AN: This is set in an AU where they never catch Ian Doyle and Emily has to remain in hiding. Inspired by sorrowsflower on Tumblr.
The first time was four months into her 'death'.
After running on little to no sleep for nearly a week-long case, he'd fallen into bed, hoping that nightmares of that night in the warehouse might grant him a brief respite and allow him some rest. Instead, on the verge of sleep, he was startled into wakefulness by noise coming from somewhere inside the house.
He came down the stairs, gun drawn, back pressed to the wall, not sure what to expect, but anticipating the worst.
Instead, he found a familiar form waltzing around the apartment, humming to herself, dressed in one of his sweatshirts and little else. His breath caught in his chest, thick and heavy, and he forgot to inhale for what felt like minutes. He had to blink back the tears clouding his vision in spite of himself.
"Jesus Christ, Emily – what the fuck are you doing here? You're supposed to be dead!" he nearly shouted when he finally found his voice again, anger the first emotion out of the gates.
She'd found his Christmas decorations and taken the liberty of decorating his living room. Derek Morgan loved Christmas, had since he was a child, but this year had found him incapable of celebrating, his grief still fresh and painful like a festering wound. Few things in his life felt the same now that Emily was gone. He'd packed away his decorations and his emotions and tried to pretend that his world wasn't falling apart without Emily in it.
"We buried you, for fuck's sake!" He was somewhere between angry that he'd been lied to and elated to be seeing her alive in front of him. He settled on anger – at her, at Ian Doyle, at JJ and Hotch. She'd been taken from him without so much as a goodbye and here she was alive and well and he'd spent the last four months grieving for someone who wasn't dead.
Emily shook her head, then threw herself into his arms and kissed him hungrily. "It's Christmas," she replied simply when she came up for air. He stared at her like he was seeing her for the very first time.
When he awoke Christmas morning, she was gone. If the living room weren't still emblazoned with tinsel, if his sweatshirt hadn't smelled of her vanilla cinnamon perfume, he might have thought he'd dreamed the whole thing.
And then there was nothing.
No contact from her. No sign from Hotch or JJ that they knew she was still alive. He thought about entrusting Garcia with the truth, having her set up some kind of tracking on her, but he didn't want to get her hopes up that she was ever coming home – if she'd had to slip away in the dead of night, she must have still been in danger. And he knew now that if Emily didn't want to be found, they stood little chance of finding her.
Besides, it only would have been more painful were he able to speak to her, but know he might never set eyes on her again. So, he let things be, but replayed in his mind the memory of the one night he'd spent with a dead woman.
Twelve months later, in a hotel room in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere, he had another break in.
This time, she wasn't alone.
He startled awake when he felt the bed dip down beside him and opened his eyes to the most beautiful smiling face. His heart hammered in his chest and all the words he'd wanted to say all year clamoured to be said.
She preemptively shushed him with a finger to his lips.
She passed him the infant in her arms. He blinked stupidly a few times as he stared into big brown doe eyes. Lashes fluttered as the tiny thing fought oncoming sleep and pink bow lips stretched around a yawn.
"It's Christmas," she said, by way of explanation as she cuddled into his side and leaned her head on his shoulder to watch the oh so tiny sleeping child – his child, he reminded himself, his brain having trouble wrapping itself around that reality.
She drifted off to sleep like that – her breath tickling his neck, her arm wrapped around his waist, her body warm and familiar against his – soon after the baby, but he fought to remain awake, watching the tiny form in his arms. Watching the fluttering eyelids, the suckling lips, the little curling and uncurling fist. He eventually fell asleep with the little bundle protectively clutched against his chest, heart beating against his own.
He wasn't surprised to find both woman and child missing the next day.
He tried to tell himself it was for the best as he returned to work the next day, mind a million miles away despite the case at hand. He didn't have time to look after a child, he barely had time to shop for groceries. The job just took up too much time, too much energy, too much of his soul, it just took and took and took.
He tried to push the whole thing from his mind and go about life as if everything hadn't been turned on its head that one night she came back from the dead.
Now, when he had nightmares of the warehouse, Emily lay bleeding out in front of him while somewhere in the distance, a baby wailed and he knew he had to choose which one he saved. Sometimes, he woke up crying.
Secretly, he and Garcia kept tracking Ian Doyle, he with renewed fervour for bringing the bastard to justice and bringing his child home. They never came any closer to finding him and every time he slipped through their fingers, he felt another moment with his daughter slip away without him.
That year, when Emily slipped inside the house, the living room was decorated, including a tree (no breakable ornaments, she noted with a fond smile), and a bassinet waited in the middle of the room. Derek half-snoozed in an armchair, waiting for them.
She smiled fondly at him as she set the sleeping girl inside.
"It's Christmas," he said with a shrug when she roused him with a knowing smile.
The bassinet was empty the next day, except for the blanket the child had been wrapped in. It was hand-knitted, but badly, clearly Emily had made it herself, having learned for this express purpose. In the corner, she'd stitched the girl's name – Lucille Noël – and he smiled tenderly as he held the blanket up to his nose, getting a whiff of Emily's perfume and the soft scent of the baby's head.
The blanket would find its way to a drawer for safekeeping and hiding from the women Garcia insisted on setting him up with in the hope that eventually he'd get over the loss of Emily. The blanket slowly lost its scent to time, but never the way it made his heart clench when he held its softness to his cheek.
Midnight Christmas Eve came and went and he was stuck in the police station working late into the night. He stared at the clock, forlorn, watching his one night a year with his daughter slip through his fingers.
In his hotel room sat a wrapped gift. She'd be old enough this year to appreciate it, so he'd gotten her a collection of his favourite picture books and a stuffed horse, remembering Emily's stories of a stuffed pink pony she'd had as a little girl. By the next time he saw her, she'd be too old for them.
He worried that a year from now, she'd have forgotten him.
When he returned home, just in time for New Year's, he hid the gift away under the tree he'd put up in anticipation of their visit and didn't have the heart to take down and drowned his misery in a few drinks.
Late in the evening, he passed out in a drunken stupor, while on the TV Times Square counted down the seconds left in the year. He hazily wondered when Ian Doyle would stop taking things from him – first Emily, now his daughter – he vowed to never ever rest until there was some justice in the world, justice that someone like Emily was gone while Doyle survived.
In the haze somewhere between sleep and wake, he imagined he heard a little giggle carry up the stairs from the living room.
The laughter was followed shortly by the soft tones of a familiar voice and he shot up in bed so quickly the room started spinning and bile rose in his throat. He half-stumbled down the stairs to find Emily laying on the floor beside the fireplace with the little girl next to her, reading one of the books he'd bought her. Both were raptly focused on the book and didn't notice him standing there, intruding on their moment together.
He released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding for a whole week.
Emily looked up at the sound of his shaky exhale and the two stared at each other in silence for a long time. He was the one to break the silence, smiling widely and saying, "It's Christmas."
The lights from the Christmas tree cast a colourful glow across Emily's pale skin and reflected off the tears in her eyes. The little girl briefly looked up in his direction, smiled toothily at the stranger she saw once a year, then returned her attention to the book. Her eyes were as big and brown as ever and she looked more like Emily with each passing year.
"Christmas was a week ago," she pointed out, teasingly, loving to be contrary. Her tone was gentle, though, tender even.
The child tugged on her mother's shirt, then pointed to the next line in the book, demanding attention. Emily stroked her hair until she settled. Derek watched them for a moment, mother and child, spitting image of each other. "No," he said, shaking his head. "It wasn't."
Realization dawned in her eyes and she flashed him a brilliant smile, making his heart clench in his chest with longing. "It's Christmas," she whispered in agreement.