Rating: T
Summary: She would rather not remember.

She stares out of the window in her flat in Paris. She's holding the beige curtains to the side just enough for her to peer into the darkness that cloaks the outdoors. The lights from the street leech into her apartment, breaking through the black that permeates the room. After a moment, she allows the curtain to swing back into place, cutting off most of the glow from the street lamps.

Emily runs her fingers through her hair, which has been cropped shorter and dyed red. She honestly has to say that she hates it. She hates having to hide out in Paris, and she hates having to disguise herself. She especially hates the fact that her entire team, sans JJ and Aaron, believes that she died while in surgery. She's also not too happy about the fact that her mother is having to mourn the loss of a daughter that is actually still alive.

She absently traces the outline of the four-leaf clover that is branded above her breast. It has become habit when thinking about Doyle, which she does far too often, but it's the only thing she can think about other than the people she's betrayed. If Emily allows her mind to wander, she can still remember every blow she took while in that warehouse. She would rather not think about it, but sometimes the memories break out of the tiny compartments she's sealed them into. She can still remember the horrendous pain when Ian thrust the wooden stake into her abdomen, can remember the blinding agony as he seared a four-leaf clover into the space above her left breast.

Emily still wakes up in a cold sweat every night, even four weeks after the fact. The sound of Doyle's gun being cocked while pressed against her head rings throughout her brain. She does not want to think about any of it anymore, but she has no choice in the matter. She will be scarred for life, in more ways than one.