A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed/faved! It's always appreciated.


It was just after 7:00 am, and Aaron Hotchner was sitting outside a tiny café of George Street, spreading a crisp newspaper in front of him and clasping a steaming mug of green tea in one hand, which he sipped occasionally as he scanned the headlines. He was one of two people braving the early April chill on the patio, but he was enjoying watching the flow of people walking down the street. He saw university students, toting bags of books and binders, the hipsters, riding bikes and clutching thermoses of tea, and the professionals wearing suits and smart boots, collars up against the biting wind. And then, ducking in front of a lawyer-type with a tight chignon and a pencil skirt, he saw her. She was walking quickly in the opposite direction, her long hair swinging as she moved through the crowd.

Hotch inhaled his tea, wincing as it burned his nose and throat. He did a double take, trying to get his breathing under control. It couldn't be her. She was dead, and she wasn't coming back. He had to get used to that, although he'd never been able to accept it. But still, he'd memorized the way she walked, everything from the length of her strides to the way she swung her hips. It had happened gradually, over the years. He never stared at her, never watched the way she moved, at least not consciously. But somehow, over the years together he'd learned the exact rhythm in her footsteps and the beats between the clicks of her heels.

Wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and faded jeans tucked into knee-high olive galoshes with a black windbreaker over top in open denial of the cold, she wasn't dressed at all like the woman he knew. Her hair was longer then he'd remembered, elbow length, and a different colour too, more reddish brown than dark, cool-toned brown. He guessed it was her natural colour, undamaged by the darker glaze she'd used at the BAU. It was also wavy, the curls imperfect and loose, not so tightly curled her could practically see the barrel of the curling iron or mercilessly flat ironed to a sleek curtain. His heart rate suddenly spiked, and he could feel the beat, strong and rhythmic, beneath his shirt. A burst of adrenaline tingled the base of his spine, chills raced over his skin, and a flash of hope warmed his chest, blazing with an all-consuming flame, burning away his inhibitions.

He'd never been particularly impulsive. In fact, you could say Hotch was the master of control. But now, only one thing mattered: her. He slapped down his newspaper on the table and hurried out of the patio and into the crowded street. He quickened his stride as he dodged through the stream of people, a man on a mission. She looked over her shoulder, just for a split second, and their eyes met. A bolt of electricity crackled through the air, rooting him to the ground. He blinked, and she vanished through a door down the street.

Without so much as a split second hesitation, as if pulled by an invisible string or drawn by some unseen magnet, Hotch followed her, keeping his eyes focused on the inconspicuous door. He tried to move around people to get there faster, but the sidewalks were narrow and busy. He swung around a couple holding hands and grabbed the doorknob of that navy blue door, twisting it open and stepping inside.

He was immediately enveloped in a cloud of dust and the smell of old paper. Looking around, Hotch realized he was in a bookstore. He casually circled the shop, searching for that now-familiar red plaid shirt and faded jeans, but she was gone. Holding an old, used copy of 'War and Peace' in one hand, he approached the cash, where an older man was oiling the till carefully. He looked up at the sound of footsteps.

"Can I help you?" he asked in a thick Scottish burr.

"Yes, actually. Did a woman with dark brown hair down to here come in here?" he said quickly, still trying to catch his breath. The words popped out before he could stop them.

"Why, are you her boyfriend?" cracked the man, chuckling at his own joke. "I don't typically talk to customers about other customers." He polished his glasses on his shirttail and slid them back onto his face, shooting Hotch a stern look over top of the lenses.

"Listen, uh, Hamish," he said, reading the man's nametag and leaning forward to prop his elbows on the table so his jacket would fall open to reveal a glimpse of his badge, "I'm a US federal agent and I think it would be best if you would at least tell me her name, because I get the feeling she's a regular."

"Fine." Hamish glared at the younger man briefly. "That's Sophie MacKinnon, and she comes in here about once every few months. She likes Vonnegut. It's funny, she lives all alone in a little croft in Aylesford but she has real sophisticated taste in books. I think she's educated, that one." His eyes flicked to the stacks of books crammed into the tiny room and up to Hotch's face.

"Where did she go?" he pressed, encouraged and unable to stop the light that took over his eyes. "Do you have a back room?"

"I don't know where she went, I haven't seen her," said Hamish, folding his arms over his paunch and leaning back in his chair, but Hotch was already moving past him and through a little back door, partially hidden behind a bookcase. He opened it, and found himself standing in a small, dim alley with a familiar face glaring at him, eyes wide, from a few meters away.

"Prentiss? Emily Prentiss?" Hands outstretched, he moved forward, expecting to see recognition and warmth in her dark eyes, like a beacon guiding him safely to shore. Instead, he found fear and anger, no lighthouse in a storm.

"Emily Prentiss is dead," she said quietly, locking him with her gaze for the second time that day. Her eyes were cold, hard as stones. With a final glance, she turned around the corner and disappeared into the street. Wordlessly, Hotch followed her, but when he looked out, she was gone, vanishing like a shadow in the sun.