xi. Lilac Freesia
It's past midnight when her handler slides a manila folder across the table in her D.C. apartment, obviously urgent since he seldom makes house calls.
"You're being transferred to Interpol's Joint Task Force 12, starting at oh-five hundred. Sorry for the late notice and for cancelling your vacation. You report to Clyde Easter. Teammates are Tsia Mosely, Sean McAllister, and Jeremy Wolff. Former British SIS, French DCRI, German BND. You're in good hands."
"What's my mission?" She's well aware that it's a highly prestigious assignment.
"You're going under as an arms dealer, long-term. You're an exact match to the type of women that our IRA terrorist fancies. Beautiful, brunette, dangerous. Your mission is to get close to Ian Doyle, codename Valhalla, develop a relationship with him, learn about his operations, and bring him down," Michael sighs apprehensively. "Using any and all means necessary."
She opens the folder and examines the documents of her new life. Lauren Reynolds. 32 years old. As closely aligned to her real life as possible, as is protocol for extended missions, making the transition to undercover life smoother.
She's been on undercover missions before, but nothing more than a few months, and even with those, she had consistent contact with her handler. When Michael says long-term, she knows it could mean years, likely isolated. Long-term undercover missions can't be jeopardized by contact with anyone from an agent's previous life. She knows she has to shed everything about Emily Prentiss to become Lauren Reynolds.
Her debrief ends and Michael leaves her with a kiss on the cheek and a wish of good luck. He tells her it's been an honor working with her, and she tries not to take it as a farewell that he'll never seen her again. She promises to be safe and he promises to be there if she needs him.
She's looking around the apartment that she'll soon have to give up when her phone rings with a DC number she doesn't recognize. She knows exactly who is calling. She lets it go to voicemail.
Aaron Hotchner deserves better. He deserves so much better than anything she could ever give him.
Plus, Emily Prentiss doesn't exist anymore. There's only Lauren Reynolds. And Lauren Reynolds doesn't love FBI agents. Lauren Reynolds loves weapons and danger and, soon enough, an IRA terrorist with shockingly blue eyes, an Irish accent, and an innocent son.
She calls him at his office phone in the middle of the night when she knows he isn't there.
"Aaron, I'm sorry. This, us...never would have worked. I know I said we needed honesty, but honesty isn't something that comes easy in my line of work. Take care of yourself."
It's not fair, but this is her life. After every sin she's committed, what else does she deserve?