A/N: I've been thinking a lot about Emily's return to the show, especially with all the pictures being posted to Twitter and such. I figured I'd better put some of my fantasies into words, because I don't know how else I will make it 2 more months to find out why Hotch grew a sexy beard and to see more of Emily without those Season 6 bangs (Yay!).

This is slightly AU, as JJ is not back at the BAU like she will be in season 7, and Seaver is not in the fic either (I don't dislike her, and I have written her in other fics, just not here). Finally, you may not enoy this if you expect a warm welcome back for Emily.

December 2011

Emily got Hotch's text messaged summons to his office just as she was sitting down at her desk with a fresh, steaming cup of coffee. It was late at night, and instead of heading home, Emily had decided to stay behind and do some backlogged busywork. She and Hotch were the only ones left in the office, which had become a common occurrence as of late.

Why hadn't Hotch just popped his head out his office door, or even called her name? The bullpen was silent, with Emily its sole occupant—she would have heard him. Suspicion immediately overtook Emily. Was he onto her? Was he catching on to the fact that she hadn't felt normal for a second since coming back?

Knowing there was only one way to find out, she obeyed and made her way up the stairs, conscious for the hundredth time of how loosely her clothes fit. She hadn't lost an alarming amount of weight, but it was obvious to her that her thinner areas were thinner, and the curves of her hips and chest had been straightening out. More and more nights, lately, she'd come home around nine or ten, gaze absentmindedly into the refrigerator, and go to bed without eating. She wanted to be hungry, but she wasn't. Then her sleep was interrupted time and time again by nightmares, though not the type of nightmares she'd been asked about during her Bureau-mandated psychiatric evaluations. No, she didn't have nightmares about Doyle, or about their final brawl, which had ended in her shooting him at point-blank range, easily getting off on self-defense.

The stars of her nightmares were her best friends. The people with whom she'd spent five years had looked at her like they'd seen a ghost when she'd stepped back in through the bullpen doors. Even though Hotch had debriefed them ahead of time, her return was still shocking and she wasn't received warmly by most.

Rossi had been simple in his greeting, welcoming her back. So little emotion had come from him that she feared he was angry. She still didn't know, but if it was anger she was looking for, she had to look no further than Reid or Morgan, both of whom felt betrayed—Reid, because he'd thought he'd lost a best friend and had finally, after six months, learned how to cope, and Morgan, because the strong, honorable woman he'd once known was no longer to him, not since the team had learned of the events that had transpired between her an Ian Doyle—namely, the events of a romantic persuasion. Morgan had, to his credit, attempted to give Emily a warm welcome home, hugging her and telling her he was glad she was back, but behind the kind words was a man riddled with confusion along with a disdain for someone he'd once held so dear. Emily would have needed to be away from her profiling career for longer than six months to forget how to read Morgan. Hell, she figured even Anderson could probably analyze Morgan's words and behavior if Emily prompted him.

Rossi was never a man of too many words, so his fanfare-free welcome wasn't a surprise to Emily. She had hoped he would have talked to her more by now, but she couldn't blame a man for taking a while—even if it was a few months—to get used to the fact that one of his friends was indeed not dead. Reid had always been more sensitive than he let on, and Emily had probably been the one who knew that the best, so she had guessed that he might not come running to her upon her return. Morgan was a man whose character was built meticulously on principles he'd grown to endorse over his lifetime, and harsh were the emotions that came along when those principles were violated. Certainly most people's moral compasses wouldn't point toward sleeping one's way toward information, even if it was under a government operative, and the fact that there had been some truth to the romance made matters even more despicable in Emily's eyes. Not that she'd ever told Morgan that—why would she have, when he'd never asked? And why on earth would he feel the need to ask? He already knew more than he could stomach.

JJ had been happy enough to see Emily return to the States, and had even asked Emily if she could have a small get-together in her honor. Emily had of course politely refused the offer, but appreciated the concern all the same. She wished JJ could come back to the BAU if for no other reason than that Emily wouldn't have to feel like such an outsider in what was once her home. JJ and Hotch had, of course, been the only ones who had known of Emily's survival all along. Emily sometimes wondered what JJ's reaction would have been had she been in the dark with everyone else.

Emily's only female colleague, Garcia, had really thrown Emily for a loop. She remembered listening to her friend's pleading voicemail in Boston many months ago, Emily wishing more than anything that she didn't have to leave so many wounded, not only physically but emotionally, in her wake. She'd thought then that if she'd made it home in one piece—whenever that was—that Garcia might be rattled at first, but that things would return back to normal more quickly with her than with anyone else. However, three months after Emily's return from a six-month exile, Garcia still couldn't look at Emily the same way she once did. The friendliest interactions between them anymore were only with a few drinks in them, but working with Garcia now felt like a meat freezer to Emily when she compared now to then.

Only one person hadn't let Emily down in any way, shape, or form, and that was Hotch. This was certainly not to say that he was perfect. But during work hours, her interactions with Hotch had started off completely normally, like she hadn't been gone for half a year, like she hadn't had to fake her death. Sure, Hotch had known what was really going on, hadn't had to spend all that time trying to fix himself and fill any sort of void while under the impression that he'd lost her forever. But she was still in awe of the fact that he treated her like she'd never left, not even for a day. Maybe he'd sensed the iciness from the rest of the team and had known right away that she needed a hint of normalcy upon her return to the BAU, or she'd never last. His reasons were an enigma to her, but she'd decided a while back not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"You rang?" Emily said somewhat dryly to Hotch—the only person with whom such a tone was welcome anymore.

"Come on in," Hotch said.

"What's going on?" Emily asked, walking the few feet across the semi-dark office until the light from the desktop lamp hit her face. She took a seat in front of the desk, her posture straight and proper.

Hotch set aside his work—something he rarely did, as he typically just set his pen down, that being about the best anyone would get out of him. Apparently, tonight, he meant business. "It's nine o'clock."

Emily nodded, unsure of why Hotch felt the need to note that. She glanced outside his small window, as if the moonlight shining off the freshly fallen December snow would confirm to her how late it was. It didn't, but it was beautiful. "Yeah. I guess it is."

"Why are you still here? Everyone else left hours ago."

"There's always something that needs doing," Emily said with a shrug, suddenly interested in the back of a picture frame that sat upon Hotch's desk.

"You've been here past dark almost every night since you got back."

"Well, it is winter. It gets dark at five."

"Emily."

Emily's paler than normal face shot up at the sound of her first name coming from him. Not even that had changed once she'd gotten back. She had still been Prentiss most times. "All right, yes, I've been staying late. Is that a bad thing?"

"The entire team went out for beer last night and you were here. Even I was there. You were here. Yes, it's a bad thing."

"You guys went out last night? No one said anything," Emily said so quietly that Hotch almost didn't hear her. Had she really been such a terrible person that she wasn't worth inviting out anymore? Or had she just been so miserable that people assumed she'd be no fun? They'd gone out as a team a few times since her return, although, now that she thought about it, the last time had been over a month ago. She didn't want to wonder if this was the first time everyone had conveniently forgotten to tell her of their plans. With the middle school tactics came the middle school feelings resulting from the rejection.

"Sorry, I assumed…" Hotch didn't know how to finish his sentence.

"It's okay. I guess I'm not…who I used to be."

"Well, that's why I wanted to talk. Rather, I was hoping you would want to talk."

"About what?"

"About what's weighing you down."

"What's weighing me down?"

"You were gone, dead to your friends and coworkers, for six months. I know you're smart enough not to have expected things to be normal the second you walked back through those doors."

To anyone else, Hotch's words might have sounded condescending. But Emily knew that he meant her no harm. "Of course I didn't."

"So you're not surprised that things aren't the same?"

"Of course not."

"Then forgive me, but why do you seem so rattled?" Hotch asked.

"Just because I didn't expect things to be the same doesn't mean I forfeit my right to be upset about it, does it?"

"Of course not. It's just not like you to remain hung up on injustices for very long."

"Like you said, I'm not who I used to be. Nobody looks at me like they once did. They don't even look at me like I belong here at all. Every day I come in, I feel like the new girl all over again, except this time I don't know how to try to fit in. The first time I was new here, I just had to prove I deserved to be here. I had to prove myself intellectually. Why try to prove myself intellectually this time? The team already knows what I'm capable of."

"You don't need to prove yourself intellectually, Emily."

"Then what do I do? What do I do to make them treat me like you treat me—like the person I was when I left?" A hot stinging sensation crept up behind Emily's eyes. She was focused on that feeling until she saw Hotch, who still maintained a fierce gaze with her, lean to the side and open one of his desk drawers.

"You know full well that I treat you the same because to me, you were never dead. Gone, but not forever." He brought up a bottle of scotch and two glass tumblers that clinked together as he set them down.

"What about the fact that I'd been lying to you about who I was, from the time I met you, up until you found out about this whole thing?"

"That was part of your job," Hotch said stoically as he poured them both two fingers. He handed Emily her glass first, but she just held it. Not feeling like this was the time for a toast, Hotch didn't wait, taking a sip of the honey-colored liquid whose burning sensation was pleasing tonight. "I can't fault you for following orders from the CIA. I can't fault you for following any orders."

"Fine, then what about the fact that I slept with a criminal to get information on him? You all found out about that, but you don't look at me like I'm some…"

Hotch waited patiently for a moment, but Emily didn't finish her thought. He, however, thought it pertinent that she did. "Some what?"

"Some…whore."

Hotch went on confidently as if to make up for the fact that Emily's voice was wavering. He'd lost count of how many times she'd stood by his side, the beams of steel reinforcing his crumbling walls. He couldn't let her down. He did, however, have to operate on the same level as she, and right now that was a rational one. She'd had months to stew. She didn't need to do more of it. He needed to help her reason her way to the surface. "I don't look at you like you're a whore because I don't think you're a whore," Hotch said so simply that it visibly frustrated Emily.

"Exactly. That's what I mean," she said, a tear slipping down her cheek without warning. "I'm not a whore. I did what I had to do. Of course it was awful, but I did what I had to do."

"There," Hotch said, taking another sip of scotch.

"What?"

"You said it right there. You did what you had to do. Stop apologizing for it if it's something you had to do. It's in the past. Nothing Morgan says or does can change that."

Emily didn't ask Hotch how he knew she'd been referring to Morgan specifically. If Anderson could read Morgan, then Hotch could read Morgan with his eyes closed and his ears plugged.

"He has a right to think what he wants."

"I'm going to give you some tough love, only because I know you can take it. I know you're strong. You're stronger than this. Here it is. You died in Boston, Emily. In the hearts of everyone you work with, except for me, you died. Emily Prentiss ceased to exist. When you came back, your name was still Emily Prentiss, but you couldn't step back into the role of the person you left behind, because that person no longer existed to everyone else out there, and she never will again."

"Is there advice in there somewhere? Tough love isn't really all that great on its own."

"My advice to you is not to expect people to treat you the same way they treated the first Emily that they knew. It's not going to happen, so hoping for it is only going to lead to disappointment."

Hotch was so right that it hurt. Emily gazed down into the almost still surface of her drink and saw a muddled version of herself, then swirled it in circles to get rid of the visage entirely.

"One more thing. Don't feel like you need to apologize for what you did before you joined this team. I know I already said this to a certain extent, but it bears repeating. You did what you had to do." Emily nodded and licked her lips, tasting the leftover lipstick mixed with the salt from her tear, which had not been joined by any friends yet. "And not only did you do what you had to do, but you don't owe any of us an explanation for that in the first place."

Hotch picked up a file he'd set aside when Emily had sat down and opened it up, sitting back in his chair. "Before…" He paused to flip through the file. "…December eleventh, two thousand six—so five years ago—none of us knew you. Well, I'd crossed paths with you many years before, but I don't count that. If you want to apologize for anything you've done to us, then it can't have been more than five years ago."

"Hotch—"

"I'm not done. You can act like the same person, if that's what you choose. You can continue to be one of the smartest people I know. You can go on loving and protecting your friends to no end. You can continue being an asset to this team. If you want to be that person again, then be that person again. But everyone else on the team needs to get to know you again. And of course it's going to be hard. And I'm not invalidating how lonely you've felt the past few months since you've gotten back. I can't imagine what it's been like, and I wish I would have talked to you sooner."

"Yeah," Emily whispered, running a thumb underneath one eye and catching a tear. "You're right."

"I'm by no means telling you what you have to do. And I'm certainly not saying you deserve this. This isn't fair, by any means. Whatever debt you think you might owe to society, or to anyone, you've been repaying for far too long now. But I know you're too smart to believe that life is fair."

Emily drew a quavering breath and said, "You know, I thought these last few months have been some of the toughest I can remember. Now I feel like I sat there doing nothing, watching the world pass me by, being so miserable that even if I didn't have to reestablish myself, even if I was still the same Emily, that no one would have reasonably wanted to spend time with me. Can you be honest with me?" she asked, looking back up at Hotch, who had set down her personnel file and picked his drink up again.

"I thought I already was being honest. Brutally so."

"I meant with one more thing." Emily eyed him beseechingly, hating how exposed she felt at this moment, but finding solace in the fact that at least she was sitting in front of the one person she knew could relate in any way.

"Of course."

"Am I really some empty shell of a person right now? Do I seem depressed?"

"Clinically? No. You wouldn't be functioning as well as you are if you were depressed. You're still doing your job. And just as well as you ever did. It's the personal interactions you're struggling with. You're down, there's no doubt about that. Even though I see you with a different set of eyes than everyone else, even I can see that. But it's nothing I'd demand therapy over, and not because I don't think it's important, but because I don't think there's a name for what you're going through. Unless you're experiencing symptoms of PTSD that you're not telling me about." He looked at her inquiringly. She shook her head. "Then I think you're in a relatively unique situation. And I'll do whatever I can to help you find your way out of it."

Emily's eyes dropped at this offer of support, similar to but more direct than an offer she'd made to him two and a half years ago, when he was feeling at his most alone, in an empty apartment, not knowing where his family was, having only George Foyet's case files to keep him company. "What about you?" she asked. "I mean, aren't you and I kind of in the same boat in a sense? We both knew something everyone else didn't."

"I did come under fire for keeping the secret, yes, but only from an emotional standpoint. I didn't let anyone guilt me into apologizing. Like you, I did what I had to do."

"So you're okay?"

"In that way, yes," Hotch replied. "I don't want you to worry about me."

"How can I not, after all you've been through because of something I did?"

"When I killed Foyet and Strauss interrogated you, what did you say, or what did you do?"

Emily grinned slightly despite the tone of the conversation. "I reminded her rather effectively that she never should have hired me."

"And what about the time when you resigned from the BAU instead of giving Strauss dirt on me?"

"What about it?"

Hotch answered with another question. "And what about when you insisted on picking me up and dropping me off my first case back after Foyet attacked me? Don't tell me it was so you could make sure the apartment was clear. You never drew your weapon."

"Of course not. I just thought you…I don't know…might need to know that you didn't have to do it all on your own. I waned to make sure you didn't feel alone."

"Now let me do the same for you, and stop worrying about me for a change. It's always appreciated, but now simply isn't the time." Hotch polished off his drink and held the bottle up to offer Emily more. She shook her head and flashed a polite smile, holding up her barely touched drink. While Hotch put away the bottle, she downed the rest of her drink in one go. She tried to get the wincing over with before Hotch saw her again. He did see her, but he didn't say anything, just opened another desk drawer and took out a stack of take-out menus. He wasn't feeding her just because she looked like she needed to eat—he couldn't judge anyone in that department, as he knew how easy it was to lose (and gain back) ten pounds on this job. He also figured, and correctly so, that she might want an excuse to stay longer. "Chinese or pizza?"

For the first time in a long time, Emily felt hungry. Famished. "How gross would it be to get both? And maybe to get the scotch back out, too, since we're eating?"

"Might not feel so good in the morning," Hotch said with a smirk.

"Good thing it's a Friday."

A/N: Please leave a review! I hope to think up at least a couple more Return oneshots or shorts before Season 7 starts. Good idea?