Title: The Oath
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairing: Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner, others – gen/canon pairings (Garcia/Kevin, Prentiss/Doyle)
Genre: Suspense/Angst
Summary: Aaron Hotchner made an oath to bring Emily Prentiss home alive. Fulfilling that oath just got a little bit harder.
Warnings: Spoilers to Lauren (6x18).
Author's Note: I'll admit, I've played a little fast and loose with some of the stuff they gave us in the episode, partially because it works better for the story, and partially because what they gave us is a little inconsistent. Take with a grain of salt.
Author's Note II: An unbelievable amount of thanks to yellowsmurf6 and microgirl8225, without whom this story would be just a blip on the horizon.
Part Two
Eight years previously
'I wish you'd told me earlier.' Emily spoke only after a long silence. Doyle had been distant, ever since she'd declined his offer of parenthood. Part of her had been so desperate for him to accept her counter-offer, even though she knew that JTF-12 would never let him just walk away like that.
She had a dream – not a very realistic dream – of her, and Ian, and Declan, living out their lives away from it all. Away from the guns, and the murder, and the IRA. It wasn't a life that Doyle could ever lead. It wasn't a life that Emily could ever lead.
She needed that adrenaline, pumping through her veins. It was like a drug. She could no sooner let that go than she could a limb, or an eye, or an ear.
'I had to be sure…I needed to trust you,' Doyle explained. They had been in bed for almost an hour, but Emily remained curled into his chest, wide awake. 'I have so many enemies; I couldn't be sure you weren't one of them.'
Emily felt a sudden pang of guilt, and could have kicked herself for it.
Nice job, Emily. You just had to go and fall in love.
If the guilt was bad now, she couldn't imagine what it would be like in one month, or three month, or six months, when JTF-12 was raiding slapping the handcuffs on Doyle, and telling her that it was finally over.
That little boy would grow up without a father.
Based on what Doyle had said, though, maybe he was better off that way. Emily was not going to let Declan follow in his father's footsteps. She would protect him, whatever it took.
'Why don't you want children?' Doyle asked. 'And don't tell me it's just because of what we do, because I know it's more than that.'
Emily bit her lip.
She could, of course, have told him about Italy, but that was too deep, too personal. In any case, Doyle was a devout Catholic – no matter how much he loved her, it would drive a wedge between them.
How then, could she possibly tell him how she didn't feel like she deserved to be a mother?
She didn't.
'My parents…they probably shouldn't have even had me,' Emily told him. 'It was so easy to tell, that it had never been in their plans…that I was some kind of burden on their life. And look at me now.'
'Now, I see a beautiful, intelligent, wonderful woman, who I love.' He kissed the top of her head. 'You're not a bad person. Don't ever let yourself think that.'
Will you be thinking the same thing when you're locked in a prison cell?
'The things I've done…The things we've done.'
'What we've done, is fight for our beliefs – is there something so wrong about that?'
Emily didn't have an answer.
…
Sergio, as it turned out, was a small, black cat who loved to stick his nose where it didn't belong. No sooner than Hotch had brought the cat inside his apartment, and let him out of the cat carrier, the creature spent ten minutes sniffing around the place, before sitting himself beside a window and meowing loudly.
'You can't go outside,' Hotch told Sergio plainly, feeling quite ridiculous for doing so. Emily had apparently given the cat a little more free rein over his surroundings, but Hotch wanted to wait until he had become more accustomed to the inside before he opened the window. For all he knew, the first thing that Sergio would do was run off in search of Emily. He didn't want to have to explain that one in six months' time.
Both Hotch and Sergio started at the sound of a knock on the door. Hotch picked up the cat – much to both of their disdain – and carried him towards the door.
'Daddy!' Jack cried out, immediately wrapping his arms around Hotch's waist. Upon noticing the cat that his father held, Jack stared up solemnly. 'Did you get a kitty, Daddy?'
'This is Sergio,' Hotch said, setting the cat on the ground as Jessica pulled the door shut behind her. 'He's going to be staying with us for a bit. You can play with him, but be careful – it might take him a while to get used to you.'
Jack nodded enthusiastically, and then ran off after the cat, who had resumed his exploration of the living room.
'How was it?' Jessica asked, a pained expression on her face.
'It was…hard,' Hotch answered, though perhaps not for the reasons she would have expected. 'Emily was a good agent, and a good friend.'
'Are you going to tell him?' She nodded towards the living room, where Hotch could see his son rubbing the black cat's stomach.
'I need to,' he said, simply. 'As much as I want to shield him from the world, I can't protect him forever.'
'Of course,' Jessica nodded. 'If you need anything…' And then she left, leaving Hotch alone with his son, and his not-so-dead colleague's cat.
'Ow,' Jack cried out, and Sergio ran off to the master bedroom.
'Everything okay, buddy?' Hotch knelt down beside his son, who was sucking at his hand.
'He scratched me,' Jack pouted. 'I was only petting him.'
'Sometimes cats don't want to be petted,' Hotch offered.
'Why?'
'I don't know…would you like it if I tickled you all the time?' Jack collapsed into hysterical laughter as Hotch tickled him.
'No,' he squealed. 'No!'
'Let's get you a bandaid.' Hotch stood, making his way to the bathroom where he pulled out the first aid kit. Jack grimaced slightly as the wound was cleaned with Dettol, and picked a dinosaur bandaid over a Scooby-Doo one.
'Do you remember Daddy's friend Emily?' Hotch asked his son, as he threw out the bandaid wrapper.
Jack nodded. 'She got me my Batman toy for Christmas.'
'Sergio used to be Emily's cat, but now we have to take care of him.'
'Why?'
Hotch hesitated. Even more than lying to the team, he hated – absolutely hated – lying to his son. His son looked up to him – he saw a symbol of honesty and integrity.
'Because…Emily died,' he said, and watched as his son's face fell. It was not the most elegant way of putting it, but really, there was no elegant way of dealing with death.
'Like Mommy?' Jack asked, and Hotch almost shook his head, but then stopped himself, because the parallels were a lot closer than he'd realized.
'Like Mommy,' Hotch confirmed.
'Did a bad man kill her?'
'Yeah,' Hotch nodded. 'A bad man killed her.'
'Did you get him?'
'No, we didn't.' Six years old was far too young to be hearing about arms dealers and spies and espionage. Six years old was too young to be so familiar with death.
…
Emily Prentiss spent three days in her hotel room, curtains drawn against the light. Thanks to the bandage around her stomach, she had barely moved, save to use the bathroom, and make a few, short trips outside. She needed to eat, and ordering room service for every meal was bound to look suspicious to hotel staff.
After three days of reading, and badly dubbed television, Emily found the card that the DCRI agent had given her, and called the number. She'd picked up a burner phone on her first day in Paris, wandering the city streets. It would be good for a single call, before she'd need to find another one. If Doyle was tracking the line, then she didn't want to give him any opportunity to find her.
So she went for another long walk, every single step pulling the stitches at her side. There were more than a few doctors who dealt with this kind of thing, that Emily knew of – doctors that didn't ask questions, and wouldn't answer them, no matter the torture or dollar amount offered. Their reputations, and their lives, were hinged upon discretion.
When she finally called, the voice on the other end of the line was a recorded message. 'Call back in three days on the following number.' Emily scrambled to grab a pen from her bag, managing to scrawl the number on her hand before it left her short-term memory.
Three days later – after more television, and more sleep, the message was different.
It gave her a time, a place, and an address. Emily recognized the location as a café, a fair way from where she was staying.
She dressed carefully, trying not to exacerbate the wound. If everything went according to plan, then Emily would be on her way out of France by the next morning. Paris might have been the city of romance, but it was not where Emily needed to be. She needed to be in the right place to track down Doyle, to end it once and for all. Paris was not that place.
If Doyle was looking to re-establish his former ties, then he would be returning to Ireland. That was where his affiliations were the strongest, and that was where he would find someone to track down Declan.
In theory, at least.
Where Emily ended up, would depend on her instructions from the CIA.
Anyone looking on would have seen a woman – dressed in the latest fashions – sipping her coffee and reading the newspaper. What they wouldn't notice, was the way her eyes kept darting about, trying to pick up something – anything – out of the ordinary.
The sign, when it came, was not the expected one.
After all, it was a hell of a risk for JJ to be the one giving her instructions. If Doyle was watching, then he would go after Henry and Will in order to get the other woman to talk. At the same time, it was a comfort to know that there was still someone out there – someone who knew.
There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions she wanted to ask, but it was too dangerous to stay longer than a few minutes.
All she said, was, 'Thank-you.'
When Emily returned to her hotel room, it took her all of five minutes to put her things together. That was one benefit of living out of a backpack, even if it was a tight squeeze.
It wasn't a particularly long train ride from Paris to London; two and a half hours, if it was a direct trip. Emily did not plan on going direct.
If there was someone else watching her, she wanted to give them a hell of a time.
Half an hour into the third leg of the journey, he finally made his presence known.
'Nice to see you alive,' Clyde commented, sliding into the seat next to Emily. He wasn't his usual, sophisticated self – instead of an expensive coat and scarf, he was wearing jeans and a heavy parka.
'Nice to be alive,' Emily replied. In English, she added, 'Russian? Really? You know how much my Russian sucks.'
'Well it's going to need to get a lot better.' He gestured towards her bag, holding the envelope with her three new identities, one of which was Russian.
Emily gave a non-committal shrug, wincing at the pain. She would use the Russian identity as a last resort.
'You've been watching me for four days,' Emily said bluntly. 'Why wait until now to say hi?'
'I wanted to wait until you were on the move,' he told her.
'Right,' Emily nodded. 'Boys and their trains. You really love your clandestine locomotive meetings, don't you?'
'One of my many quirks.'
'Like using iPhones as burners?'
'I get them cheap.' His expression sobered. 'How are you, really?'
'Sore,' Emily admitted. Unlike the team, Clyde would not fuss over her injury. It wasn't that he was unsympathetic, he just recognized that there were more important things at stake.
Ha. Stake.
'But I'll be okay,' she finished. After everything; every mission, every case, every bullet, every blow, every God damn table leg through the fucking stomach.
Always okay.
Some days, it was so hard to believe that lie.
'As far as we can tell, Doyle hasn't left the States yet,' Clyde told her, and Emily felt a simultaneous burst of relief and fear. Relief, because it seemed as though he hadn't caught onto the situation yet. Fear, because that didn't mean he wouldn't go after the team.
'But you don't know where he is.'
'Not specifically, no.' His voice was almost apologetic, but then, that was what Emily had expected. Doyle had protected his identity as Valhalla for years. He had managed to escape a North Korean prison and make his way to the United States without so much as setting off someone's radar. If he wanted to disappear into the shadows, he could. 'But this does mean we can be a little less…clandestine.'
Less clandestine, in Clyde's terms, meant that she didn't need to shave her head and adapt to the punk-rock lifestyle for the next six months.
There was a long silence.
'I didn't sell you out,' he said eventually.
Emily nodded. 'I know.' She bit her lip. 'I'm sorry. I was just a little…paranoid.'
'With good reason,' Clyde conceded. 'Your team discovered the identity of the mole.' Emily's eyebrows raised in question. 'It was Jeremy.'
In spite of herself, Emily let her jaw drop slightly. 'Did Tsia know?'
'It doesn't look that way.'
'We worked with him for…God, Clyde, we put our lives in his hands, and he just dropped us like we were nothing. For what? A paycheck?'
'So it would seem.'
Her eyes lowered. 'That means I sent Tsia to her death for no reason.'
Clyde said nothing; it wasn't an accusatory silence, but Emily could read between the non-existent lines.
'We all make decisions that we're forced to live with.' He spoke, finally, and now he was the one not quite willing to meet her eyes. 'We never should have taken this case. If we didn't…who knows. Maybe we'd all still be working together.'
'And maybe we'd be dead.'
It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was the only one she had; all roads lead to Rome. Whichever path they took, they would reach death eventually.
Some sooner than others.
…
Eight Years Previously
Ian was away, and Emily missed him. She missed his warmth against her back, and she missed the weight of him in the bed, and she missed the way he would drape his arm across her chest in the middle of the night.
She felt kind of pathetic for it.
Normally, depending on the kind of business that was being conducted, she would have gone with him. This particular client did not trust easily, though, and really, Emily couldn't blame him. In a world where people were passing around large quantities of cash, and instruments of death, you learned to watch your back.
That was something that Emily had been doing since she was a child; the circumstances might have been different, but the reasoning was the same.
Anyone could stab you in the back.
Her body tightened as the door creaked open. There was a gun in her nightstand, but she really, really didn't want to use it unless it was necessary. The soft, light footsteps, and the diminutive figure told her that it wasn't.
'What is it, Declan?' she asked, rolling over slightly. Her voice was muffled by the pillow.
'I had a nightmare,' the boy sniffled. His blonde curls were disheveled, his eyes red with tears. 'Can I sleep with you tonight?'
On another night, Emily might have said no, but tonight she didn't. If not for Doyle, she would have taken this child in as her son in less than a heartbeat. She would have loved him, and cared for him, and above all, given him a normal life. The life that Doyle never had.
The life that Emily never had.
Declan fell back asleep almost immediately, and Emily envied him. He had a kind of autonomy that no adult had – the freedom of innocence, of obliviousness. He didn't have to make important moral judgments, or make up lies about everything he'd ever seen or done. He was, for all intents and purposes, free.
In that moment, Emily made a decision.
After Doyle, she was done.
She would hand in her resignation, and find a different line of work. One that didn't involve selling her soul to get results. One that didn't involve giving up her heart.
Emily fell asleep to the sound of Declan's breathing.
…
For an SIS safehouse, the flat was fairly pleasant, considering the circumstances. It wasn't fancy, or extravagantly furnished, but it did have a homey kind of feel to it.
There were worse places to live.
In spite of Clyde's reassurances that Doyle was still stateside, Emily could not relax. She alternated between pacing the small living area, and lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She'd had the stitches removed, but the wound still ached, and it would do for the rest of her life, if her past injuries were anything to go by.
It was late when the doorbell rang. In lieu of any other available weapon, Emily found a steak knife in the kitchen; a deadly weapon, if you knew how to use it right, and Emily sure as hell knew how to use it. Before Doyle, her friends never would have guessed that she was a trained CIA operative, had they not been told.
She relaxed the knife slightly when she looked through the peephole. It was Clyde, carrying a heavy looking black duffle bag.
'Were you followed?' she asked, through the door crack.
He gave the peephole an exasperated look, and that alone was enough to let Emily know that his presence was not due to coercion.
'What's in the bag?' she queried, as she opened the door to let him in. He set the bag down on one end of the sofa before unzipping it.
'Let's just say I'm the Q to your 007,' he quipped. Emily gave him a blank look. 'Please don't tell me you've never seen a James Bond movie.'
'Of course I have,' Emily said, frowning. 'Fictional espionage just doesn't quite seem your style.'
'By the very nature of espionage, I should be as mysterious as possible.'
He passed over a small silver briefcase from the bag. Emily sat down, and flipped the catches and opened it to find two Beretta handguns – a 92, and a 3032 Tomcat, if she wasn't mistaken. It had been a long time since she'd fired a Beretta.
'So what exactly will I be doing?' Emily asked, checking over the 92 – it was a little heavier than a Glock which was a good reminder of just how much damage a bullet could do. 'I can't exactly track down Doyle from behind closed doors all day.'
'And we don't expect you to,' Clyde answered. He passed over a laptop bag, and things started to click into place. 'What we want is a profile. You know Doyle – beyond what you've told anyone else. You know what's important to him, the way he thinks. You know where he'll go.'
'He'll go after Declan,' Emily answered immediately. She pulled out the laptop, and started it up.
'And where's Declan?'
'Are you asking me where I think Declan is, or where I think Doyle thinks Declan is?'
Clyde gave her a smirk. 'I think that you would rather die than tell anyone where Declan is,' he answered. 'And I know better than to try and make you.'
Emily nodded. She wasn't quite sure how much she really trusted Clyde, but she had worked the job long enough to know that nothing was ever really a secret. The only person she could trust was herself, and even that felt doubtful sometimes.
'But enough of that,' he said. 'I do have something a little more…personal to give you.' He withdrew a flash drive from his pocket, and plugged it into the side of the laptop. There were a few folders, as well as a single video on the drive, the latter of which Clyde double-clicked. It took a few shaky seconds of trees and people before Emily realized what it was.
'Did you wear a hidden camera to my funeral?' she asked, incredulous. Clyde shrugged.
'I thought it might come in useful.'
Emily shook her head. 'You are the epitome of class, Clyde Easter.' She watched the video in silence, choking up when she saw the team. They were all in tears – none more so than Garcia, who leaned into Morgan's embrace on more than one occasion. More than anything, Emily wished that she could somehow reach backwards and tell them that everything was okay; that she was fine, and that they didn't need to mourn her.
Clyde put a hand on her shoulder. He wasn't normally a "touchy-feely" kind of guy, but Emily appreciated the effort. It reminded her that she wasn't alone, that when she returned, the team would be there waiting for her.
What they would feel about being lied to was another matter altogether.
…
A week and a half after the funeral, the team was back at work. On Strauss' orders, they were off case rotation for another two weeks, in addition to their grievance leave. That was one decision that Hotch could not fault.
Without warning, Morgan had moved his things back into his desk in the bullpen, and Rossi had all but confined himself to his office. The laughter that had once run through the bullpen, the laughter that said, "this is how we cope," had all but ceased.
If JJ's departure was the first crack in what had been the best team Hotch had worked with in years, then Emily's death was a sledgehammer.
Worse, though, was the memo that came down from Strauss' office telling Hotch that Prentiss' desk needed to be cleared out. Hotch would stonewall every attempt at installing a new agent on the team; Strauss would put it down to his desire to oppose her every move, which wasn't entirely wrong.
When Emily returned, he didn't want to have to shunt her off to another department, simply because there weren't enough desks.
He couldn't put it off forever. The rest of the team would question his hesitation. That in itself wasn't as bad as the thought of them being murdered in their sleep. He found a box anyway, and his march down to the bullpen felt like a goddamn funeral procession.
The four occupants of their tiny little area of the floor stared at him in stunned silence. Garcia was perched on the edge of Reid's desk, and had been watching with interest as the young man's eyes darted across a sheet of paper like lightning. No words were spoken between any of them, yet they seemed to take a strange solace in each other's presence.
'Hotch, what are you doing?' Morgan asked, though from his tone of voice, it was very clear that he knew exactly what Hotch was doing.
All the paperwork had already been taken care of; consults were split between Morgan, Reid and Rossi, and any unfinished reports had been given an addendum. Thankfully, though, Emily had not played a significant role in the team's most recent cases; any information that would have been in her report was in everyone else's as well.
'No. No way, bossman.' Garcia stood, tears already streaking her make-up. 'You can't just pack Emily's life into a box like she meant nothing.'
'Garcia—'
'She's right,' Seaver interjected, much to Hotch's surprise. The cadet had barely said anything with regards to Prentiss' death, except to Rossi. 'Emily…we can't just…' She frowned, hesitating. 'We just can't.'
'Go get Rossi,' Hotch instructed Seaver, who stared at him in surprise before rushing off towards Rossi's office. 'We'll do this together.'
It seemed wrong that JJ wasn't there, but then, Hotch couldn't well ask her to give up everything just to help the team mourn Emily.
The desktop was mostly work related paraphernalia; textbooks with titles like Current Perspectives in Forensic Psychology and Criminal Behavior, as well as a lever arch folder filled with journal articles on psychology and criminology. They went into the box first, followed by an inordinate amount of stationery.
That was the easy stuff.
The top drawer – the drawer where he had found her phone, badge and gun – held a strange assortment of things. Hotch pulled out a red heart which was, for lack of a better word, squishy.
'What is that thing?' Seaver asked.
'Stress heart,' Rossi provided.
'She was trying to use it as an alternative to biting her nails,' Reid elaborated. 'It didn't really work.'
The heart went in the box.
Morgan frowned as he pulled out a pair of floppy discs. 'I didn't think any of the Bureau computers still had floppy drives.'
'They don't,' Reid said shortly. He probably knew the exact time and date that the machines were updated, but he didn't mention it.
'She was obviously a time-traveling crime fighter,' Garcia quipped, through her tears. 'Kicking ass in both 1996 and 2011.'
Morgan gave a grin that seemed somehow sad and happy at the same time, and put the floppy discs into the box.
At the back of the drawer was a USB drive and some hand lotion, as well a half-eaten stash of Godiva, a small bottle of Advil and yet more stationery. Beneath that, a half dozen manila envelopes that appeared to be filled with notes. He kept them aside, just in case there was something relevant to their recently closed cases.
The top drawer empty, Hotch shut it a little more heavily than he had intended.
The second drawer was mostly notebooks, as well as a 2011 planner that looked all but untouched. Underneath one of the notebooks, Garcia extracted a photo that Hotch didn't get a chance to see before the technical analyst snatched it from under him.
'Oh my God!' Garcia said with a squeal. 'I can't believe she kept this.'
'Baby girl, what—' Morgan stopped mid-sentence as he saw the picture in question. 'Oh my God. Is that Prentiss?'
'It's her high school yearbook photo,' Garcia explained. 'I got bored, and started looking into everyone's glory days. Your 1986 afro, by the way, was gorgeous.'
Hotch should have made a comment about privacy, but he didn't. Hell, maybe if Garcia had looked into Prentiss' background a little more thoroughly, they would have found out about Doyle earlier. That was a line he wasn't willing to cross.
Her go-bag, they'd found in the rental car in Boston, hired out with a fake passport. The duffle bag that was under Emily's desk was a gym bag, in it her workout clothes and shoes, as well as a pair of worn leather boxing gloves.
'She kicked my ass, once,' Morgan admitted, and as a man that took great pride in his physical presence, Hotch knew that it wasn't the easiest thing to say.
'Just once?' Garcia asked, torn between amusement and tears. 'Or just once that you're willing to admit to?'
'Well I didn't know she was an ex-CIA operative.'
On those words, the conversation fell silent, as though they were all trying hard to forget the fact that Emily had lied to them. It had taken her death for them to find forgiveness. How would they react, then, to learn that Emily Prentiss was still alive, and in hiding. Would they see that as a further betrayal?
Or would the overwhelming happiness at knowing that she wasn't dead somehow erase that?
Once the desk was empty, he took the box back up to his office. Anything that had been left unspecified in Emily's will would go to the Ambassador, who had been briefed on the situation. Still, she kept the façade of a grieving parent up like only a seasoned diplomat could.
Realistically, it would have been more beneficial to Emily to not bequeath her possessions to her family and friends, but that would raise the suspicions of the team, and of Doyle, if he was keeping tabs on them.
As far as Hotch knew, the former IRA captain had fled. The updates he received from Interpol were circumspect at best; really, he would have been better off asking Garcia to put her feelers out (which he strongly suspected that she was doing anyway).
The trouble was, he didn't want to give them any indication that he might be hiding something. If they knew, they wouldn't be content to sit around and do nothing. If they knew, they would want to find Doyle, and, more importantly, find Emily. That was something he wouldn't allow – not with Doyle still on the loose.
If he found out that Emily was still alive, then nobody was safe.
…
Pink Floyd seemed a strangely appropriate accompaniment to the mindless, contemplative state that Emily found herself in. As well as the funeral video, the flash drive Clyde left had contained a variety of music (of dubious legality), as well as photos of the team that he had no doubt procured from JJ. On the laptop itself, she found the intelligence reports of Doyle's activities, as well as all the material relating to the case itself. Over the past few days, she had been using those files to put together an updated profile.
She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the closing notes of Time. Twenty years ago, she probably would have been strung out on some variety of hallucinogen while engaging in this kind of meditation, which just went to show that times had changed.
Maybe not as much as she wanted them to, but they'd changed enough.
Leaving the CIA and JTF-12 hadn't exactly given her the freedom or the relaxation that she'd needed, but then, catching serial killers wasn't exactly a less stressful vocation.
Maybe it was time to take up golf. Do some spin classes. Write a book. None of those avenues held any amount of appeal. As stressful as the job was, it was her life.
The smell of food wafted towards Emily's nostrils, at the same time she heard the doorbell. Clyde had mentioned the possibility of his return, but Emily unholstered her weapon anyway, right index finger pressed against the trigger guard.
She relaxed it slightly, letting the door swing open. Clyde had several plastic bags in one hand, and a cat carrier in the other hand.
Emily stared at him.
Clyde set the carrier down on the ground, and flipped open the latch. 'He's a bit shy,' he commented, as the small black kitten poked its head out of the cat carrier.
'You bought me a cat?' Emily asked, dumbstruck. 'Isn't that a little…dangerous?'
'We have this area locked down tighter than Fort Knox,' Clyde told her matter-of-factly. 'Doyle doesn't have the resources he once did. Our only problem is finding him.'
Emily let the cat sniff her, a soft but rough tongue darting out to lick her fingers. 'Thanks,' she whispered. Clyde put a hand on her shoulder.
'It's not an easy life,' he said. 'You needed some company.'
It wasn't the company that she wanted, and they both knew it. Still, neither of them said anything as Emily found bowls and chopsticks in the tiny kitchen. It didn't escape her memory that the last time she'd had Chinese takeout was with the team; every single little thing seemed to be a stark reminder of the life that she had left behind.
The mental and emotional wounds would take so much longer to heal than the physical ones.
Such was the life of an international spy, Clyde couldn't stay long.
'It's too risky for me to keep coming back here' he explained. 'So we'll have to use a dead-drop for the intelligence report on Doyle. Stay low – someone will contact you.'
Emily nodded. She remembered how the game worked. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.
The door clicked shut, and it was just Emily, and a nameless black kitten.
He was smaller than Sergio had been when Emily first got him – probably a fair bit younger, too. While Sergio was completely black, this cat had a tiny patch of white just beneath his chin.
Emily sucked at naming pets; Sergio had been "kitty" for almost a week, before an alcohol-fuelled Clint Eastwood marathon with Morgan and Rossi narrowed it down to Sergio and The Cat with No Name, the latter of which seemed like it would quickly devolve into just Cat, which wasn't really what she'd wanted to go for.
Since she didn't particularly want to start drinking with Doyle still on the loose, and she had no friends left with which to partake in movie marathons, the choice this time was a little harder.
In the end, she settled on The Cat who was Thursday, or just Thursday, which sounded a little less pretentious to anyone who asked. Thursday explored his new surroundings enthusiastically, and Emily couldn't help but be reminded of the first night she'd brought Sergio home to her apartment.
In addition to the carrier, Clyde had bought her a litter tray, along with enough cat food to last the week. Leaving the tiny flat was still something that Emily had reservations about, no matter how okay Clyde assured her that it was.
Ten years ago, she would have been a lot less accepting of his word; ten years ago, Emily would have been skipping between countries like they were something so much more mundane. Now, she just wanted to get it over with – to put a bullet between Doyle's eyes, or, if it didn't quite go as planned, have him put a bullet between hers. It might have been a somewhat macabre way of looking at things, but in all honesty, supreme happiness was not going to be a viable life goal at any time soon.
All she could really hope was that when – if – she ever returned home, they wouldn't hate her for what she did, both before and after her confrontation with Doyle. More importantly, she had to hope that they wouldn't resent JJ and Hotch's decision to keep the information private.
Thursday meowed as he rubbed himself against Emily's leg.
'You're a good kitty, aren't you?' she asked, scratching the cat beneath the chin. Though her day hadn't been particularly busy, Emily was already tired. She figured it probably had something to do with the fact that her body was still healing from its trauma.
It had been a little over two weeks since she'd woken up in hospital, but the fact that she hadn't exactly rested properly was a major factor in the healing process. Chances were, though, she'd be in hiding for a little while longer, though – long enough, maybe, for there not to be pain with every step.
Long enough for her hair to turn gray, and her skin to wrinkle, and for everyone to forget who Emily Prentiss even was, let alone what had happened to her.
Not long enough for the shame, and the guilt, and the hurt to disappear.
…
Doyle watched as the young boy ran ahead of his aunt, bag bouncing against his back. The blonde woman smile, and from a distance, she reminded him of Lucy – of the woman who had given birth to his son.
Anger bubbled in his heart – Aaron Hotchner clearly believed in good and evil; it was a battle that he had fought for many years, if the intelligence Doyle gathered was anything to go by. Aaron Hotchner was a proponent of justice and fairness, and yet he left his son to be raised by another.
Doyle had done the same thing – to keep his son safe. Hotchner's reason was far less noble. Hotchner had done it because he couldn't walk away from his job.
And every single day, he still risked his life, knowing that he might not return. More than that, though, he still had his son.
It was very easy for Doyle to hate Aaron Hotchner.
And even easier for him to do something about it.
…
'Hey, guys.' Morgan's head jerked up at the sound of JJ's voice. It wasn't often that the former media liaison came to the BAU, but since Emily's death, the visits had become far more frequent.
He wasn't surprised; never before had the team been stronger, or closer, than it was with both Emily and JJ there. Gideon hadn't exactly been a team player, and Elle…well, as much as he loved Elle, she had her own issues. From what he knew of Seaver, she seemed like a motivated cadet; cadet being the key term in the phrase. She had no field experience, and no profiling experience. One day, she might make a qualified profiler, but he didn't see that day coming any time soon.
'So what, you're here to make sure we aren't going off the deep end?' Morgan asked, curious. Aside from Hotch, JJ's reaction to Emily's death had been the most stoic. She was good at hiding her emotions when she needed to. That was what made her such an effective communications liaison.
'Actually, I'm here to see Hotch,' JJ admitted. Looking at her watch, she added, apologetically, 'I don't really have time to talk.
'Oh.' Garcia's face fell.
'I'll come talk on my way out. We'll organize something,' JJ promised, and just like that, she was gone.
Morgan stared after her.
'Do you think they're seeing each other?' Garcia asked, and Morgan started.
'What?' he asked, a little dumbfounded by her train of thought.
'JJ and Hotch,' the tech explained. 'Ever since Emily's death, they've been having secret meetings, like they're organizing their next—'
'I think you're stretching it a little,' Morgan interjected, before Garcia could describe exactly what JJ and Hotch would be organizing. 'There's no way JJ would ever cheat on Will, and Hotch would literally walk across a room of broken glass before he got caught up in a lie that big.'
'I guess,' Garcia agreed, if a little hesitantly. 'So why do you think they keep meeting up like this?'
'Who knows,' Morgan shrugged. 'Maybe there's some residual paperwork from…' He paused, not wanting to bring up Doyle.
'Do you think they found him?' Garcia asked, fearfully. 'I mean…I've been hacking every resource I can find trying to track this guy down, but they have toys that I don't.' She paused. 'They would tell us, right? If they found him?'
Morgan let his hand clench into a fist. 'They damn well better.'
There were so many things he wanted to do to Ian Doyle. So many different ways he'd imagined killing the man, the way he killed Emily. If Hotch and JJ knew where Doyle was, then Morgan wanted his shot.
It probably wasn't the kind of integrity that the FBI was built on, but in his mind, integrity could go fuck itself. Doyle had murdered one of his best friends. He wouldn't get away with that, even if it meant Morgan had to give up his badge.
Even if it meant giving up his life.
…
Eight Years Previously
'Shipment's coming in the day after tomorrow,' she told him, as they drove through the Irish countryside. It was dark outside – the witching hour. Perfect time for ghosts, monsters, and ambushes. She doubted that he'd ever really spent this much time with any of his other suppliers, but then, he probably hadn't been sleeping with them.
He looked at her. 'I thought it wasn't coming until next week.'
'Change of plans. ATF is getting nosy; I don't want them to raid any of our warehouses and find three dozen crates of guns and ammo.' That, of course, was a lie. The shipment was coming in tomorrow because Clyde wanted Doyle kept on his toes. "The only thing he should feel comfortable about, is you," were the exact words he'd spoken during their brief liaison the previous week
Her train of thought was interrupted by a loud bang, and the rocking of the vehicle. Her hand immediately went to her side, before she remembered that she wasn't wearing a holster. Lauren Reynolds didn't. Instead, she had it tucked into the back of her pants, its bulk disguised by her sweater.
Ian gave Emily a look, as though he was about to tell her to stay in the car. Emily knew how Lucy – the last woman he loved – had died. Under these circumstances, though, it was just as dangerous to stay in the car. They didn't know what incendiaries their assailants had, or how many personnel. They were in the dark.
Gunfire tore through the windshield, sending glass and bullet fragments flying
Shit, shit, shit.
Emily flung open the back door, feeling the heat of another explosion at her back. She hoped like hell that Doyle had made it out of the car alive.
Not because she loved him, or anything. Because she couldn't finish this assignment if he was dead. They had Valhalla's identity, but they didn't have his distributors.
Emily tumbled into the bushes by the side of the road, ignoring the gravel rash that had torn through the sleeves of her sweater, and the burns from the explosion she hadn't quite managed to avoid. Her eyes were ringing, her heart was pounding, and oh God, what if she actually died out here?
It was a moonless night, but the air was lit by dancing flames. Two men in dark clothing, by the first car. Emily fired two shots, and they both went down.
Emily's mother had not been particularly happy about her decision to join the CIA. The fact that her mother actually had the security clearance to know that Emily was CIA was something that frustrated her to no end. Other agents told their parents they worked for museums, or NASA, or whatever the accepted cover story was these days. Somehow, every time Emily managed to get herself into trouble, she'd get a phone call reminding her to be careful.
If her Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss had had her way, Emily would be a diplomat, or working for the State Department, or any other number of political jobs that didn't involve carrying a gun. Here, in the middle of Northern Ireland's countryside, caught in a fucking ambush, Emily considered the fact that her mother might have had the right idea.
'Lauren.' Emily jumped at the hand on her shoulder – a wake-up call to get her mind into gear.
'Ian,' Emily breathed. 'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine.' He shook her concern off, as though getting caught in an exploding vehicle was a frequent occurrence for him. Hell, considering the line of work, it probably was. 'You're bleeding.'
'What?' Emily put a hand to her forehead, fingers coming away wet and crimson. 'Shit. We need to deal with these guys first.' Never mind the fact that she didn't know who they were. Hell, for all she knew, they were the good guys.
Some days, the world was a little too grey for her to tell the difference. For now, though, whoever had ambushed them was the enemy. If nothing else, it would be another step towards having Doyle trust her implicitly.
'Do you know who they are?' she asked him, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as they crept forward.
'Ambush on the road in the middle of the night…I have a few ideas.' Emily wondered how long his list of enemies was – both from his time as an arms dealer, and as a member of the IRA. The cars were empty, as far as goods went – between them there were maybe a dozen pistols and automatic weapons. This one was personal.
'Get down!' Doyle called out, pushing Emily's head to the ground while simultaneously firing over her. A body dropped barely three feet from her, and she wondered how the hell she'd missed him.
'All down,' Liam called out, from the other side of the road.
'How many did we lose?' Doyle asked, as he stood. He held a hand out for Emily, and she bit back the scathing remark she almost made about being able to take care of herself.
'Reilly and Conlon are dead. Rick's in bad shape.'
'How bad?' Doyle asked, limping slightly as he walked towards Liam. He had a nasty gash along his thigh that was bleeding steadily.
'See for yourself.'
The entire left side of the mercenary's face was black, the smell of burning flesh roiling in Emily's stomach. If he lived –and it was a big if – he'd be looking at some serious scarring. Without even really considering the matter, Doyle pointed the gun at Rick's head, and squeezed the trigger.
Emily didn't flinch.
She wanted to.
Goddamnit, she wanted to. She'd seen a lot of people killed in her career – some of them cold-bloodedly – and she'd killed her own fair share. It wasn't something that she was ever going to get used to, even if Doyle did see it as a mercy killing.
The sun was rising, by the time they made it home. The one good thing about organized crime, Emily rationalized, was that you could always call someone in to clean up your mess.
Okay, so maybe that wasn't a good thing, as such, but she really wanted to sleep.
'Let me stitch that up first,' Ian said, gesturing towards the cut on her head as Emily made for bed. She'd given it a hasty gauze treatment at the scene, but it hadn't exactly been the time or the place for first aid.
'I'm not the one who has glass in their leg,' Emily countered.
'I can take care of that myself. Last time I checked, you can't stitch up something you can't see.' He let a warm hand rest on her shoulder. 'You don't have to feel weak for letting me take care of you, Lauren.'
'I don't feel weak,' Emily said irritably, and she was pretty sure that, yes, Lauren Reynolds would be kind of pissed off from lack of sleep and Doyle's coddling. Sometimes, it seemed so easy to forget that he was a murderer. 'Besides, I don't think it needs stitches.'
'Just let me take a look.'
Emily relented. She was always going to, of course. She just wanted to make him work for it – trust worked both ways.
The cut, as it turned out, didn't need stitches, but he made her drink a glass of water anyway, and promised to watch over her as she slept. She didn't doubt him, and yet she was still hesitant.
Exhaustion won over, though, and Emily sunk into the expensive sheets, and even more expensive mattress. When she woke – hours later – it was to his smile.
'Hey.'
'Hey,' she smiled. 'How long did I sleep?'
'A few hours,' he told her, pressing a soft kiss against her lips. 'I made breakfast.'
Emily gave a soft chuckle. 'We get ambushed by God knows who in the middle of the night, and you can still find the energy to make breakfast in the morning? You are…amazing.' By focusing on his good qualities, Emily could let herself believe that.
'There's something I wanted to talk to you about,' he admitted. Emily tried to act nonchalant at the declaration. 'I'm moving Declan and Louise back to Boston.'
'Boston?' Emily asked, half incredulous. 'Why?'
'It's too dangerous here. I have too many enemies – last night proved that much.'
'You think it'll be better in Boston?'
'I think…things aren't as volatile there. If we were based there, we could still fly over for business, if we needed to.' Emily raised an eyebrow.
'We?' she asked, giving Doyle a look. 'Are you saying you want to merge operations?'
He gave a shrug that was no doubt supposed to be nonchalant, as if he was suggesting that they go for a walk in the park, rather than engage in a risky business venture. 'It would be more convenient, for both of us,' he said. 'We can cut out the middle step.'
'Let me think about it,' Emily said eventually. While this was exactly what she needed to bring Doyle down permanently, he would be suspicious if she said yes without even taking time to consider the matter. She couldn't blow her cover this late in the game – not with so much at stake
At the same time, she wondered if she really wanted to bring him down. She had tried giving him the out, in the hopes that maybe, he would have been interested in living a normal life. Just him, and her, and Declan. That had been too much to ask, and in a way, Emily couldn't blame him; there was no way she could ever go back to a normal life. Of course, CIA agent was a far cry from weapons dealer, but the sentiment was the same. There was a small part of her, locked deep inside, that she let loathe Doyle – without that part, Lauren Reynolds would have swallowed Emily Prentiss completely. It was that part that let Emily make a phone call to her handler.
The final stage of Ian Doyle's downfall had begun.
…
Emily jerked herself awake, cringing as she pulled at the scar. Thanks to the painkillers, she'd been expecting the nightmares, but it was still disconcerting as hell to wake up in a pool of sweat.
It took several minutes to regain her composure, during which time Thursday stared at her as though she'd gone completely insane.
It wasn't an entirely impossible scenario.
After all, human contact hadn't exactly been in high supply, and talking to a cat was not a statistically valid measure of proving sanity. It made her feel a little more secure, though, and that was something.
Emily sat up, arm resting across her stomach. She would give almost anything to be at home, with her family. Failing that, she would do whatever it took to make sure that Doyle never hurt them – never hurt Declan.
She didn't know how difficult that would be.
…
Ian Doyle gripped his weapon tightly.
Disabling the alarm had probably been the hardest part of getting inside the apartment, but being a former member of the IRA had its advantages. After escaping prison, getting inside an FBI Unit Chief's apartment was mere child's play.
Toys were scattered about the living area – that was something Declan had never done. His things were always put away, upon threat of discipline. He had never hit the boy, but then, he had never had to.
He perked up at the sound of a key in the door, and leveled his weapon at the entrance to the apartment.
The silence was overpowering. Hotchner tried to stare him down, made all the more difficult by the fact that there was a six-year-old boy clutching at his hand.
'Put your gun on the ground – backup weapon, too.'
'My son has nothing to do with this,' Hotchner said, in what was clearly an attempt at calmness. Probably right out of the negotiation textbook.
'He has everything to do with this,' Doyle spat. 'On the ground, now!' He let his eyes fall onto the young boy, whose face was creased with confusion. He was so young. So innocent. 'Where's…Where's my son?' he managed, through fast breaths.
What is this? What is happening?
His eyes were so innocent. Just like Declan.
Just like Declan.
'Declan?'
Hotchner charged him, then, and Ian Doyle snapped. He let his fists and his feet talk. He punched, and he kicked, paying no mind to how much damage he was doing, only that Hotchner was not going to win.
Then…then he stopped. He picked up his gun, and aimed it down at the unconscious Unit Chief. A sharp gasp drew his attention. The boy stared at him in horror, and Doyle dropped his gun.
He couldn't kill a man.
Not in front of his son.
He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Come on, Declan,' he said. 'Let's go home.'
