit.

“They shot him,” a man to your left says.

“No, I saw them arrest him,” a woman farther back insists.

No one seems to know for certain, but hope is beginning to push back the fear. You cling to it, too. The crowd around you slows even more, people falling into a single line, employees from the surrounding stores stand along the walls and in open doorways, calmly directing people forward with quiet gestures and reassuring voices. They continue pointing toward the back of the corridor until you finally spot the glass doors leading to the west entrance.

Your eyes wander across the scene, still searching without really knowing what for, until they settle on a dark-haired man wearing an FBI vest.

Like the blonde woman by the railing, he seems completely unaffected by the chaos around him. He issues short, precise instructions, barely raising his voice, yet people obey him immediately. There is something about him that radiates certainty, the kind that makes others believe everything is under control.

You wonder if he’s part of Emily’s team.

As you and Claire draw closer, his eyes meet yours. He gives a single nod, then gestures toward the exit. “This way,” he says. “Stay with the line. Don’t stop.”

You feel Claire hesitate at his words. Right now, she seems to distrust everyone and everything. Her hand tightens around yours, and for a moment, she refuses to move. “Who are you?” she asks, her eyes wide as she looks at the man.

You try to pull her along.

“Luke,” he answers without slowing down. “FBI coordination on site. Please. Keep moving.”

When Claire still makes no move to follow the crowd, Luke stops. His expression softens, if only for a moment. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe,” he reassures her. “Just follow the crowd outside.”

You nod gratefully, and Claire seems satisfied with the answer as well. Her whole body relaxes almost instantly.

Luke is already turning away before you can hold onto anything else he says. He speaks into the radio clipped to his vest, his attention already shifting somewhere else.

A loud noise erupts somewhere behind you. You know immediately that it isn’t another gunshot, and yet your blood turns to ice all the same. You don’t know what caused it, but the panic on the faces around you tells you you’re not the only one who’s terrified. Whatever it was, it scares you.

It scares all of you.

“Come on,” Claire urges, sounding more determined again. “I have to get out of here.”

The exit is right in front of you now.

Bright daylight pours through the doors into the corridor, forming a stark contrast to the dim light inside the mall. The people ahead of you squeeze through the heavy metal doors, some moving far too quickly, others much more slowly. But all of them have only one goal in mind: To get out.

When you finally step through the doors, the cold air hits you all at once. You draw in a desperate breath, feeling your chest rise and fall far too quickly, as though it has developed a mind of its own and decided you need more air. The cold fills your lungs, and for a moment, you feel almost light-headed.

Your breathing remains uneven, your whole body trembling as the tension slowly begins to drain away. You’re safe. Whatever that means now.

You stumble after Claire, who moves aimlessly from left to right. She breaks away from the flow of people, and you have no idea where she is actually trying to go. But you don’t care. At least she is moving away from the mall. Her fingers are still wrapped tightly around your hand, and you haven’t loosened your grip either. It is the only anchor keeping you from falling apart.

Your eyes scan the scene in front of you frantically. So many people. So many screams, voices, so many tears. Tents have been set up across the parking lot, blue lights flashing everywhere. Police officers, paramedics, reporters, and FBI agents move between them, rushing from one place to another. You hear people ahead of you being guided toward one of the tents, led by someone wearing a dark vest. FBI.

Your thoughts drift for a moment, and you catch yourself stretching your neck, searching the crowd for gray hair.

Claire’s steps slow until they stop completely, and the two of you remain standing in the middle of the stream of people. She is pale, her lips cracked from biting them so much, every muscle in her body drawn tight. Something in her posture changes, and when you notice her focus shifting, you follow her gaze. Claire’s fingers slowly loosen around yours, and you could have blamed your reaction on that, but you know exactly why you suddenly stop breathing.

Emily is stepping out of the building in full tactical gear, her vest secured, her weapon resting in its holster, gray hair pulled into a tight, controlled bun that makes her look even more composed than the chaos she is walking out of. Her steps are hesitant, reminding you of the agents inside the mall, as if part of her is still there and not outside in safety yet. Her shoulders are tense, her gaze searching, and yet she carries herself like someone who has everything under control. Seeing her like this, seeing her in this mode as the head of the BAU, does something to you.

The moment she sees you and Claire, something in her control shifts. Claire moves forward before you can even catch your breath again. Step by step, she gets faster until she throws herself into Emily’s arms with full force. Emily catches her, holding her close and giving her the safety and comfort she needs.

And just like that, Claire stops holding herself together.

Her shoulders begin to shake visibly, and you see how tightly her chest contracts with every breath. She lets herself be consumed by Emily’s embrace, collapsing into her arms. Her control is finally gone, replaced by the pure realization of what just happened to both of you.

“I saw him,” Claire manages, but the words break apart as they leave her mouth. “I thought— I didn’t—”

Emily’s hand stays on her back, steadying her in small, repeated motions that do not hurry anything, do not force anything forward, while her other arm holds Claire close.

“You’re safe now,” she says quietly.

You are still standing frozen in place, a few steps away, too overwhelmed by the emotions that have taken hold of you. You can’t do anything but stare at Emily, wishing that she would catch you too.

And then Emily looks at you. Her gaze finds you in the middle of all the chaos, and something inside you reacts without your permission. Your breath stumbles, something in you tenses and then releases again. This feeling has nothing to do with your fear, but with standing in front of Emily. With being seen by her. Her gaze burning into yours, and the fact that she is genuinely worried.

Your body moves before you can think about it, and suddenly you are stepping toward her, into the space she opens for you without hesitation, without even the smallest delay, as if there was never any other possible direction your movement could have taken.

Emily catches you the same way she held Claire, her arm closing around you with the same certainty, and the moment you reach her, something in you breaks in a way that does not hurt as much as it should, because it finally has somewhere to go.

Her scent reaches you first, somehow familiar, even though you don’t want to think too much about why it feels that way. Like coming home. You push the thought away, and you become painfully aware of Emily’s fingers moving slowly over your shoulder blades.

Your fingers curl into her jacket, holding on as if letting go would undo something essential, and the sound that leaves you is not something you can control. Emily’s grip tightens slightly, and for the first time since everything began, there is nothing about her that feels distant. Her voice lowers against your hair, quiet and certain, carrying through you rather than around you. For a brief second, you wonder if those were her lips you felt against your hair, or if your mind is creating something it desperately wants to believe in.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs.

Your breath stutters against her shoulder, catching and breaking, and she exhales once, her forehead lowering just slightly as if she is grounding herself in the same contact that is keeping you upright.

“You’re safe,” she repeats, slower now, as if the words themselves need to settle properly this time.

Emily doesn’t let go of you, and you don’t even think about pulling away from her embrace. Your body is still trembling in her arms, and right now, she is the only thing keeping you standing. Claire is still pressed against Emily’s other side, her face buried into her shoulder, while Emily’s hand continues to move soothingly along her back.

After what feels like an eternity, Emily shifts her position, but she neither loosens her hold nor makes any attempt to let go of either of you. She only adjusts herself, finding a way to keep both of you safely held in her arms. As if she could protect you from what just happened. As if she could keep the outside world away from you for just a little longer.

Emily’s hand moves from your shoulder blade to your shoulder, and she gives it one firm squeeze until you slowly pull away from her. Claire follows your movement, stepping back, mascara running down her cheeks.

“Both of you are going to be okay,” she repeats, her voice gentle but certain.

Claire lets out a quiet sniffle as she takes another step back. Only now do you realize that you are still standing far too close to Emily, but neither of you takes the first step to fully break the connection.

It is only when a gust of wind carries the sound of approaching sirens toward you that Emily finally steps back and looks over your heads toward the parking lot.

“I need to go over there for a moment,” she explains, looking at both of you apologetically. “Let the paramedics check you out.”

And with those words, she hurries toward the black SUV that pulls onto the gravel parking lot with screeching tires, flashing lights, and several people moving around it.

She has barely taken a few steps before you already miss the feeling of having her close.

It comes as a curveball. The call from Virginia pulling Emily away from dinner to take it in her office. You don't say anything, but you feel in your bones that something is about to change.

She comes back with that frown between her eyebrows, the one that you find cute but despise when it brings her such stress. She still laughs at Hazel's dramatic reenactment of something that happened at school, she still coos when Olivia attempts to mush peas with her fingertips, but you know her mind is halfway somewhere else.

Much later, after the girls are in bed and you've been waiting for her to be done getting ready for bed, you're trying to read a book but mostly just staring at it. Something is wrong, or at least out of place, and you can't relax before you know what it is.

You smell her before you see her. The jasmine of her body wash and the light coconut of her moisturizer. Emily comes out of the bathroom in her silk sleep set, leaving a cloud of steam behind that you catch a glimpse of before she closes the door to the ensuite softly.

She sits next to you under the covers, leaving her hair brush on the nightstand next to her reading glasses. You close your book, place it on your own nightstand and turn to her. Waiting.

“Rossi called.”

You hum, “Dave usually calls.”

Emily sighs, “something's happened with Hotch.”

Your heart rate picks up. You've known Emily's BAU team for years, you've watched Jack grow up like you did Henry. The decision to leave for London when Hazel was on her way to three was not an easy one, but you both decided it'd be best after what happened with Doyle.

It hurt both of you to leave your family behind.

Of course, Emily worked with them everyday, Emily was closer to Dave and Hotch than you. But you know them, you know their kids, and you worry for them just as much.

You ask Emily what happened, she gives you a rushed summary of what Dave told her. He doesn't even know much himself.

“How's Jack?”

“In danger,” she says, “Hotch's thinking of going into witness protection.”

You look at her for a beat, seeing something in her eyes that tells you she's holding back. “What are you not telling me?”

Emily leans back against her pillows, looking at the ceiling. “Dave asked if I could come in.”

You turn to look at the side of her face, your shoulders tensing without prompting.

“Just for a few weeks,” she looks at you. “To support them during Hotch's absence. Help catch Peter Lewis.”

“Into the lion's den, then,” you murmur, turning back to look straight ahead.

Emily touches your arm, you don't turn to her, but lift your hand to hold her own. “I'll be fine.”

“You don't know that,” you say, defeated. “We moved here so you could be safe. For the girls.”

You feel the tip of her nose touching your cheek. It's surprisingly warm. Turning to her, you give her a look as she nudges your own nose with hers. She gives you a quick kiss. “I'll be back before you know it.”

You sigh, pulling away slightly to see her face in its entirety. Damn Emily Prentiss, her perfect face and her huge doe eyes. “How long is a few weeks, anyway? A month, two?”

“I'll come back every weekend.”

Scoffing, you smile ironically at her, “are you trying to kill yourself? It's an eight hour flight.”

“I’d do it.”

You touch her cheek, “I know you would.” Sighing, “I don’t want you to. We’ll be fine.”

Emily frowns, “that’s it? No argument?”

“What’s the point?” You ask, but not unkindly. “I know this is something you have to do.” Shaking your head, you kiss her cheek. “I’m worried about Hotch, too. I wouldn’t want to keep you from helping him and Jack.”

“You know I’d ask you to come with me if it weren't for the girls,” she murmurs, kissing your hand that’s still on her face.

“I know.” You pull her closer, snuggling up so you can soak up whatever time you have before she leaves. “We’ll be fine,” you repeat, even if you don’t know if that’s the case.

You’d never resent Emily, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

She calls every day. Sometimes more than once. She never misses a day, never goes more than twenty-four hours without talking to you or the girls. Even though she's busy, even though you can see the job taking its toll.

Hazel understands, mostly. Sometimes she's subdued, but a call with her mom manages to cheer her up. You let her have chicken nuggets on more days than you'd like, and you don't even say anything when she insists she's going to school in a tutu.

Olivia is too young to understand. She calls for her mama, she tries to touch the phone screen when Emily facetimes, even though sometimes she turns it off by accident. She whines at dinner and you know it's because Emily is the best at getting her to eat. At least she falls asleep pretty easily, you're not going to take that for granted.

And you, of course you understand. Yet you hate it. You hate sleeping in an empty bed, you hate making your tea in the mornings without Emily next to you. You hate reading in absolute silence before going to sleep because the shower isn't running and Emily isn't going to come out of the ensuite any second warm and soft from her bath.

You tell her you're fine, you tell her about the girls and what you did during the day. But you don't tell her about tossing and turning because she's not there, you don't tell her about Hazel's meltdown because Emily wasn't there to take her to ballet. You keep it in, and you know you shouldn't, you should tell your wife about how you're really feeling with her away, but you don't want to burden her with it. She tells you Scratch seems to have slipped through the cracks, so you don't want to add to her stress.

And you can't shake off the feeling that there's something she's not saying. You look at her though a phone screen and you still know her better than anyone. But you don't ask and you trust she'll tell you when she's ready, though you're hoping she can do it in person because you're getting really, really tired of waiting.

Hazel is playing quietly in the living room as you're making dinner. She's been quieter than usual this last week, refused to attend any of her extracurricular activities and even declined a sleepover at her friend's house. It's been a little over a month and you honestly have no idea what to do to cheer her up anymore. Sometimes, even the phone calls with Emily leave her sad afterwards, the tiny image of her mom on screen not being enough to settle the ache in her heart.

Olivia has been clingier, so of course she's in your arms as you try to cook one-handed. At least she doesn't wriggle too much on your hip like Hazel used to, or having her this close to the stove wouldn't be an option. If looking at the bright side, you're getting pretty good at doing things with a baby wrapped around your back or while having to keep two little girls in check outside of the house, making sure nothing happens to either of them and that they don't wander away when you're just trying to lock the car.

You're so focused on the food that you don't hear any movement in the entryway, only being alerted to something being different when Hazel yells “mommy!” at the top of her lungs. Startling, you only manage to turn the burner off before running to her, guessing she might've hurt herself, but the sight that finds you is nothing like that.

Hazel's dangling from around Emily's neck, her little legs kicking as she tries to climb her mother's arms. Emily's smiling brightly, but there's tiredness in her eyes, a weight to her that you haven't seen in a long time. When she manages to hoist up your daughter, she makes an exaggerated oof! that makes Haze giggle loudly — you haven't heard that sound in a couple of days.

You smile back unconsciously, letting Olivia down after she starts wriggling and whining. She toddles over to Emily, who meets her halfway, still with Hazel on her hip. On a normal day, you'd chastise her for picking Hazel up, the girl already too heavy and putting a strain on her back, but today is not that day.

Emily gives her daughters kisses all over their faces, squeezing them to her heart's content, telling them how much she missed them. You're happy to just watch for now, there'll be time for hugs later, at the moment you're just pleased to have all of your girls underneath the same roof.

“Hi,” Emily calls from her spot in the middle of the living room.

“Hi,” you answer, giving her a delighted grin. “Haze, let your mom breathe, please.” You say softly, then watch as your daughter loosens her grip ever so slightly from around Emily's neck.

She moves to the couch, sitting down and keeping both girls sitting in her lap. Hazel finally agrees to let go of her death grip on Emily, settling for holding the fabric of her shirt in one of her little hands. Olivia doesn't take her eyes off her mother, touching her cheek and babbling whenever she gets Emily to look down at her.

After a while, Hazel decides there are three new toys she absolutely needs to show Emily — and if you bought her all of those to soothe Emily's absence, then that's just for you to know —, so she runs into her room in search of them. Emily looks at her retreating form with a wistful grin, finally sighing exhaustedly. She stands up with Olivia in her arms and makes her way towards you.

“Hi,” she says again.

“Hi,” you say back.

When Emily kisses you, you decide you're never going to let her leave again, no matter what it takes.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into your lips.

You open your eyes, taking note of the dark shadows under hers, the redness derived from sleeping poorly. “You have no idea,” you say, because, really, what else is there?

Emily smiles apologetically, kissing you again. “Sorry I stopped replying to your texts, I wanted this to be a surprise.”

Shaking your head, you squeeze her free hand, “consider me surprised. And I just figured you were busy. What time was your flight?”

“1pm local time,” she says, bouncing Liv slightly. “It was the earliest I could get.”

Hazel comes running back, her arms full of toys, so you give Emily a look that says later.

Later actually means much later. After dinner, baths, bedtime. After Emily was the one singing Olivia to sleep. After she read three books to Hazel before her little eyes finally drooped closed.

Later means Emily almost falling asleep during your shared shower, means you holding her up by the waist as she rinses because if she closes her eyes for more than two seconds she might not open them for a few hours.

You let her off the hook. There's so much to talk about, of course, but it's nine pm and she's so exhausted her words are slurring just the tiniest bit. It worries as much as it endears you.

You open your arms and she falls into them, tucking her face into your neck and immediately falling asleep to the feeling of you softly scratching her back.

In the morning, she doesn't wanna talk. At least, not at first.

In the morning, she straddles your hips and pulls her shirt off, she kisses you with intent, with everything that she's missed in the last weeks. She doesn't have to say anything, you understand.

Only after, with no clothes on and comfortable in your bed, the bed you couldn't wait to see taken up by her again, does she talk.

Emily caresses your arm softly, her blunt nails eliciting shivers from your skin.

“You're holding something back,” you murmur, shifting closer. She sighs loudly, caught.

“Maybe you should do this for a living,” she retorts, lifting an eyebrow.

“Funny.” You say dryly. “You know I'm no behavioralist.”

She hums, smiling softly at you. After a beat, she turns serious again. “He got away,” she states heavily, as if this is somehow all on her. You squeeze her hand. “They went into witsec, I have no idea if we're gonna be able to get them out or when.”

Emily looks up at the ceiling, but her hand stays in yours.

“Before Hotch left for good, he…” She shakes her head. then chuckles humourlessly. “He asked me to replace him as Unit Chief.” Rolling her eyes, Emily scoffs. “He actually said that. He said his final request was for me to replace him, run his team.”

You stay very still. The truth is, you don't like the idea. The entire reason you left everything behind and moved to London was to get away, so Emily could have a steadier job, away from all the heaviness of the BAU, the ghost of Doyle haunting you all in Boston, DC, wherever. You made plans, you said you could finally have another kid, and you did, Olivia came along and she's a true Londoner now. Even Hazel is picking up the accent.

But besides everything, you don't hate the idea because it means going back to DC. You hate it because it means putting Emily in danger again, putting her in the spotlight as Unit Chief, a position she didn't ask for nor considered before all of this happened.

Still, you stay quiet, you let her work through what she needs because, above all, Emily's your wife and you love her, and if she feels like she needs to do this, well, she's not doing it alone.

“Aren't you gonna say anything?” She asks, looking at you with those big eyes that tell you she actually has no idea what to do.

“Not right now,” you answer, leaning your head on her shoulder. “How long do you have to decide?”

“I asked for a week,” she says, then winces, “I know that's ambitious, they'll probably call before that.”

“Okay, so not in the next twenty-four hours, then, right?”

“No,” she murmurs into your hair, leaving a kiss where she can reach.

“So, now, we're going to stay here. I'm going to enjoy my wife's company that I missed very much. We're gonna wait for a cry or for Hazel to come pounding on the door demanding food, and we'll deal with that later. Okay?”

You feel Emily sigh deeply from underneath you, her shoulders losing their stiffness for the moment. “Okay.”