It's amazing how thorough my mother was when furnishing and supplying this house. I'm sure she hired a lot of help, and I'm sure she relished every moment of it. My mother is terrible with hugs and personal conversations, but she's perfectly comfortable showing her support for me in removed ways. Like decorating my dorm room and my first apartment in Georgetown. Like coming home after work after I first told her I was pregnant to find I was the proud owner of a crib, rocking chair and changing table. Like this house, that not only was furnished with a fully stocked kitchen of appliances, tableware, seasonings and food, but also other necessities, like toilet paper and cleaning supplies.

Still, she couldn't possibly get everything. Here and there, Claudia and I have found things we want or need that are missing. This afternoon, that missing ingredient is tabasco sauce.

I've got pages of documentation about what my treatment is going to look like, along with an appetite that's smaller than Charlie's, but every once in awhile I get a craving, mostly for the things that I'm going to have to avoid during chemo. Our first day in Bethesda, it was sushi. Right now, I'd practically kill for scrambled eggs with tabasco sauce, since both eggs and spicy foods are on my list of, "foods to avoid."

Claudia had made more of a face at the idea of eggs with tabasco sauce than she did to sushi, but she set off to walk to the market to get me my coveted tabasco sauce after Charlie woke up from his nap. Now Charlie is sitting in my lap and we are engaged in what has become a common activity for us this past week - looking at photo albums of me growing up.

I know if I die, there is no way he's going to remember being two years old and sitting on my lap while I engaged him with narratives about the pictures of my life spent all around the globe. Still, it makes me feel better, and he enjoys it. I hope, at the very least, he'll remember my loving arms around him.

I flip the page in the photo album and he turns his head to smile at me before pointing to a picture. "Moscow!" he says excitedly.

"You're right!" I say back, just as enthusiastically.

I glance between Charlie, the photo album, and my phone, which is sitting on the arm of the couch on silent. JJ has called twice this afternoon, Penelope once, and Hotch once. This lets me know that Derek has made contact with the team about what's going on. I haven't answered any of the calls. I'll call JJ tonight after Charlie goes to bed; I'm comfortable with her because she was more my friend than Derek's for a long time. The rest of the team, I just don't know if I can handle, because, quite frankly, I'm embarrassed. Embarrassed about my choices, embarrassed about coming back like this.

Embarrassed to be sick, which I know is crazy, but it's my truth. I don't do needy well. I don't do weakness well. And right now, I am both needy and weak, and it's going to get worse before, hopefully, it gets better.

One thing that has given me a great deal of comfort is that Charlie will get to know the team over time, that he'll have those amazing people in his life. But in my mind, I see Charlie's relationship with the BAU blossoming via Derek, not me.

I glance at my phone frequently because I'm waiting to hear from Derek. Charlie asked about him first thing after he woke up from his nap. Claudia said Derek told her he might come back for bedtime, and I'd like to let Charlie know if that's going to be the case. I don't dare call Derek, though.

I tried to get a feel for what might happen when Derek told Savannah from JJ, but she really didn't have any idea. I hope it's okay. I know it will probably take some time and getting used to, but I hope I haven't screwed things up for Derek too badly. I wanted to talk to him about Savannah before he left, but I fell asleep. And now he's on his own without the knowledge that I both would be happy for Charlie to meet her, and that I want to meet her as well.

The idea of another woman, another mother-figure, loving and holding my son makes me jealous and a little more nauseous than I usually am these days, but I'm trying very hard to be realistic and get over myself. The idea of seeing Derek with Savannah is something that bothers me, but I'm not going to analyze that too much because it's grossly unfair to feel anything but happy for him.

I'm sure Derek will call or text soon to let me know if he's coming back this evening.

Charlie reaches back and puts his hand on my face to get my attention. He may have been talking for awhile now while I was lost in thought. "Mummy?" he says, slightly exasperated.

"What, Sweetie?" I say to him with a smile.

"Where's this, Mummy?"

He points to a picture of me standing in front of a statue. "Puerta del Sol," I say. "Spain."

My phone lights up and I see a text message from Penelope. If you're not going to answer your phone, can you at least open your door?

My breath catches. I knew I couldn't avoid them forever, but I'm pretty pissed off in an instant that my choice in the matter about how and when is being taken from me. I feel my cheeks burn, part anger and part embarrassment. Penelope, because of how close she is with Derek, I imagined as being the most difficult.

But she's, apparently, here, at this house. I wonder if Derek handed out my address, but then think better of it. It's Penelope Garcia. If she wanted to know where I was currently residing, she could find out in a nanosecond.

I slide Charlie off my lap. "I think there's someone at the door, Charlie. You keep looking at pictures and I'll be right back."

With red cheeks, I stand and walk towards the door, preparing to tell Penelope that while I appreciate her, I'm just not up for this right now.

But when I open my door and see her standing there, her bright smile on her face, Sergio, that cat I'd given her when I moved to London, in one arm, and a box from my favorite pizza place in DC in the other, I crumble.

The tears are fast and hot, in my eyes and on my face. She steps in the doorway and shuts it behind her. She sets Sergio on the floor and puts the pizza box on the entryway table.

And I am in Penelope Garcia's comforting arms before my tears have time to fall completely down my face and drip on my shirt. Instead, they fall on her shoulder and I hug her back.

It took me years to learn that if I ever hoped of having a long-term relationship, I was going to have to not profile whomever I was dating. For a long time, I didn't realize that's what I was doing, or how it quickly ended things. Human beings are not perfect; I'm not perfect. Though I try to always be honest, we all have secrets. Though I always try to be kind and understanding, sometimes I think bad things about people, even people I care about.

If I was dating another profiler, they would have noticed the subtleties of deceit or secrets or darker thoughts here and there. Just like I used to with women when I first started dating them; the twitch of a hand, the clench of a fist, eyes searching for a plausible story. And when I noticed them, I would end things.

I realize now, it's because I wanted to end things and I was looking for an excuse. But when I first started dating Savannah, I vowed that I would not profile her, and if I found myself doing that, I would stop myself. And over the course of my two years with her, I figured out how to be just an average person in a relationship, understanding and empathetic to her feelings, without over-analyzing things.

I'd just told Savannah the whole story of my day, right up to the point that I left Emily's house. And I'm profiling her now, as she sits next to me on our couch, her leftover take-out food long forgotten as she stares in shock at a picture of Charlie on my phone. I need to know where she's going in her mind, and I need to stay one step ahead of her so I don't say something stupid.

"It's a lot to take in, I know," I say.

"Why didn't you call me earlier?" she asks.

Accusation and insecurity, I recognize. "I spent most of the day in shock myself. I wanted to see him and spend time with him, and I didn't want to tell you over the phone."

She nods and hands me back my phone. "He's cute," she says simply, but I can see the wheels in her mind turning. She's waiting for me to say something. She's got a death grip on the side of the couch cushion.

I glance at that hand, "But?" I ask.

"But, I don't know," she says, her voice rising an octave. "I guess we need to find an attorney to draw up a shared custody agreement."

I'd spent a great deal of time in my car, taking the side roads home from Quantico, thinking about the path of this conversation and things Savannah might question or say. This, I was not expecting, not at first. I expected her to ask about Emily, I expected her to be mad or to cry, I expected her to want to discuss at length how this impacted us. In the A to Z of what the next few months looked like, I'd gotten to about the middle of the alphabet in my head, and she'd jumped right to the end, bypassing her feelings, which I know is not a good thing.

"Savannah, I'm not going to drag a woman going through chemotherapy into the legalities of a custody agreement, and I'm not going to just yank Charlie away from his mother until he knows me better," I say softly.

"Then what are you going to do?" she asks, her voice strained.

"Get to know Charlie. Let you get to know him. I'm not going to be traveling with the team for the next few months, and I'm planning to take care of him on Emily's chemotherapy days, and other times she might need me when she's not feeling well. And then, when, she gets through all of that, we can talk about a more formal custody agreement."

The hand clenched on the couch cushion just got impossibly tighter and I see her breathing kick up. "Are you honestly sitting there telling me that you, the man who just last month, couldn't possibly take a day off work to spend an extra day with my parents, is going to be taking one day off a week for the next twelve weeks? For a woman who lied to you and deceived you?"

Here we go, I think. "Not for her, for Charlie. I need to get to know and spend time with my son, Savannah."

"And, by default, that means you're going to spending a lot of time with Emily. How do you feel about her, besides just being disappointed and upset with her. I mean, I guess I'm wondering how you felt about her before."

I'd gone down this particular rabbit hole in my mind on the drive home, expecting this question. I honestly don't know how to answer it well. Emily was dead, and then she wasn't. She came back from Paris, and I got over her not telling me about Doyle, and I stopped having nightmares about her being dead, and then an odd thing happened. We started flirting more with each other, slinging good-humored innuendo back and forth with each other when we were alone. But we also drew a line in the sand. We had a lot of fun dancing on the edges of that line with verbal banter, but neither one of us completely crossed it. Not until that night in London.

I can't tell Savannah that I've dreamed about that night in various forms for the past several years, often when she's been in bed right beside me. And I can't really tell her how I felt about Emily back then, because I'd never let myself go too far down that path in my head, knowing it would get me nowhere.

"I cared about her," I finally say. "We were good friends, and we were close after working together for so many years. We got drunk, we had sex once, and she got pregnant."

I say this neutrally, my voice calm, my muscles relaxed.

Savannah narrows her eyes at me. And her voice raises. She doesn't quite believe me. She's mad - at me and Emily - but she's trying to control it. "And what happens if she gets through chemotherapy, goes into remission, and wants to move back to London?"

"I don't think she'd do that to me, but I don't know. We didn't get a chance to talk about that because…"

"She fell asleep. I know," is her icy response.

I look at how her body is tightening with more and more tension. I put my hand on her knee. "Just say it, Savannah. Say what's on your mind and get it out."

And she explodes. "I don't want to be a stepmother, Derek! I don't want to have another woman involved in our lives in that way, a woman you once cared about. You and I only just started talking about having kids, and I was willing to explore different career options to be home more, but I'm not doing that for another woman's child. I know it's selfish and this isn't your fault, but I'm pissed. I'm pissed about how this might change you and me, and I'm pissed because you can sit there and try to deny it, but your priorities have shifted. Your decisions that you make for your life are going to be Charlie first, and me second! I'm not saying that's wrong, but I'm not sure I want to live it."

She stands from the couch to gain some leverage over me and looks down at my face. "And I don't fucking understand how you aren't more angry with her!"

"I was angry. But what would anger get me? A different outcome? No. And, yes, for right now, Charlie is going to be my priority, but it doesn't mean I don't love you. You're an adult, and he's two years old, and Emily has cancer. I'm just looking for a little understanding and a willingness to try. We can make this work, it's just going to take time."

She's breathing heavily, taking in my words, mulling them over. Then she turns from me and walks towards the front door. She grabs her purse and car keys and speaks quickly through clenched teeth. "I need some air and some time to think. I love you, but I'm not sure I can handle this. Maybe if she's not in the picture, I'll feel differently."

Her words sting me, and I can see her shocked expression, see her wishing she could grab that last sentence and stuff it back in her mouth. But it's out there, and there's no taking it back. If she'd said, "Maybe if she wasn't in the picture," it could be passed off as contemplation, and wouldn't feel as biting. But I can tell she meant it in the present tense. That while her hand had been clenched on that sofa minutes before, she'd had the thought already, that this would be easier for her if Emily didn't make it.

And I don't know what to do when my greatest wish, that Emily survives, is at odds with Savannah and the future of our relationship.

"Go get some air," I manage to say calmly. "Drive safely and take some time and we can talk more later tonight or tomorrow."

Then, because I don't want to be dishonest, and because I've got a little bitterness swirling in me at her words and I'm not a perfect human being, I add, "I'm going to back to Bethesda to be there for Charlie's bedtime. I'll be home around nine."

She turns and opens the door, and slams it behind her. I find some satisfaction in the loud bang.

Derek came back. He knocked on our door a little after seven o'clock that evening and I couldn't help smiling when Charlie excitedly shouted, "Daddy!"

He played with Charlie, and I watched and listened. He helped give Charlie his bath, and now he's reading bedtime stories to him, and I stay awake, even though I'm exhausted after my emotionally charged conversation with Garcia. When she left, about a half hour before Derek got there, she informed me that Hotch was going to try and stop by tomorrow, and JJ and Reid and Rossi sometime over the weekend. It appears this is their plan, a steady stream of individual visits to help me get over myself and let them back into my life.

I'm uncomfortable with it, but I don't have the energy to fight it. I've missed them, and even though I can't imagine myself ever saying it out loud, I need them, even if I feel like I don't deserve them after what I did.

Derek had seemed pleased when he saw Sergio at the house. He'd smiled and said, "I see you had a visitor."

It doesn't escape me that he likely played some part in the team's plan of infiltrating the fortress that is Emily Prentiss. Still, he's looked haggard and distracted and uncertain several times in the hour that he's been here. So I pet Sergio on my lap and keep my eyes opened and listen to him read to Charlie from down the hall.

Claudia had excused herself to her room, so when Derek comes down the hall fifteen minutes later, it's just me in the living room.

"He's already asleep, but did you want to go kiss him goodnight?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "I'll do it on my way to bed." I don't tell him that as soon as he leaves, I'll go get Charlie from his bed and bring him into mine.

Derek sits in the chair opposite me and just stares.

"How did it go with Savannah?" I finally ask.

He looks down at his lap. "A little worse than I expected," he says quietly.

I nod. I feel terrible. "She's welcome to come here and meet Charlie. Or you could take him to the park across the street and she could meet you there if she's not comfortable coming here. Or I could talk to her, if you'd like me to."

He shakes his head. "I think she needs to meet you, but she's going to need a little time first. Emily, I'm taking some time from the BAU. I'm not going to travel. And on your chemotherapy days, I'll come here to be with Charlie and Claudia can take you."

I've been the recipient of far more gifts today than I ever thought I'd receive - The absence of hate on Derek's part, the cat in my lap, Penelope's arms around me, watching Derek play with his son - but this, this is more than I feel like I can accept. Far more than I deserve.

"Derek, you don't have to do that," I say, barely above a whisper. My eyes burn like they want to cry, but I'm fresh out of tears for the moment.

"I want to," he responds. "It's important to me. It's more than just the right thing to do, it's the necessary thing. Because I want you to go into chemotherapy with support and the knowledge that I'm fighting for you to stick around. Because I am."

I blink and look down, unable to look him in the eye. I manage a few tears. And then he surprises me again. "I drove around a lot this afternoon, thinking. Savannah and I have had countless arguments about my job. I've used my father's death as the reason behind the why I'm so passionate and compelled and unable to walk away from that type of work. But I never told her about the other reason. I never told her about Carl Buford."

I look up at him, my heart swelling with compassion. "Oh," I say softly. Brilliant response, Emily, I think.

Derek doesn't seem to mind. He continues. "I should have. I've thought about it many times, but I just couldn't. And the longer I went without telling her, the more difficult it became to actually broach the subject. I know it's not the same thing at all, but in that context I can see how not telling me about Charlie grew larger and larger as time went on. I'm not saying I've forgiven you, or that I'm still not deeply sad and disappointed. But earlier today I was thinking maybe I didn't know you at all, and I'm realizing that that's not true."

He pauses and I keep my eyes locked on his. "I'm planning on you living a good, long life, Emily Prentiss. So I have time to get to the forgiveness part."