A/N: This all started from my obsession with Emily's bird print bedframe in "Tribute," which tells you how long I've let this story sit unfinished :)
Hope you enjoy it!
August 2012
The move doesn't seem real at first. That doesn't come until she finds Garcia's suitcase laid out on her spare bed, ready to be packed for the flight back home.
Emily had thought—or hoped—that leaving would be the hardest part. She's still not sure how she brought herself to walk out of the BAU that last time, or to say goodbye to Sergio as he prowled his new home, or relinquish her boarding pass to the cheery Dulles gate attendant. Every step had seemed impossible until she took it. But when she left DC she'd had the Olympics on the horizon, and that made such a difference. Morgan and Garcia's visit was there as one last thread connecting Emily to her family in a tangible way.
With that thread almost gone, London feels very real. It feels a lot more final than she'd like.
Emily knows she's being dramatic. It's not like she's losing them in ways that really matter. Since her move she's talked with some of the team more than she ever did on a hectic workday, and even when the initial burst of contact fades, she's okay with a bit of distance. She never could have left without feeling that her friendships were secure. But it's harder than she thought, having to say goodbye without knowing exactly when she'll see them next. Emily feels a bit like she's drifting.
She's still at the bedside when Garcia returns, toying with the suitcase zipper as tears prick her eyes. She smiles wide to mask them, but that doesn't do much good. Garcia's arms wrap tight around her, and a selfish part of Emily wants to stay like this, in easy silence, for as long as they can. But she knows Garcia's worried. She can feel it between them—restrained for her sake, but just barely. So she can't just let the moment pass.
"Think it's too late to back out?" she quips.
"Never," Garcia insists, her voice wobbling and arms tightening. She's stretching the truth, and they both know it. Emily's job's been filled; her condo's sold; her row house has gone to different buyers. And there are bigger things she can't reclaim. That's why she's here.
Garcia pulls away and meets her eyes; asks, "Is that what you want?" as gently as she can. It's a rhetorical question, maybe laced with some wishful thinking.
"I need this," Emily admits. The words catch in her throat, strained and uncomfortable. "It's just… hard."
Garcia nods in understanding, eyes shining with sadness and pride, and Emily feels like she can finally trust her decision. She's leaving a piece of her heart behind, but that's okay. She knows they'll keep it safe.
—
October 2012
She finds herself pulling away when her nightmares get worse and the feeling of being hunted starts to follow her through the day. Emily's learning to accept that Doyle left a mark on everything. Crossing an ocean didn't change that.
It's easy to hide from most people. She has a professional mask, and her agents don't know her that well yet; it's only been a few months. But her friends are a different story. Emily can't meet her own eyes in the mirror, and she knows they'll see that.
It's not shame, like she expected to feel. Emily understands trauma, and she's grown enough to let herself experience it. No—this is guilt. She knows how much it hurt them all to watch her leave so soon after getting her back. But they'd let her go—encouraged her, even—because this was supposed to be how she moved forward and reclaimed herself from Ian Doyle. They love her and they want nothing more than for her to be happy. Emily wants that too.
She doesn't know how to admit that she walked away and yet she's still struggling.
Texts and emails hold them off for a while, but more and more she's finding excuses not to call and deferring plans to Skype. She's barely being subtle about it. She's sure they're catching on, which only feeds her dread and makes it that much harder to face them. It's an absurd cycle that she can't break out of.
Rossi's the one to finally break through, with a message that's more a veiled warning than it is a request. 'I wonder what happens when a tech-savvy worrier gets desperate for proof of life,' it says. 'Bet it's fun to watch. You got time for a chat?'
Mind spinning with thoughts of the legally-dubious tools in Garcia's arsenal, Emily accepts defeat and grabs her phone. Her throat has gone dry by the time she's finished dialling.
She expects reproach, but all she gets is understanding. It's such a relief that Emily finds herself telling him everything, from the fears that are so obvious they're not worth hiding to the nagging little thoughts that make her feel ridiculous and insecure. She tells him how hard she's trying, and how hard it is when her efforts don't move the needle.
She doesn't mention the guilt, but she lets him read between the lines. Rossi's always been good for that.
"We all know you're impressive, Emily, but we've never expected you to work miracles."
It's wry and strangely reassuring. This isn't the first time she's marvelled at Rossi's brand of gruff sarcasm—how his tone is just the right mix of 'you know that what you're thinking isn't true,' and 'I know that what you're feeling is still real'. It's comfort without condescension, and right now it's a lifeline.
"There's got to be something between this and a miracle," Emily says, with a laugh in her voice that feels foreign and refreshing. "I don't like to move backwards."
"Sure, but healing's not a linear thing," Rossi counters. "Hate to break it to you. You do what you can from where you are."
She knows he's right. She still wishes there was an easier solution. Emily sighs, blinking hard as her eyes start to sting. "I'm… not where I want to be. Not yet."
"Then keep going," Rossi says. Somehow he makes it seem manageable. "We're still behind you."
—
November 2012
She needs to make her apartment feel like home.
It's not about putting down roots anymore. Emily's abandoned the prospect of a quick, sweeping fix in favour of small victories and steady progress. But part of that, she thinks, is surrounding herself with touches of who she is and who she aspires to be. It's actively shaping what those things are.
She starts small, with pictures and mementos that are carefully chosen and strategically placed. There's the photo from JJ's wedding—Morgan's hand was on her back, solid and holding her steady—hung for moments when she needs the courage she got from his touch. There's the cat toy—garish green and clashing with everything—that Garcia had insisted she keep, with love from Sergio. It goes on a bookshelf, and Emily smiles whenever she sees it.
Soon she moves on to furniture, taking her time and drawing the search out over weeks. She likes having a project to occupy her. Some days she hunts for decor with a vision in mind; other times, she ignores all of that to buy what makes her happy. Emily finds she's getting better at nurturing those little sparks of happiness.
When she sees the bed frame, it stops her in her tracks.
She doesn't know much about birds, though the light bellies tell her they aren't what she's thinking. But the ones facing away… they're all black plumage and long tails, and Emily can't shake the association. She's not sure she wants to. All she can think of is JJ, and all she feels is a rush of strength and support. She imagines waking from her nightmares, heart pounding in her throat, and having this stupid, perfect symbol there to reach back and touch. A reminder that she's never really alone, even in her worst moments.
Buying that frame is her easiest decision yet.
They're several drinks into the next transatlantic ladies' night when JJ and Garcia request a tour, so Emily carts them through her flat, showing off her new additions. She makes the bedroom her last stop. She's feeling warm and wine-drunk, and the bed is calling for her to settle in. Emily sprawls on top of the covers—laptop at the foot of her bed; chin propped lazily in her hand—and revels in the comfort of their conversation. That is until Garcia's voice takes on a lilt that makes her nervous.
"So what's with the birds, chickadee? Seems like a bit too much Gideon for the place you bring your lady- and gentleman-callers."
"Oh my god," Emily splutters, scrambling for composure as she chokes on vinho verde. "Thanks for putting that in my head."
Between giggles, Garcia insists that in the moment she'll be distracted so it won't matter, and JJ's shove only makes her laugh harder. Emily drains her glass in one go, trying to look exasperated, but she's grinning so hard that her cheeks ache. She's missed the two of them desperately.
"Just a question," Garcia adds.
And of course that's all it is. The symbolism Emily sees is at least twice-removed from the bed itself; there's no real meaning for Garcia to notice. But to her it means everything, and she's sure that that's written across her face.
Emily's gaze drops and her smile softens. A traitorous part of her feels silly for giving so much power to an object, like a kid with a favourite blanket. She tries not to listen to that voice.
"I like it," she shrugs. The understatement of the year. "Trust me, Gideon's not who it makes me think of."
When she risks a glance up, her eyes catch JJ's. There's a hint of recognition in them—growing suspicions seeking confirmation. Emily answers the silent question with a smile, because she doesn't know how else to say thank you.
JJ beams in response. "It's perfect."
The insecure voice fades from Emily's mind, because a stronger part of her knows that the kid with his blanket is onto something—there's nothing wrong with finding comfort where you can. She knows there's value in connecting with the people who care about you. That those connections are worth holding close.
It's why she'll always have a soft spot for blackbirds.
—
February 2013
When Emily left the team, she saw this coming. An ocean between them means missing big moments, good and bad. It means she has to watch from the sidelines, because she's not there for the worst moments. She came to terms with that as best she could.
That doesn't make it easier the first time it happens.
The others tell her not to expect much when she calls; that Reid's shut himself away to process his loss. Emily understands that. Withdrawing's her first instinct, too. And indulging that might not be healthy (Emily knows she's the wrong one to ask), but at least it allows some control. She remembers her weeks in Bethesda—how desperate she'd been to escape from the prodding doctors and friendly nurses and watchful agents who never learned her name. She'd felt herself drowning; wanted space to give in. Except she got her wish in Paris—enough to learn that what she wanted was a chance to grieve alone, not a requirement.
So Reid might not want her company, but Emily has to reach out. She has to give him the option.
The message Emily leaves is awkward as she fumbles around the fact that none of what she says will be enough to help his grief. She still hopes it's better than nothing. Emily hangs up, reluctant, and vows to leave Reid be until he's ready. She only pushes when she has to.
Reid stays on her mind as the days and weeks pass. She doesn't hear from him, but then neither does the team. The closest she gets to updates are texts from Garcia, full of restless energy, where she frets over Reid's next condolence basket. It's like getting a crash course on snack foods and neurotransmitters. Emily's not sure if it helps or hurts to know that she'd feel just as useless in DC.
It's self-indulgent, but she can't help but think that the last time Reid grieved like this, he was grieving for her. Some nights that keeps her awake. On bad days she wonders if Reid wishes he could have saved his miracle—like maybe, irrationally, he got the wrong person back. But on good days, she knows that the depth of Reid's grief shows how happy he was before. It makes Emily really wish that she had met Maeve Donovan.
When Reid finally calls, he sounds tired.
Their conversation starts slow. He's staying quiet, and she's taking a light touch, trying to work out what he needs. Emily tells him about London and how gloomy it gets in winter. The small talk makes her feel ridiculous, but it keeps the overbearing sympathy out of her voice. He tells her about their last case; how he guessed hemophilia from the unsub's brushwork and obsessions. His words are flat, but at least he's talking. It's a start.
"Morgan thinks he tricked me into calling them," Reid says. "Don't tell him I know, okay? He's proud of himself."
There's a hint of their usual banter in his voice, and hearing it makes Emily's chest ache a bit less. "You got it," she promises. "His ego's safe."
"It helped, though," he adds softly. "They all did."
Between Reid's earnest tone and her own lingering guilt, Emily feels control of her emotions start to slip. "Spencer, I'm so sorry I can't be there," she says around the lump in her throat.
"That's okay," he says. "I'm glad you're not."
It's not the answer she was expecting. "Oh," Emily manages. "Okay." She buries a twinge of hurt, because she won't make any part of Reid's grief about herself.
"Wait, I'm sorry—that's not what I meant," he says, and Emily releases a breath she hadn't felt herself holding. "It's just, the team… they've done so much for me; I'm really grateful. But some days it's hard to forget that they saw everything. You didn't."
Emily gets that. There's a comfort in distance when it's built on something strong. "You know none of it changes how they see you," she reminds him.
"I know," Reid says. "But this helps too."
—
June 2014
When Emily pictures the boss she wants to be, Hotch is her foundation.
He gave her years of examples to strive for. But what she thinks about most is the months after Paris, when she needed stability amidst the chaos and he made sure that she had it. All in little, unobtrusive ways, because she'd needed autonomy too. She saw the way he checked in with her more than anyone—as her friend at first, and as her boss when she brushed that off. How he saw her breaking point before she did, and made sure she had support when it came. He was measured and compassionate, but he held her to the progress she was ready for.
She valued it then, but she sees it through new eyes now. There's an art to leading a team.
Their conversations feel different since she figured that out. Not in how he treats her, but in how she relates to him, because now Emily understands what it means to be in charge. She knows the challenge in finding the right people—threading the needle of the skillsets and dynamics a team needs to make things run. She knows how much it takes to keep them safe and successful; how the need to do more can be an all-consuming drive. And she's seen how quickly the important decisions get mired in hassles and paperwork. That part's not her favourite.
So when Hotch tells her that Blake left, she gets what he's up against.
"That's too bad; I liked Blake," Emily commiserates. "How's hiring?"
Hotch answers with a sigh, unguarded in a way that reminds Emily that she's his peer. "We have some possibilities. I'm still looking," he says. There's a pause, and then, "I don't suppose I could interest you in a demotion?"
It's a strange kind of half-serious offer. She knows Hotch doesn't expect a yes, but knows just as clearly that he'd move mountains to make it happen if her answer were to surprise him. That's reassuring. But if Emily's honest, so is the fact that she doesn't want to say yes. Her time in London isn't a detour; it's not her path to get back home. It's a life she's building for herself.
"That's really tempting," Emily drawls. "You always were a good negotiator."
"Well," he shrugs, "I had to try."
"Thanks, Hotch," she adds, dropping the snark from her voice. "I miss you guys, but I'm good here."
"I know. I'm glad you're doing well," Hotch says, sincere for a moment before his tone turns more playful. "Though you're forcing me to take more interviews; I hope you can live with that knowledge."
She scoffs at that, full of mock-protest and delighted by the gibe. "Hey, I saved you the trouble once. I forget—what kind of thanks did I get?" His laughter spurs her on, because Emily loves it when she sees this side of Hotch. "I knew you were thrilled when I showed up with my box of stuff. You just hid it so well."
"What can I say," Hotch concedes, warmth shining through his voice. "I didn't know how lucky I was that you knocked on my door."
The sentiment goes both ways. Every day she feels lucky that it was Hotch who showed her how to lead.
—
September 2015
Louise Hulland's death sticks with her.
It wasn't the first time she'd made a hard tactical decision. They come with the job, and they usually work out. But this time, it didn't. When she remembers how keen Louise was—and how trusting—Emily wonders if maybe her decision should have been harder.
Sometimes guilt is the fuel that drives her forward; other times it does nothing but fill her with doubt. It comes and goes in waves.
This week had been a bad one for nightmares. That's probably why she's awake now, with the clock pushing midnight, drawing out her conversation with JJ. They hadn't planned the call, but Henry had been dying to show off his grade-school French and Emily was his perfect audience. She answers every 'comment ça va?' and 'quel temps fait-il aujourd'hui?' until his vocabulary runs dry, and it's exactly the kind of distraction that Emily needs.
By the time Mark gets home, Henry's long since abandoned them for Kamala Khan ('the new comic book crush,' JJ teases). Mark tiptoes through the apartment like he doesn't want to wake her—like he figures she's the sensible kind of person who'd go to bed after all but skipping sleep the night before.
It's thoughtful in a way that Emily's still getting used to. She doesn't even mind that he's reacting to her at her most vulnerable, because the thing about her nightmares is they don't give Emily the choice to hide her self-doubts and fears like she does in the daytime. And the thing about Mark is that he's patient and loving—there to listen when she jolts awake, and willing to push back when she tries to brush it off.
The remarkable thing is that Emily wants him there beside her, even though it makes her walls useless. Maybe because of it.
She hears it when Mark spots her office light. There's a pause, and his quiet steps shift back to their normal gait. A moment later he's in the doorway, watching her fondly with a concern he doesn't bother to hide.
"Didn't expect you to be up this late."
"Hi," Emily says, greeting him with a smile. "Long day?"
Mark raises a brow, unimpressed by the deflection. "You good?"
She sees JJ register the worry in his voice—her head tilts a bit; questions form in her eyes—and something warms inside of Emily because she knows that look. It's the watchful concern and hard-won understanding that's always there between them—a look they've traded for years, in harder moments than this. She knows the love that drives it, and she's grateful. But worry's not what she wants from this conversation. So Emily lets her posture relax and her words soften to make sure her answer won't sound like she's protesting too much.
"All good," she says, meeting Mark's eyes. "I'm catching up with JJ."
That sparks his interest, and he joins Emily at the computer to introduce himself. He tells JJ how nice it is to finally meet her; jokes that 'this one won't shut up about you' as his hand grazes across Emily's back. JJ returns the sentiment, adding helpfully that 'Emily's always loved a good accent.' Emily rolls her eyes, sits back, and watches as two of her favourite people get to know each other.
Soon, Mark gives her arm a squeeze and says he's turning in. "Come to bed soon, yeah?" he adds, voice hopeful. "You're like a walking sleep deficit."
Emily looks back at her friend, who's watching her with amusement and Mark with growing approval. "See, he seems great, but he's bossy."
"Sure," Mark chuckles. "And she is great, but have you noticed that she's stubborn?" JJ's wry laugh is all the answer he needs, so he pecks Emily's cheek goodnight and throws a wave to JJ as he heads for the hall.
Turning back to her laptop, Emily doesn't even try to wipe the dopey grin from her face.
"I like him," JJ offers.
"Yeah," Emily says, her smile widening. "Me too."
She likes having people who care about her and who push her to take care of herself.
—
April 2016
She spends a week in DC after they close Michael Peterson's case. Time off hadn't been on her radar, but Emily doesn't let herself feel guilty for taking it. This case had weighed on her for so long that she needs the time to decompress.
Besides, she has people to see while she's here.
Morgan's street is quiet when she pulls up, but her recon says that now's a good time to visit. And sure enough, his truck's in the driveway, new car seat strapped carefully into the back.
When she gets to their doorstep, she hesitates; grabs her phone instead.
'I love that boy of yours,' she texts, 'but he's ruining my surprise entrance. Is it safe to knock?'
She never gets the chance, because moments later the door is open and Morgan's standing in front of her, looking bewildered and increasingly delighted.
"I'm not gonna be the one who wakes a sleeping newborn," she clarifies as Morgan wraps her in his arms. He's laughing, incredulous, and the sound vibrates between them.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
Emily grins and tightens her embrace, compensating for every time she'd wanted to do this over the past six months. "Hi yourself, Derek Morgan."
She fawns over Hank. He's not asleep after all, though his mom deservedly is. She needles Morgan for details of every quirk and milestone; admires every baby picture from the NICU to now. She jokes that her next gift will be a phone with more storage—that his iPhone's no match for a new dad's pride. She loves seeing Morgan so deeply enthralled and so wildly out of his element.
He asks about her dark circles and the exhaustion still lurking in her eyes, but she promises to fill him in some other time. Today's not about that.
It's hard for Emily to imagine what this must be like for Morgan—experiencing the best moments of his life in the midst of some of the worst. She worries, though. She knows that babies are all-consuming, and Savannah needs his help as she recovers, and that he'll always put them first. But she remembers how it drains you to live on edge for months, looking over your shoulder until you're staring down the wrong end of a gun. How disorienting it is to re-enter your life after saying your private goodbyes. She remembers what leaving felt like, piled on top of it all, and she doesn't want that for him. She didn't have to struggle for as long as she did.
"Your poker face is terrible, Prentiss."
Emily shakes herself out of her stare to find Morgan's eyes glinting at her, perceptive as ever. "I'd make fun of it, but to be honest I can't tell which part of my whole drama you've got in mind."
"Yeah, I don't know either," Emily laughs. It's months of built-up worry, from so many sources that a tangle was inevitable. She sticks to the big picture rather than tease it all apart. "Are you taking care of yourself?"
Morgan sobers at that. His gaze drops to where Hank is resting comfortably against him. "Started counselling again when I first went on leave," he murmurs. "The real thing; not just the mandated stuff."
"That's good," Emily says. "More than I ever managed."
His lips twitch upward. "The right motivation, you know?" She watches as his fingers trace in lazy patterns, impossibly big next to the tiny back they're cradling. "I mean, it's been a while. I hadn't really been since things with Buford, and I finished that up around the time you died."
Emily swallows back her guilt and reassurances, because Morgan seems lost in the way his son's eyes droop heavier with each rise and fall of his chest. She's not the one who can make this conversation easier for him.
"That feels like a lifetime ago," she muses.
Morgan nods, and for a moment his eyes fall closed in contemplation. When they open again, he's studying her in that canny way she's seen a thousand times—features soft and eyes sharp.
"You look good, Em," he concludes. "Happy."
She smiles, because he's right. "Who'd have thought, huh?"
"Nah," Morgan scoffs. "I'd never bet against you."
His face turns wistful, then, and he grabs her hand between them. "So, leaving the team… it's harder than I thought."
"I know," Emily soothes, because sympathy's all she can offer. "It gets easier, Derek."
He smiles, but it's strained. "Leaving was the right thing. It's what I want, and what my son deserves, but…" He shrugs, helpless in a way that neither of them is used to. "I don't know how to let them go."
"Then don't," she says, and weaves their fingers tighter. "I never did."
—
November 2016
It hits her as she takes the champagne glass from Garcia's hand: she's back with the team. She's running the team.
From there, it's like the world's shrunk down to the bubble of this room and the people in it. Everything else is a quiet haze. It's surreal and wonderful, and Emily can't quite put it in words.
She's glad Rossi never has that problem. He can handle the toast.
So much of Emily's decision to come back is bittersweet. She's leaving behind a life in London—one that she loved and thrived in. The reality of that will set in soon. And she's here because they're losing Hotch, though she hopes not forever. Emily just wishes she'd known their last phone call was a goodbye. Hardest is knowing that she's responsible for this team's safety—especially now, when they're a killer's active target. It's a heavy weight and a profound honour all at once.
Emily's always known that the good things in life can't be perfect. But if there's one thing she's learned, it's how to be happy despite that. She remembers being in this room four years ago, feeling just as loved and just as welcome, but so much less sure of her footing. That's different now. Her foundation's stable.
So for the moment, Emily sets the bitter parts aside. She tells herself she'll make things right for Hotch and Jack, like he always did for her. That she'll use who she's become to lead this team well.
And she'll let herself be happy here.
"To Emily," she hears. Her name pulls her back to the moment, where Rossi's eyeing her with pride. "Our friend and new unit chief." With that, she's surrounded by raised glasses and wide smiles. Hers might be the widest of all.
"Welcome home."
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I'd really love to know what you think :)