Of course, many thanks for the reads and reviews. I would hope that goes without saying now!

Another new perspective, with an interesting connection to another character. Once the idea for it popped into my head, I just had to make it work. And I'm tickled to be able to use this quote... ;)

Happy reading =)


"The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated." – Paul McCartney

"It's nothing personal," I hear her explain as I arrive outside her office. My curiosity gets the better of me as I decide to linger and listen rather than enter.

"You turned me down flat. How am I to not take that personally?" I blink in surprise when there is something terribly familiar about the voice. I know it from somewhere…

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. It had nothing to do with you and you know it. It's just your ego protesting."

"I'm still waiting for that explanation you promised to give me when we were able to meet face to face."

"Please don't tell me you flew in specifically for this conversation," she says with a groan.

"Don't flatter yourself, darling," the man fires back cheekily. "I have a week full of meetings set up with various governmental agencies. I just so happened to free up some time on my first day here so I could get that explanation you promised."

My face scrunches in concentration as I try to pluck the right memory, and place a face to the voice. I know it from somewhere, I just can't seem to recall from exactly where.

I hear her sigh heavily. "I couldn't leave them," she says simply.

"You had no trouble doing so for seven months..."

"I did have trouble, and that wasn't my choice and you know it," she growls back, a touch of frustration settling in.

Wait. Seven months? It can't be a coincidence that's the exact same amount of time she spent "dead" could it?

"Ah, still fiery I see," he replies, amusement plain in his tone.

"Clyde," she says, her tone full of warning, but there is a trace of playfulness there too.

Clyde? It couldn't be... What are the chances of our paths running into each other after all these years? And at the FBI, no less. Surely it wasn't him. It couldn't be.

She begins speaking again when he doesn't interrupt her further. "They're my family, Clyde. And I wasn't so far gone as to need to escape. Being around them," she pauses for a moment and then corrects herself, "with them, is what I need. I may not want to do that job 24/7 anymore, but I still love the people here. If I hadn't been so burnt out back then, I'd still be with you guys for the same reason – family."

"I understand, my dear. I do," he says, sincerity settling into his voice and his teasing tone disappearing. "You did what's best for you, and I respect that, even if it's not to my advantage."

Any lingering doubt I had over the identity of the voice was washed away with that sincerity. For all the teasing and joking he did, Clyde Easter was a noble and honest man.

"Really?" she says, clearly unconvinced.

"Is that so surprising?"

"Answering a question with a question – interesting," she teases.

"Come now, Emily. I thought we were past all of those silly surface profiling tricks."

"Ah, and now misdirection..."

"I'm starting to see the advantages of you turning down my offer."

"Oh, you know you love me, Clyde."

"Against my better judgment, yes."

"But seriously, Clyde. You know plenty of more qualified agents for that job," she says, as though to placate him.

For what job? And why did she need to placate him? And why was it so important to Clyde?

"True, but none of them have that...je ne sais quoi quality that you do," he teases.

I grin as I recognize the moment too juicy to pass up. "He's right you know. There's just something about you..." I say as I push open the door wider, step into the threshold to her office and lean against the door frame.

I don't miss her slight jump at my sudden appearance before she throws an unimpressed glare toward me – no doubt a reprimand for listening in on her private conversation. But really she only has herself to blame; after all, the door was open…

"Mick Rawson," she says in surprise. "What are-"

"Rawson?" Clyde interrupts, his brow furrowing in concentration. "As in-"

"Yes, sir," I say, interrupting his thought.

"Bloody hell. What are the chances?"

"I was just thinking the same thing," I say stepping swiftly into her office, ignoring her confused expression and holding out a hand. He rises swiftly from his chair and firmly grasps my hand, giving it a quick shake before pulling me into a hug with his other arm.

"Someone want to fill me in here?" Emily says, waving her arms to catch our attention. "How the hell do you two know each other?"

I chuckle. "We bumped into each other a few times overseas," I explain with a quick grin.

"Did you now?" she says skeptically, and of course with a touch of sarcasm dripping off the words. Her eyes continue flitting back and forth between us, another unimpressed expression forming on her face.

"Careful. You keep making that face and it'll get stuck like that," I tease.

Her eyes flare and I flash a wide grin in return. It was all too easy to wind her up. She opens her mouth to retort, but Clyde interrupts before she gets the chance. "This git may have saved my skin a time or two. Deadly shot, this one."

"Oh, trust me, I know," she says with a huff of frustration. "So, are you really not going to tell me how you two know each other? Because I'm pretty sure I have the clearance level for it," she trails off, looking pointedly at Clyde.

"We served together in the British Special Forces," he explains.

"I thought-" she begins.

"That no one in the Special Forces is allowed to admit they're in it?" I finish, remembering her line of questioning a few years back. "Yeah, it's not really a hard and fast rule, but we like to perpetuate the rumours to keep up our image."

"Please tell me you're kidding," she groans.

"Of course," I say with a roll of my eyes for dramatic effect. "But there's nothing technically stopping former members from admitting they were in it. It's really all in the details..."

She looks unimpressed once more until a spark of recognition appears. "Wait a minute – is that where you "bumped into" Cooper?" she asks, her mind beginning to piece things together.

Taking a cue from Clyde's willingness to share our history, I nod in confirmation. "Yeah. Clyde and I served together in the Special Boat Service. This guy here was our leader, and we bumped into Cooper on a few assignments. Eventually this one moved on to bigger and better things, and a few years after, Cooper and I got recruited for a new regiment."

"Luckily this one had me to teach him everything he knows," Clyde says with a grin.

"Oh, please, old man. Save your breath, you probably don't have much left," I taunt. "So how do you two know each other?" I ask.

Emily stays silent and lets Clyde take the lead in responding. I know that tactic well – he must have been her superior. And they must have been working on something classified. Interesting.

"Let's just say I also taught her everything she knows," Clyde says cryptically. I groan inwardly, but should have known not to expect clear answers from him.

Nevertheless, my gaze narrows as my mind's wheels begin spinning again and my unanswered questions from before surface in my mind. Everyone in the FBI knows Emily Prentiss had been involved in something significant – that much was clear from her apparent "death" and her subsequent "resurrection." And the sheer number of theories on the reason for her "death" leads me to believe that whatever she was involved in, it was highly classified. If it wasn't, the Bureau would have released a memo of some sort at least to the BAU agents with an explanation.

Clyde's role in it all was also intriguing. His knowledge of her time away is telling – he must be involved in some way. And if she and Clyde had worked together, it must have been on a taskforce of some sort, given that they came from different organizations. If I had to guess, I'd say something relating to Interpol since it didn't seem like anything the FBI or the British Special Forces would have their hands in directly. And taking into consideration how comfortable they are with each other, it's apparent that they must have worked together for a decent amount of time. Add in that clearly whatever it was they worked on together was classified, and you've got intrigue of the highest degree. I knew from the moment I met her, there was far more to Emily Prentiss than she let on.

Before I can ask any clarifying questions, Clyde's phone rings, and he steps out of the room to take the call.

"I'm not going to get any more than that, am I?" I ask, turning toward Emily.

She shakes her head. "Probably not."

I mask my slight frustration and curiosity with a smile as I recall the moment when I'd met her.

"What?" she asks, noting my stupid grin.

"You know there are a lot of rumours about you," I say, taking great joy in being able to echo her statement about Cooper from the case we worked together those few years ago.

"I thought you weren't big on rumours..." she replies quickly, clearly remembering our conversation.

"Doesn't mean I don't hear 'em."

"Oh yeah? Do tell. What are they saying about me?" she asks, her tone conveying her genuine curiosity. I'm a little shocked she hasn't heard the rumours herself, given how prevalent they've been over the last year. Admittedly they'd died down considerably over time, but there were still whisperings.

"Some say you were in rehab."

"And I covered that up by faking my own death? Only to come back once this apparent "addiction" was manageable?"

"I never said that they were believable rumours," I offer when I see her bemused expression.

"What else?" she prompts. If I'm not mistaken, she's enjoying hearing the ridiculous stories about her that had spread.

"Some say you went undercover in a cult."

"I see."

"There was one that you went AWOL and fled to Canada."

She arches an eyebrow rather than responding verbally.

"And then there's the one floating around that you never came back at all."

"Oh?" she says, both eyebrows rising in surprise, or maybe amusement.

"Yeah."

"How very Beatles conspiracy of them," she quips, a smile tugging at her lips.

I laugh and shake my head at her comment. Still as witty as ever, I see.

"What do you believe, Mick?" she asks.

I pause for a moment, considering my answer. Our conversation had been light and playful, but her tone had shifted ever so subtly, and now she is serious.

"I don't believe a word of any of them. I think those rumours are just that – rumours. And I know you must have had one hell of a reason to leave behind your life and your family," I continue, noting her now scrutinizing gaze. "And I think that it takes an incredibly brave person to die for the people they love," I add, locking my gaze to hers to emphasize my point.

At my words her expression softens and her gaze narrows so slightly that it's almost unnoticeable. "Thank you. I appreciate that, Mick." I don't miss the lack of confirmation of my suggestion, but I also don't miss the lack of denial.

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can Clyde re-enters the room and begins speaking. "Em, darling, I'm sorry but I've got to run. Something's come up."

"It's fine, you got what you came for anyway," she replies with a touch of amusement in her tone. "Right?"

"I suppose so. Any openings in your schedule at the end of the week?"

She nods. "Yeah, text me and we can figure out a time."

"We'll do lunch."

"Only if you're buying," she bargains, shooting him a grin. "You owe me that."

"Of course," he agrees as he pulls her in for a quick hug. She pulls back slightly to give him a quick peck on the cheek, and he takes the opportunity to whisper something in her ear that makes her smile genuinely. They break apart and he turns to me, fishing a card out of his wallet. "It was good to see you, Rawson. If you ever head back home, give me a call," he says, handing over his card. "If I can't prise Emily from the FBI's clutches, maybe I can coax a fellow Brit to make his way back home."

"Thanks. I will," I say, giving him a firm handshake.

And with that he grabs his bag and walks swiftly from the room. I'm left slightly stunned by all that's been revealed, and seeing him again.

Her voice startles me out of my thoughts. "So, what can I do for you, Mick?"

"What?"

"I assume you didn't just drop by my office for a visit."

"Oh, right. I heard that you're fluent in Arabic, yeah?"

She nods. "Yes..."

"Cooper asked me to see if you'd be willing to help us out with a case. Seems we're in need of someone fluent in Arabic and trained in reading human behaviour."

She smiles and chuckles.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she says. "Just...my first case with the BAU, I'm pretty sure those were my only redeeming qualities."

My eyebrows shoot up slightly in surprise. While the rumours surrounding her "death" were ludicrous, the reputation she had among the more serious agents in the Bureau was not - she was a well-respected agent.

"No way that's true," I say honestly.

She shrugs. "The situation wasn't exactly clear cut," she explains vaguely.

I mirror her shrug. "Still, I have a hard time believing that tough as nails Emily Prentiss wasn't valued for more than her linguistic skills."

"You're sweet. And not at all how I remember you."

"You wound me," I say, clutching my hands over my heart. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"I remember an arrogant, over-sexed, egotistical-"

"Handsome Brit who saved your life," I finish for her, a grin spreading on my face.

"And there he is," she says with a shake of her head. "You know, my friends wanted me to call you a couple weeks after that case," she adds.

"You have very wise friends."

"Do I?"

"Oh, I'd say so. I mean, come on, look at me, I'm a catch!" I say with wagging eyebrows and gesturing up and down my body.

She scoffs loudly.

"Why didn't you?" I ask, genuinely curious to hear her answer.

"There was no way it was going to go anywhere."

"Ouch. Now that actually does hurt. How do you know I'm not a complete gentleman?"

"Contrary to the rumours about you, I know you're a perfect gentleman. But that wasn't where I was going with that."

"No? Where were you going with it then?"

"Work schedules," she says plainly.

"Ah, this is true," I admit. "But not something that couldn't be overcome. So what was holding Emily Prentiss back from chasing after the always scrumptious Mick Rawson?"

"Well that ego is certainly a point against you," she teases.

"Emily..." I say, imploring her to answer for real.

"And there's the fact that Emily is generally not a fan of people who refer to themselves in the third person..."

"Emily!" I say, exasperation in my tone.

"You're just not my type," she explains, giving in to my frustration.

"A handsome Brit who saved your life isn't your type? My, my, Emily. High standards, you have."

"As every girl should," she says with a smile. "You know, you didn't have to come to my office. You could have just called," she adds. "It's kind of why the FBI makes us carry these fancy cell phones around with us and has that directory..."

"Sure, but then how was I supposed to assess whether you were in fact the real Emily Prentiss?"


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