Author's Note: For future reference, the paragraphs that are in italic writing is paragraphs I took from the Wrongfully Accused epilogue, in case there is any new readers to this story and hadn't read WA. This chapter is a shorter one, compared to the ones I've been posting lately. Sorry guys.


We wrote the letter. The letter that would either profoundly change Diana's respect for us or diminish it. The blue Bic pen stayed between my two fingers as I tried my hardest to write down my sincerest apologies, but in the end, it still didn't get even a fraction of how guilty I felt. The pen felt dirty in my hands, like it was accusing me of putting her on the back-burner. Morgan stayed by my side through the writing process, occasionally squeezing my shoulders or stroking my arm. It helped; but I think both of us felt like we neglected her.

Everyday we anxiously waited for a response of some kind. Something that told us that she forgave us for how cruel we were to her. How inconsiderate we were for being too cowardly to be there for her. On the fifth night of waiting for her reply, Morgan and I drove to a little patch in the middle of nowhere. It's a place that kind of follows the park, but isn't actually a part of the park. It's kind of woodsy there, and given my lifelong fear of that, I've never really gone there very much; at least not much past the grassy open-field area. But that night, Morgan and I drove there. We pulled far onto the grassy field and parked right there, underneath the burning moonlight and hazy night sky. Dark clouds were visible, but the stars were not. I remember quietly crawling out of the car, freezing, and climbing on the hood of his car with him. The buttons on the back pockets of my jeans skid on the paint job on the hood, but Morgan didn't comment on it. Guess his mind was elsewhere.

I rubbed my legs, trying to bring them back to life. Morgan lay back, oblivious to the bone-chilling weather. Tucking his arm underneath his head, he inched me closer with his other one. "Are you cold?" he whispered into my neck, burying his face in my hair. As I exhaled, puffs of my breath filled the air in small shapeless white clouds; I didn't really have to give him an answer, since that was enough of an indication. His breath felt hot in the crook of my neck.

I rested my face against his, his skin turning from cold to warm in seconds. "I'm alright." I said instead, even though my body was turning numb.

"Have you heard anything?" he asked me. This was a routine of ours by then. Everyday we'd ask each other, "You hear anything?" even though we both knew we didn't, because if we had, we would've called or told each other immediately, not giving one another enough time to even ask.

I shook my head sadly, feeling heavily burdened with having to be the one to tell him - again - that, no, I hadn't heard anything.

He groaned disapprovingly. I shifted. I recall feeling a very abnormal sensation for me; it was almost like a craving, like how you crave food when you're hungry or liquid when you're thirsty. I wanted Morgan closer to me, even though he hardly could have gotten any closer without physically attaching us together. His arm swooped around me, his face lost in my heaps of blond hair, his breath relaxing on my skin, still wasn't enough. I still didn't feel there. I was afraid I was losing it. I put my head back on the cold hood and pretended that I wasn't acknowledging the burning of the cold seeping through my hair and taunting my scalp.

I hated bringing up death. But it appeared in the back of my mind, like a demon or a shadow appearing, and I couldn't shake it all of a sudden. The soles of my shoes squeaked when I slid them on the hood, and the sound startled me, like the demon was escaping my brain. "You ever think about dying?" I blurted out.

He tensed. He heaved a hard sigh into my neck, then lifted his face. "Why?" he tilted his head, examining me. "Do you?"

"I asked you first," I commented, childlike.

He shrugged and relaxed the arm that laid on my shoulder, losing it's tension. I sighed, my shoulder's losing the same pressure. I watched as his breath faded into the night air. "Not often," he scratched the back of his neck. "But sometimes, yeah. Who doesn't?"

I sat forward. "I'm not saying it's a negative thing," I told him. "Isn't it better going through life fully aware you could die at any second?"

He snorted. "Is it?" he deadpanned. I drew back hesitantly. "Or is it better to spend your life thinking you could survive anything?"

I remember hearing a saying similar to that, but at that time, I couldn't think of it. Now I know what it is, and it's as common as cable these days. It's the saying that you've heard a hundred times over, but never gets old: Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today.

The next thing I said was a strange thing for me to blurt out, now that I reflect back on it. I said, without reluctance, "Do you think Reid would have spent his last days happier if he had known he was going to die?"

Morgan sighed and sat back, thinking. The moon was gleaming down at us, and I saw a star make an appearance behind the trees, hiding itself. "I heard somewhere that you're never as alive as you are the minute before you die," Morgan told me. "I'm not sure if that's true or not, obviously. It's just something I've heard."

I nodded slowly, absorbing it like a sponge, feeding off of it. "Makes sense." I said.

Morgan pulled me closer, laying my face down on his chest. "You never know when it's all going to be over. Our job doesn't necessarily put us at greater risk, because we're all just running in the same race, you know?"

I nodded, feeling startled. I'm not sure if it was because I was surrounded by woods or the talk of death was freaking me out, but I felt too scared to move in his arms.

"That's why we shouldn't waste any time," he leaned down and kissed the top of my head. His voice got quieter, almost distant. "I don't want to waste any more time."


Diana did respond, after all. With a phone call.

"It's Diana." I mouthed to him, pointing vigorously at the cell stapled to my ear. He jumped out of the car immediately, crouching to my side to press his ear to my cell phone.

"I'm here." Morgan told her.

"I was going through some of my things earlier after reading the letter you guys sent me, and I found something I'd pushed aside right around the time of Spencer's death," I remember her voice sounding strong and powerful coming from the phone; which was unusual, because I was used to her sounding weak and exhausted. "It's a letter from Spencer as well. One he wrote me right before his death. I was too distraught before to even notice it."

"What does it say?" Both Morgan and I said, our words coming out together seamlessly.

"You guys ought to read it for yourselves. I already had it sent to your place, JJ," she sighed a sigh that sounded very pleased to me. "Thank you guys so much. I can't," she paused, then sighed heartily. "I can't say that enough."

A lump felt lodged in my throat, but it felt really good, strangely enough.

Hearing her say those words, in a way that almost sounded like she owed us, made my heart ache and pull in a way that's satisfying, like right after you accomplish a good deed. Diana had indeed sent us a letter. A Reid hand-written letter. Reid had apparently found time, somehow, amongst the situation with Michael, to write his mom a letter, feeling an apology was in order; to set the record straight.

Hey Mom. I'm so glad that you're reading this. I found some time in between Michael doing something in the other room to write this to you. He thinks it's a suicide note, blaming you for everything gone wrong in my life; since you're reading this, he apparently didn't bother checking the letter I sneakily slipped in, withdrawing the one I previously wrote. Because the one he forced me to write wasn't at all how I felt. You weren't able to be around for me like most mothers are, but you were my rock. You held it together because you had to. Because of me. I never properly thanked you for that.

I'm not scared. I know it's too late. I know I'm already gone. But I hope I'm not gone to you, and everyone in my life. I hope you think about me when you pass by Bob Dylan records, and you think of me when you pass books about Physics Magic. (By the way, if anyone from my team is reading this: You will never know how to do it from me. You'll have to learn for yourself. It's for the experience.) I don't have enough time to thank all of you, because I kind of already did that on the video he made me film, but the one thing that was false was me wanting to die. I never blamed you, Mom, for my insecurities and my shortcomings. I never hated my life, and I never sought after revenge because of the subtle teasing my team members put me through (Hey, they were funny! And accurate!)

And I never, not ever, was ashamed to have you as my mother. I love you guys. I hope when you're sitting by the table on Thanksgiving, and you're saying your prayers, I'm in them. For whatever reason, I hope I cross your mind. Because I know I'm thankful for each and every one of you. And sitting here right now, writing this, I'm saying a prayer. And I'm saying to you guys: Thank You.

Holding that letter, tears welled in my eyes. Morgan's too. I pulled his hand into mine and let him cradle me gently, positioning the letter safely on the table. He held me for a while. We fell asleep on my couch, and woke up at around the time Henry finished his nap. Henry told us this by charging into the living room in his pajama bottoms and gray sweatshirt, poking me in the shin.

I rubbed my eyes, smearing my makeup that had aged on my face throughout the day. "Hey, Buddy, you're up." I said tiredly. "Are you hungry?"

He nodded. Morgan woke up from my movement and stretched, then leaned forward to kiss my neck, but stopped at the sight of Henry. Instead, he leaned forward and threatened to tickle Henry with his two fingers. Henry backed away slowly, a grin appearing on his face.

"Hey, little man, what are you doing up?" Morgan asked, in the kind of voice I can't mimic, but he only gets around children.

Henry giggled, jumping behind the coffee table. Morgan stood up; Henry was no match for Morgan's FBI-trained legs, and scooped him up, spun him around and playfully tousled him on the recliner.

"Alright," I said, walking to the kitchen. "What do you want to eat?"

"Macaroni and cheese!" Henry called. Morgan jolted his index finger up.

"Me too!" he called out.

I rolled my eyes. "You're going to have adult food with me," I told Morgan.

He made a face. "Since when is macaroni and cheese not adult food?"


Now we're laying around, like we usually spend our nights when we're not working on a case. Morgan and I, plopped on my living room sofa, in front of the TV Morgan brought over from his house, claiming my old one was "too small," and Henry, again, getting to choose what we watch. Henry is starting to look sleepy, coddled between us. I stroke his hair repeatedly until his eyes close and he's breathing steady and pleasantly, followed by occasional mumbles.

Morgan peers down at him and smiles. "Should I carry him to his room?" he asks me. I look down at Henry, then smile faintly at Morgan.

"I can do it, you don't have to get up," though I know Morgan loves Henry, and now that we've been together for a couple of months (Valentine's Day is coming up) that he's been a fantastic fatherly presence, but I still feel like I don't want to weigh him down with taking care of my child just yet. I'm scared Morgan will feel closed off, tied down. I know how Morgan is. Or how he used to be.

"I don't mind," he insists, then gets up slowly enough not to startle him, then picks him up. Henry stirs a little, but Morgan manages to carry him to his bedroom without waking him up. About a minute later, he descends from the staircase and meets me back on the couch.

"Thanks," I say, smiling, laying down on his chest. "You didn't have to do that."

He smiles, and rests his arm around my stomach. He begins drawing circles on it. Round and round. I laugh, because it tickles.

"Hey, that tickles," I say, giggling too loudly for my sleeping son. "Cut it out." I remove his hand, but he squeezes it in mine.

"I was thinking about that thing you said a while back..." he begins drawing thin, round circles on my palm. I close my eyes and tuck my head into his shoulder, feeling overwhelmed by deep comfort.

"Hm?" I ask halfheartedly interested, beginning to feel tired.

"Do you still..." he slides his hand all the way up mine and slides his thicker fingers through my tinier ones. "Want a baby?"

I jolt my head up, stunned. I think I almost knocked out a tooth of his shooting up like that. "Are you serious?" I ask.

He adjusts in his seat, the arm rest suddenly looking harsh on his back. "Well, yeah," he tries to pull me closer. I give in. "Do you?"

"Morgan, we haven't even -"

"I know, I know, I know," he adds quickly, raising his hand. "I know we haven't slept together yet. I just, I was thinking about that all day today. About what you said about dying and-"

"And when did conceiving a child come into the picture?" I blurt out kind of rudely, and I don't mean it that way. I'm sure my hesitance is discouraging to him beyond my intent.

He sighs, trying not to lose his patience with me. "I was thinking about not wanting to waste any more time, and how there's so many things I want to do before I die." he lays my head on his shoulder again, and wraps me up in his arms like a blanket. "I want to be a father, I want to be a husband. I want all of that."

I don't know what to say. "Morgan..."

"Look, JJ," he turns in his seat, makes me look at me, straight in the eye. "I've had a lot of girlfriends. I've had a lot of women in my bed -"

"Okay, okay," I say, shaking my head.

He cuts me off. "-And they didn't mean that much to me, really. I never imagined a future with them, because they weren't what I wanted. But I want this. I want to come home to this. I don't want to drive home at midnight anymore and sleep alone, or live alone, or spend Christmas alone. JJ, you're it for me."

I pause. "Are you asking me to marry you?" I know that's not what I should have said, but it's all I was thinking.

He pauses too, focuses on something behind me for a second. "I can be a good father, to Henry and," he leans down, touches my stomach. "And to our baby. You know, when there's one actually in there."

I take his hand and pull it away from my stomach. "This doesn't sound..."

"Sound, what?" he's straining not to frown.

"...Crazy, to you? Not at all?" I laugh a little, a timid laugh.

He shrugs heartily. "Not at all." he pulls me in and says, "I want you to be it. I want you for the rest of my life."

I freeze.


Author's Note: P.S. What should JJ say? ;) Now, I'd let Morgan knock me up, but that's just because he's plain ole sexy. Ha! I'm kidding...that's illegal. But if it weren't...