Take Three: Third Life
Summary: It's been years. Emily(Élisabeth)/JJ friendship. Spoilers for Lauren, 6.18.
As requested, a sequel. Maybe will be multi-chaptered. Short.
A/N. Thanks to stargatechick11 and TaliDaniellaDavid for reviewing. And to everyone else who reviewed at favorited or alerted this story. You guys made my day.
Location: Élisabeth Moreau's house. Paris, France.
Date and Time: December 19, 2019.
"You lie!"
Jerking awake, Éisabeth Moreau fell out of her bed, onto the hard wooden floor. Even after eight years, in her dreams, she could feel the penetration of that damned wooden stake.
Being stabbed with a wooden stake wasn't meant for reality. It was meant for stabbing unreal vampires through the heart with. Being stabbed with a stake wasn't supposed to make her lose her identity.
Eight years later, she still hasn't recovered.
No, she never will until Ian Doyle is dead.
She remembered the note from JJ, still on her desk, from a week ago.
Hello, Élisabeth.
How are you doing?
I just wanted you to know that DOD and the BAU are close to catching Doyle. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Eight years?
But you know better than anyone that if Doyle doesn't want to be caught, he won't be.
H sends his regards. M, R, P, A, D all seemed to change. R doesn't spout random statistics anymore, and M and P never flirt. A and D are closer now, movie nights and game nights and such.
I miss you lots, Élisa.
Love,
JJ.
Élisabeth sighed. Damn Doyle. Damn him. Declan was safe, but she doesn't know that anymore. She can't look for him. She's just by herself.
She's taken a job at the library, absorbing information so fast, she might even give Reid a run for his money now.
That is, if she ever saw him again.
Eight years since the night that took her life from her, and now, she really wants it back.
She wants to be back in the halls of the FBI, venting her problems to JJ, or playfully bantering back and forth with Morgan, or talking about Star Trek and zombie apocalypses with Reid.
She wants Hotch's stoic stability and Rossi's dry humor. She wants to talk to Ashley and learn more about her childhood, so they can trade stories back and forth.
Most of all, she wants her family back. Not so much as her mother, who was never emotionally there, but her BAU family, for them she put her life on the line. She wants to normalcy of a case, with JJ or Garcia briefing them, and the satisfaction of putting another serial killer away. She wants to be there when they catch Doyle. She wants to plant a .44 bullet between his eyes for taking her life from her.
She wants a lot of things, but, unfortunately for her, none are accessible until Doyle is buried six feet under.
Sometimes, she really wants out. She wants to face the whole and yell, "Give me back my life! Give me back my damn life!"
She hasn't made any friends, lately. After her encounter with Doyle, she's found it hard to trust, especially after JJ mentioned that it was Jeremy that was Doyle's mole. Jeremy was a man she trusted with her life, back in her Interpol days. She mistrusted the wrong man, and Tsia paid for it.
Knock.
Glancing up, she heaved herself up from the couch to head over to the door. She knows it's JJ. Élisabeth insisted on paying for the plane ticket this time.
Mentally switching her thoughts from French to English, she opened the thick wooden door, allowing the beautiful blonde into her house.
"Hey Élisa."
The brunette grinned, "It's nice to see you, Jayje."
Flopping herself onto the leather couch, JJ yawned, "Henry's finally made it to the double digits, he turned ten a month ago, and Jack's got a case of the Terrible Teens."
Élisabeth raised a brow, "You and Hotch, huh?" Wriggling her brows, she said, "Details, JJ."
Sitting up quickly, the blonde protested, "No! I'm just helping him out with Jack, and he helps me with Henry."
"So you say."
"It's been eight years, Élisa." The blonde sighed. "I'm came with a reason today, actually."
She handed the brunette a picture.
After eight years of not seeming blood and gore, Élisabeth flinched a little, before recognizing the face in the picture.
Ian Doyle.
Her voice wavering slightly, she asked, "Who killed him?"
Blue eyes met her own brown, "Spence and Morgan." And answering Élisabeth's nonverbal question, she said, "Spence has remarkable good aim now. I think he lost part of himself eight years ago, and got it back in the firing range."
The emotions she kept locked up for eight years came spilling out all in one sentence.
"Can I go home?"
JJ grinned at the brunette before pulling her into a hug, "You can come home now, Em."
A/N: New chapter posted Monday, because I have way too much stuff going on weekends. I'll try not to disappoint!
-S12