The steps stretch before me like the promise of freedom. Work-Emily might be my only real surcease from pain these days, but I can only maintain her flawless exterior for so long. Right now I'm reaching my limit, and I need to just withdraw from prying eyes and the world in general for a while.

Well, that and the thought of a hot shower, even with the anaemic spray of the one back at headquarters, is insanely appealing right about now. Just the thing to work the kinks out of my back and neck. And the fact that the time should give me enough surcease to gather my defenses and last until this evening?

Well, I'm definitely not complaining.

I just wish I could cry.

Later, I'm sitting at my desk, trying to make myself care about finishing the open report on my computer. Type, delete, type, delete. Pause. Then type-type-type in a burst of energy, save and send without reading it through. There. Done.

I think I might just call it a day. Hotch hasn't banished us all from the office yet, but the contest is a stupid one. Who *cares* which one of us is the first to walk out the door? What is this, high school?

The urge to just run out of the room rises in me like a scream.

Calm down. I need to calm down. Work-Emily would never do anything like this, and I need to fit within her skin, at least for a little longer. But maybe... Maybe I could get away with such a small deviance in behaviour? Surely no one will notice.

I know that in this office I'm just lying to myself, but I start to gather my things anyway.

"Hey, Emily."

"Yes?" Somehow, I find a smile for Morgan. It feels ill-fitting and strange on my face, but it's what work-Emily would do.

"We're going to grab a few drinks and unwind. Want to come hang out with us?"

Part of me wants to beg off. I don't really feel like being around other people right now, and the more time I spend with the team in a social context, the more risk there is that someone will see through my facade. During work hours, a certain professionalism, a certain distance, is expected. Going out... That's a whole different set of instincts and responses that I have to fake, because it sure as hell isn't coming naturally.

But another part of me, the analytical part, the driving force behind Work-Emily, whispers that I've been doing that an awful lot lately. The numbers don't look at all good. So...

"Sure," I say. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yeah, pretty much. See you out front?"

"Be there in a couple of minutes."

That will hopefully give me time to get my game face on, enough to keep this plate, my life, spinning for a little while longer.

Two drinks down, and I'm done. I can already feel the alcohol starting to affect me, making it even harder to maintain my facade. From here the risks multiply exponentially.

I need to leave.

"Later, guys," I give the others a small wave. "I've got a date with a bed that's calling my name."

"And hopefully has a soft woman in it," Morgan teases.

It feels like a shot to the heart despite the lack of malice in his words. I'm peripherally aware of JJ flinching.

I don't. For a long second, I don't react at all. Then work-Emily drags a smile out of me.

"If I'm lucky," I say in response.

I can only hope that no one has noticed my slip.

Probably in vain.

Smiling like everything's fine, I wave at the others and make my exit.

Home (well, my empty apartment) awaits.

"Emily, wait a minute." Morgan catches up before the bar is more than a few steps behind me. He must have left just after I did. This smells uncomfortably like an imminent Talk, but I make myself turn and smirk at him.

"Surely you haven't had enough already? Whatever happened to that legendary endurance of yours?"

"Hey, I've still got it, don't you worry about that." A grin flickers briefly on his face, then melts into something more sombre. "I just wanted to talk to you."

Damn.

"Oh? That sounds ominous."

"Not really. I just wanted to let you know that I've got your back."

I stare at him blankly for a moment or two before comprehension dawns. The Alvarez case. Right. He probably thinks that's the reason I've been so off my game lately.

I suppose he's not entirely wrong.

My answering smile is genuine, as are the fond feelings that come with it. Morgan is good people.

"I know. And I've got yours."

"I know that."

Something compels me to break the mood, to add an edge of snark to my next words. "So, are we going to hug or something?"

"I don't know, Prentiss. Wouldn't want to make your girlfriend jealous."

He's joking, I know, but the unexpected reminder hits me like a punch to the gut. It's worse, even, than what he said in the bar a few minutes ago. It's that word. Girlfriend. A reminder of something that never was; something that could never be.

Something I was starting to think that I had.

Before she dashed it all to pieces.

I thought I was getting over this, but I can feel my face freeze, my breath catch in my throat. Maybe a civilian wouldn't have noticed, but Morgan does.

"What is it?" He looks concerned, worried. "What did I say?"

I consider a thousand different responses, but I really have no choice here. It goes against all my instincts, but I have to tell him the truth.

"Emma isn't my girlfriend anymore. She broke up with me."

He winces instinctively. "Damn. I'm sorry. I... guess I kinda put my foot in my mouth, didn't I?"

"That's okay." I shrug. "You weren't to know."

And I'd really prefer that he still didn't. Oh well. Morgan is by far not the worst person I could have blurted this out to, and I'm going to have to tell the rest of the team eventually.

He studies me for a moment, the concern back in spades.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No, I'm fine." Well, I'm functional, which is the next best thing to fine. And I've been doing entirely far too much talking of late.

So, is he going to leave it there?

"Well, if there's anything I can do..." He touches my shoulder lightly, supportively, then breaks the all-too-serious vibe with a sudden grin. "Like, say, if you need a wingman when you're out picking up hot chicks... I'm there."

That startles a laugh out of me. I almost don't recognise the sound of genuine humour from my lips. I swat at him playfully. "You are such a horndog."

He tries - and fails - to look innocent.

"I don't know what you mean."

I shake my head, still smiling. "Anyway, I was heading home. You should probably go back inside before the others send out a search party. Goodbye, Morgan."

"Later, Prentiss. Take care."

"You too."

And, on that note, I stride off into the darkness. Somehow, that seems oddly fitting.

I barely manage to make in through the door before I slump to my knees, finding it too difficult to even keep myself upright.

It's getting worse.

The pain Emma inflicted has long since been joined by the horrors that form my job. Pain and blood and suffering, mine and other peoples'.

It doesn't really matter.

I'm drowning and I've forgotten how to swim.

Or rather, Emma crippled me, then left me behind.

The heartbreak is nothing compared to the fact that I haven't been able to hunt, to emotionally discharge, since she left.

And now? I'm too far in this hole to even dream of being able to scramble out. This job piles enough emotional detritus on me that I just don't have enough space to recover. To breathe.

After waking up in Mona's bed, I've been avoiding the club, not able to face the thought of running into her again.

And now? I can't even face the idea of being around so many people when I'm not work-Emily.

I gather my energy and get up again. I know what will make me feel better, my drug of choice.

I make my way to my library and pick up a book from a shelf. I don't even bother looking at the cover before focussing on the words. It doesn't really matter. I've read every book here multiple times over.

It's not the thrill of discovering something new, it's the comfort of the old that draws me. It's worlds that aren't this one, where fantastical things exist.

Where I don't.

In the back of my mind, I wonder how long this can continue.

Tomorrow. I can get to tomorrow. That's enough for now.

"Emily. A word in my office if you don't mind."

I raise my head from where I was staring blankly at my computer screen to look at Hotch. It's a little hard to tell, but he might look even more serious than usual. And he used my first name, which also isn't a good sign.

It's hard, but work-Emily gets me to my feet.

What would I do without her?

What would be *left* without her?

I don't even let myself think how bad a sign it is that I'm externalising my working self so much.

"Hotch," I say as I close his door behind me.

He gestures towards a chair and waits for me to be seated before continuing.

"Is there anything that you think I should know?" he asks.

I shake my head, keeping my expression open. "Not that I can think of off-hand."

That's true as far as it goes. There's nothing I can share with him that will make this better.

He lets the silence stretch a moment before replying, as if that will encourage me to change my answer. It doesn't. "Really?" he asks, almost delicately.

"Yes." I plunge ahead with the obvious question. "Is there something you want to ask me?" Because he clearly called me in here for a reason, and I doubt he's planning on starting up a sewing circle.

Though he *could* probably do with a new hobby.

He studies me for a moment, dropping his mask of inscrutability enough for me to see the concern in his eyes.

"You've been a little... subdued lately."

"Subdued, sir?" I'm not going to make this easy for him. If he wants to know something, let him ask.

"You lack motivation, and you've started withdrawing from the rest of team. Your general energy levels seem to have decreased and you look like you're having problems sleeping. Do you want me to go on?"

I think I can handle not hearing the rundown.

I guess I couldn't really hope that my slow disintegration would remain unnoticed forever.

Especially not in this office.

"No, sir."

He gives me a searching look, then the edges of his eyes crinkle with something like compassion. "You do know that you can talk to me. If you ever feel the need to."

"Yes. Of course." I need to throw him a bone, give him some explanation for what's happening, and I choose the least personal one I can. The least personal one he might believe. "It's the Alverez case," I say, shrugging.

He's read my file, and I'm certain that he can connect the dots. He proves me right by nodding slowly.

"It doesn't help that we don't know what happened," I add.

Everyone loves a chance to help a friend. Maybe this will distract him. And, truthfully? Having some resolution might help, a little.

"I'll see what I can find out," he says, but he doesn't sound hopeful. "Unfortunately, someone senior seems to want to squelch the details. It must have caused a lot of embarrassment in some quarters."

"Thank you."

I start to rise, thinking the interview done, but he pins me in place with his stare.

"I want you to understand that this meeting is *completely* unofficial. As far as your file is concerned, I haven't noticed anything untoward. But if things don't start to improve in the next couple of weeks, then I *will* have to notice. with everything that entails."

Which means a psych eval. And in my current state, I'm really not certain that I could pass one. I also know that even my usual mental framework is... highly non-standard by FBI evaluation criteria.

I would be taken off the unit.

Just what I need: more stress.

"Understood," I say. "And, thank you."

He didn't need to give me this talk. But I do appreciate that he did.

"Anytime," he says in a clear tone of dismissal.

So.

Two weeks left in the BAU. Because I really can't see any way out of this mess.

It's been a long time since I believed in miracles.

It seemed strange to have to be signed into the federal building. To be escorted through the grey, echoing corridors to my boss' - former boss'? - office. The summons had been almost unexpected. It had only been just over a fortnight since that first, fateful interview. A fortnight that lasted a lifetime, true, but the mere blink of an eye compared to the grinding of bureaucratic wheels.

Celia could work wonders, not miracles.

So here I was.

I wasn't even allowed to knock at the door. The security guard did that for me, announcing me as if I was a regency debutante attending her first ball. He named me Agent Emily Prentiss.

On the one hand, that was encouraging - I was still a federal agent. On the other, this entire setup was designed to let me know just much of a technicality the man inside the office considered that to be.

Fear and anger warred with each other.

Anger won, just about.

I didn t deserve this.

So.

Message received loud and clear. Sir.

The main question in my mind was - was I just a disgraced agent now, soon to be exiled to moulder in some out of the way posting? Or was I considered a political, someone who had been saved by someone up the chain. Not a real agent, but someone to be given at least a modicum of politeness.

Both of the options were crap, but one at least left me a career.

My boss - SSA Roy Carver - was trying not to give me any clues. He looked me over, scrutinising me as if he'd never seen me before. It was the kind of look designed to feel like it was lasting forever.

He had apparently never met my mother. She did this so much better than he did. A better look of slight disappointment, too.

I'd never thought that I d be grateful for those endless lessons in deportment, but there I was.

Very well. Sir.

If he wanted to play these games, I d play some of my own right back at him. I made a conscious effort, shifted my thinking and started to do something I d very consciously never done before: start to analyse my superior.

He was spending just a little too long analysing me. He wouldn t need to do that if I was finished here. Not unless he was trying to figure out the best way to break me and so far I d been treated with civility, if of an awfully chilly kind.

He took a sip of water. That was a clear sign of nervousness, lending confirmation to my hypothesis, but I didn t let myself feel relief. I was by no means out of danger yet - the slightest show of weakness might still be enough to finish me. I suspected that my only shield was that it looked like I was a player.

Dispel that illusion and I d be bloody meat in the water.

Agent Prentiss, he said, fixing me with an icy gaze.

I looked straight back at him, refusing to flinch. Sir, I said with strict formality.

Mother would be so proud.

You must be wondering why you re here.

I was actually wondering why he was drawing this out. A trick, a reveal or just covering his ass? Given his manner, I suspected a mix of all three.

Yes, sir.

"You are aware that Internal Affairs have been investigating you in connection with a number of certain, ah, improprieties."

Management doublespeak. You had to love it. Didn t matter where you were, it always turned up.

Yes, sir.

He paused again, obviously trying to draw out the tension, make me react.

I refused to give him the pleasure.

"I've just been informed that they have now concluded that part of their investigation. Another pause, which I didn t bother to respond to. Based on their recommendations, you are reinstated as an agent, effective immediately."

It was a moment before the relief hit me. I had strongly suspected, even pretty much known intellectually by this point, but there was a difference between that and actually hearing the words.

I did my best not to let any of this register on face, but I wasn t totally certain I succeeded. Still...

Thank you, I said with a thin smile.

Carver shot me a look of pure dislike. You must be so pleased, he said, with a slight grate in his voice. He opened his drawer and slowly, almost as if it were hurting him, took my badge and gun out, placing them on the desk in front of me.

It was almost impossible to recognise the man who had welcomed me to his team those months back, who told me that the group here was like a family and that I d soon fit in.

I fit in right now, of course. Better than ever. This was just the kind of family I was used to.

Always a disappointment.

It hurt, but I was used to never letting that show.

"The reinstatement is retroactive, so you'll be paid for your... time away."

Polite fiction, how I have missed thee.

While all your current cases have been reassigned, you ll find enough work on your desk to keep you busy until you get a new case.

Translation: I now had enough forms and other paperwork to keep me going until shortly after the sun burnt out. Or Carver found a way to get rid of me, one way or the other. Up or down.

Thank you, sir. I can t stress how much your support has meant to me in this troubled time.

It wouldn t hurt to remind him that, yes, I obviously did have friends higher up and that, no, it hopefully wasn t worth pissing me off.

A flash in his eyes told me that the message had been received.

I made myself sick, sometimes, but I didn t start this fight and I still had a job at the end of it.

I m always here for my team, Agent. It wasn t hard to tell that he just no longer considered me part of it. Have a good day.

Goodbye, sir.

My escort was nowhere in sight when I stepped into the corridor, confirming that I really was back in the club again. I had been wondering, but apparently the game playing only went so far. I headed for the office, somehow still hoping for the best, but trying to anticipate the worst.

For a few seconds, all I saw and heard was the quiet industry of the office. Everyone hard at work. A familiar sight, almost like home. And then Anderson looked up and his face froze.

"Emily," he said, less in greeting to me than in warning to everyone else.

The office went silent as everyone turned to face my direction. For a moment, it was uncannily like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but without the unearthly screech and rush of bodies.

I almost wished there had been. Then at least there would have been a reason for the blank hostility being aimed in my direction.

I wasn't welcome here, and no one seemed to have any bones about letting me know that.

Great.

Just great.

For a moment, it just hurt. These people were my *friends*, on my way to feeling more like family than my actual biologicals ever had. And now this.

Shunned without even a chance to defend myself.

Then, with an effort, I shuttered it all away.

I could handle this.

I was a Prentiss. If nothing else, my family was good at ignoring things it was more convenient not to notice.

They could only hurt you if you let them, if you cared about what they thought.

And I didn't. Not now.

I wouldn't let myself care.

"Ladies. Gentlemen," I nodded to all of them. If Carver had thought I was a political, chances were that information had migrated its way downwards.

I could play that part. To the hilt if necessary.

And you never knew. If I played my cards correctly, I might be able to work past this... current difficulty with cool professionalism.

And forget that I'd ever opened my heart to these people.