Bring on the hate. No, I don't know why I haven't updated any of my stories. I've no excuse, except a lack of time and a lack of muse.
Major spoiler alert if you haven't seen the season premiere!
Also, to greengirl82 - you are amazing, and I have been reading your stories, and I'm so sorry I haven't been in contact. I did start all of your birthday presents, yes, you did hear plural, and have been so disorganized I haven't gotten to finish them. You should see the amount of unfinished fics piling up... somewhere... so, accept my apology, please. :P
To all my loyal reviewers for TLD and Saving - NEITHER story is on hiatus! Both will be continued, but when that will be, I can't currently be sure. Just know that neither of them are ending, or will end any time soon. Thank you so much to all of you for your amazing patience. I'm sorry this isn't as good as a new chapter, but I had to.
Watching the season premiere was just amazing. There's so much to say that I can't. So, read. This is only a small portion of the big picture. This is intended to be a somewhat dark, angsty, confusing piece. It's just my thoughts; I hadn't even written it to publish, but I wanted to.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Criminal Minds.
"You would have taken the bullet if you saw it, but you felt it, and still feel it..." —Diddy-Dirty Money
Her first thought was Declan. Her first priority was Declan.
As soon as she felt his soft blond curls under her fingertips, she was calmed. But that calm only lasted temporarily.
Gunshots went off, and in her line of work, both previously and currently, gunshots meant bad things. At least there was no familiar feeling of warm blood under her fingers. Declan was safe. Declan was unharmed.
She saved a little boy's life.
But then, bodies fell. The cracking in the air silenced. And there was Doyle's face, inches in front of her, and his fingers, trailing blood from his neck. He was hit.
It was fatal, that much she could tell.
At first, she wasn't sure what to think. What to feel. The high of accomplishment was rapidly dwindling, and in its place was confusion and desperation. She needed more time. Why couldn't time stand still now? This couldn't happen so soon.
She needed more time.
Time to say goodbye.
Doyle didn't deserve to have his life taken by a stray bullet shot by god-knows-who's gun. He deserved more than that.
Silent words of objection barely passing her lips as Doyle's bloody fingers wrapped around that of his only son's, his only family, she realized that even despite her hatred for the man dying in front of her, the man who had caused her so many painful memories and haunted her for eight years, deserved better than bleeding out on a cold ground.
In front of his only family, nonetheless.
Doyle was many things; most were frowned upon—arms dealer, murderer, and by the looks of the many women he involved himself with, quite the player. But, he was also a father. He had also gone to such lengths to preserve his child's life, even before it was living. Assuring that Declan was born in the first place hadn't even been the end of Doyle's loyalty to his flesh and blood.
As disgusting as the prospect was, that he had tortured a woman for nine—no, seven—months, just so she'd have his baby against her will, he still loved that unborn baby. Even as that baby grew up among others, he still loved that child. That was a very respectable and admirable feature. A fierce, unbreakable, unwavering, lifelong dedication.
That was some real unconditional love right there, and Emily found herself jealous; jealous because she was so certain she'd never have another chance at a family like that. Doyle had done so many bad things in his lifetime, and yet he'd been granted one blessing. God had already given her one too many chances, all of which she'd turned down. She'd aborted that baby at fifteen and, even though it had been all professional on her end, she had rejected Doyle's offer at a family.
She was forty-one now, soon to be forty-two, and the amount of times she'd brushed with death were too numerous to count on her fingers. She'd never married, never had kids, and was quite certain that she never would. Here, watching this intimate and tragically brief moment between father and son, she felt like an intruder. She'd had her chance, and she no longer belonged here.
But she still loved. A part of her still loved Ian Doyle, the man who had loved her and would have done anything to protect her. An even bigger part still loved Declan, the innocent boy who was involved in a lifelong plot to keep him alive. She wouldn't be surprised if Declan hated her now, though. Because of her, his whole family was dead.
And he had nearly joined them, he would have, if she hadn't saved his life just moments ago.
Declan didn't deserve this either, she thought, lightly stroking his hair as Doyle's fingers inevitably grew limp. To have his whole family taken from him like this. He definitely did nothing to ever deserve this. He was born; was that such a bad thing? Was that in his control? Was it ever in anyone's?
Yet, she had to punish herself as well. Look at all the pain she caused. Her team, her once lover, her almost son, the people who trusted her. Look at all the bloodshed on her hands now.
It was her fault a boy was losing his father. That would be a thought to plague her dreams, and her hours awake, for months, perhaps even years, to come. She could only imagine how much Declan must be hurting, if the very thought was hurting her this much.
She had to let go eventually. She had to stand and show her team, who were all watching her, the way her face fell and her eyes watered. She was crying over her nemesis. What was wrong with her?
She knew, of course. She'd accepted it a long time ago in a deep recess of her mind that had come to light earlier when she'd walked into that interrogation room again and their eyes had connected.
Her team would never know of her inner conflict. They shouldn't know, they couldn't know. There were few times her team had ever seen her so weak. Maybe, she might have been alright with it, just this once, given the circumstances. But how angry would Morgan be to know that she still loved the dead man on the ground? And not just he (although she referred to him as a representative), her whole team. How betrayed would they feel? Was understanding even a remote possibility in this situation?
Thus, she kept her feelings and thoughts to herself. She closed herself off again. Even as she did this, she never knew that when Reid had been talking to Strauss, he knew something was different, something was off. He knew that their team hadn't gotten Emily back entirely. They all knew it, and she did too.
They eventually helped Declan up and took him away. They were taking him somewhere safe, and comfortable. Something she had failed to provide him with, even though she'd spent a good eight years dedicating her life to the task.
She had failed, and that strife twisted in her chest as she watched them lead the boy away.
As she felt his presence slowly draw away from her, despite the fact that her back was now turned, she felt her connection to him and the Doyle family slipping. As Ian's lifeless body was zipped into a black body bag, she knew this part of her life was over. It would remain immortal in her dreams, but it was over.
She wasn't sure if she should be happy or sad about that. How would the team ever understand this? Understand her?
The answer was simple: they never would.
What if things had been different, she had to wonder. What if she hadn't been undercover? What if she really had been Lauren Reynolds? Would she still have fallen in love with Doyle? Would she have ever prevented it? Would she still love Declan as though he were her own? Could she have prevented any of it?
Would she have married Doyle, had a family, been happy?
Well, who's to say she wasn't happy now? Her life wasn't exactly great at the moment, admittedly—after all, her life still wasn't official in the documents—but her team wasn't angry with her. They were happy to have her back. They had cried and hugged her and loved her and laughed with her. They had accepted her initial apologies—shallow as they were considering she had been rushing—at least for now. What more could she possibly ask for?
They were her family. Not by blood, or by law, but they were as close as it got. Which was why she had run in the first place when the threat of Ian Doyle had first presented itself.
Conflicted and unsure, Emily clenched her fists, willing the tears to stop streaking down her cheeks, willing her breath to become steadier. Willing Doyle alive.
She needed more time.
If Doyle hadn't fallen to that damn bullet, who would have killed him? Ever since Doyle chose the path that he did, both he and everyone that he came in contact with knew that murder would be the way he'd die. He would never die of disease, or old age—someone was going to kill him one day.
For a while, during the time she had been in hiding, Emily had been feeding a very sick fantasy, one that she was very ashamed of, of ending his life herself and doing the deed properly. It was not a respectable deed, nor a disgraceful one. But, he deserved something. And somehow, she could have provided him that.
Even Morgan, with rage and the promise of revenge motivating him to hunt for Doyle for seven months, he hadn't taken that shot when he'd had the chance. When Doyle had raised his arms in surrender, Morgan hadn't pulled that trigger.
Somewhere, Emily thought, Morgan knew she wouldn't have liked that. Even if he was convinced she was dead at the time, Emily wouldn't have been satisfied with that kind of ending.
Because her dirty little secret, among others, was that she, Emily Prentiss, did love Ian Doyle. Somehow. It was a very distorted and complicated reality, one that she'd rather drown in alcohol than confront.
But confronting it, she was doing.
Feeling the weight of the world crushing her insides, she took a deep, albeit frustratingly shaky, breath, staring upwards towards the stars. Some part of her was also relieved that Doyle was dead, that he was finally at rest, that he no longer lead a life of fear and fighting (even if he considered himself a warrior and was proud of his lifestyle). She was relieved that nobody else was in danger now, and that Declan was being transported somewhere safe, even if it was against her wishes and totally out of control.
Even if it proved her failure.
That next morning, when she awoke surprisingly without a hangover and made her way into the BAU, she felt oddly numb. Almost as if her mind was repressing memories, but unfortunately, she remembered the previous night as clearly as though she possessed Reid's memory.
And then she'd walked through those familiar glass doors as if it were any other day, which, technically, it was. It was just any other day to everyone else.
"Good morning," had been her greeting once she walked through those doors. The voice could have belonged to one of her teammates, or to someone she didn't know, or maybe she'd just imagined it. But it reminded her that it was just another day to the rest of the world.
To her, she was grieving. She was mourning. She had lost.
Another, "good morning," and Emily felt as though the world were mocking her.
"Good mourning."
"What's so good about it?" she joked with Reid as he stood next to her, a bright smile on his face, one that she felt herself mirroring with all sincerity.
"You're back, you're alive," he responded without a thought.
Good mourning indeed.