"There's a man outside."
"What?" Emily asked, eyes widening until they matched her son's. "Where? Did you — do you recognize him?"
"Kind of," Declan whispered. "He's on the porch. He was on his phone."
"You're sure it wasn't the mailman or something?" Her heart pounded in her chest — obviously Declan wouldn't be worrying if it were just the mailman, but her mind couldn't accept the alternative. The man who had been stalking her was dead now, and that left — well, that just left Ian.
And if he was outside right now, literally seconds after she'd finished talking to Declan about how much she missed him — if Declan had seen his dad out there, his dad whom he believed to be dead —
God, why did everything in her life have to turn into such a fucking mess?
"It wasn't the mailman," Declan whispered. "He was wearing sunglasses and a dark jacket, and he was on the phone, looking in the window —"
"Did he see you?"
He nodded solemnly and his brow furrowed — he was clearly distressed.
There was a sudden, booming pounding on the door. It was hard to say which one of them flinched harder.
"Mom, what do we do?" Declan asked in terror.
Emily's mind raced. She reached for the nightstand drawer, intent on grabbing her Glock — again — but then she remembered it was still out in the kitchen with her purse and badge and belt, which she'd unceremoniously dumped on the counter before going to bed at 7 PM.
Had she been at her own apartment, there would've been a mini arsenal in the back of her closet — but Hotch didn't have as many guns as she did. He just kept his service weapon and a back up, both of which he had with him on the case.
She was unarmed.
This realization hit her like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on top of her head. She hadn't been caught unarmed in years, maybe even decades — and now what? She was stuck in the bedroom, nearly eight months pregnant, with a child in the room and some unknown man pounding on the front door, and she didn't even have a pocket knife.
Things were not looking good.
"Mom," Declan said again as the knocking got louder. "What does he want?"
"I don't know." Her heart seemed to be beating in her throat. What the hell was she supposed to do? She had to see who was there.
"What do we do?" he asked.
Emily turned to look at him. "I'm going to go check."
"No!"
" — I need you to stay here, and be brave. I will be right back —"
"But Mom —"
" — if you hear anything, or if I'm not back in two minutes, I need you to call the police. Do you understand me?"
"Mom, don't go —"
"Do you have your phone?"
"Yes, but —"
She pushed herself out of the bed, steadying herself with a hand on the bump. Bean kicked, and Emily cradled her carefully — the poor baby had been through more than most adults, and she wasn't even born yet.
Emily was getting really tired of this shit.
"Declan, you'll be okay. I'm just going to peek out the window in Aaron's study, and see if I can see who's out there. Where do you recognize him from?"
"I have no idea — he sounded British —"
Her eyes narrowed. British and not Irish? That didn't make any sense, unless...
Emily paused. "British?" she repeated.
"Yeah, I think so —"
"Is he blond?"
Declan nodded.
Oh, fuck no. She reached for her phone, which had gotten lost underneath some pillows.
Fourteen missed calls from Clyde Easter, the screen read.
Oh, she was going to kill him.
Emily let out a relieved sigh. "Dec, was this the man?" she asked, flipping the phone around to show him the contact photo.
Declan examined it. "I think it is." He looked up at her. "Who is he?"
The tension left her shoulders— she'd never been so simultaneously relieved and pissed off. "He's... an old friend, kind of."
"Why is he pounding the door down?"
"I don't know, but I'm about to go find out."
"Can I come with you?" Declan asked in a small voice.
"Yeah, come on."
Declan followed her down the hallway — Emily still walked cautiously, just in case it wasn't Clyde — but the odds were small, she knew, given how many missed calls she had from him.
When she rounded the corner and looked out through the glass next to the doorway, her eyes did indeed fall on a familiar face.
The Brit was tapping his foot impatiently, eyebrows pushed up in indignation that she had not yet rushed to let him into her home. Emily made no attempt to hurry as she made her way towards the door.
"Are you deaf?" were the first words out of his mouth when she finally had the alarm system deactivated and the door opened. "I've been out here for ten minutes."
"Doorbell must not be working," she replied evenly, eyeing him with suspicion. What was he doing here? At Hotch's house? In the middle of the night?
Actually, why the hell was he even in America?
"Why are you here?" she asked, not bothering to attempt to avoid sounding rude. Declan was still hovering around the corner in the hallway, shaken from the sudden appearance of a stranger on their front porch in the dark. "You scared the shit out of me."
"I think you know bloody well why I'm here, darling," he said. "Now are you going to be inviting me in, or am I to expect to stand out in the cold all night?"
"Why are you here?" she asked again.
"Because I heard what happened with the stalker, and I heard you've been acting like everything is just peachy now, and I don't think you've got your head screwed on straight. I've heard you're not listening to anyone speaking reasonably, and I think someone needs to knock some sense into you so you can finally realize that your little crush on —"
"Shut up," Emily hissed tersely, the glare on her face so severe that it forced Clyde to do exactly that — and that was no easy feat.
He stared at her for a second. "What —" he began.
"Declan," she mouthed, jerking her chin over her shoulder.
His eyes narrowed.
"Right, Declan," Clyde said, lips barely moving, his eyes piercing. "Your son."
"My son," she repeated tightly. The kitten attempted to sneak past her out the door — Emily blocked him with her socked foot.
"It would be a shame if he knew what was going on," Clyde muttered.
"Stop."
He relented and bent down to scoop Ketshie up off the front porch — the kitten had managed to slip out the door. "Can I come in?"
"You can come in," she said slowly through gritted teeth, "if you calm down, and keep the conversation away from work."
"Alright," he said quietly, passing by her and stepping into the house. Emily shut the door behind him and sighed.
It was starting to look like it was going to be another long night.
"Do you want a drink?" Emily asked him as she reset the alarm system.
"Coffee?"
"Sure."
Clyde set the kitten down on the rug as she passed him towards the kitchen. He stood — and immediately locked eyes with the boy in question.
"Ah," he said, straightening his jacket. "Hello, Declan."
"Hi," Declan responded cautiously, still waiting in the hallway. Sergio came trotting down the hall, saw Clyde, and paused. Tail swishing, his ears pressed themselves flat on top of his head, and he let out a low hiss.
Declan looked down at the cat, raised his eyebrows, and glanced back up at Clyde.
"Sergio," Clyde said disdainfully.
The cat meowed loudly, watching Clyde with reproachful eyes. Declan scooped him up and stroked his head.
"Do you remember me?" Clyde asked Declan.
He tilted his head, considering. "No."
"Well, that's alright. You were quite young back then, I suppose."
"Why are you here?" Declan asked, raising his chin.
"Because I need to have a chat with your mum."
"She was already in bed."
"It's not even nine o'clock."
"We had a long day," he said, not backing down.
The corner of Clyde's mouth turned up, and his eyes crinkled. "You take good care of her?"
Declan paused. "I dunno."
But Clyde could see it, looking at the child that Emily had taken in, with copies of Ian Doyle's eyes staring defiantly back at him — Declan would clearly do anything for Emily. And that was something that Clyde could respect.
Emily reappeared in the doorway then with two mugs of coffee. She looked from Clyde to Declan — her old friend was smiling slightly; her son looked defensive. "Everything okay?"
They both looked at her.
"Everything's fine," Clyde said. "Just having a little chat."
"Declan, Love, can you go in your room while Clyde and I talk?"
He nodded. "I was just going to get in the shower, if that's okay? I'll go to bed right after."
"Sure," she said with a reassuring smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight. Nice seeing you, Mr. Easter," he added before turning down the hallway, carrying Sergio away with him.
"You, too," Clyde said quietly.
Once they heard the bathroom door shut, and the shower turned on, the adults looked at each other. Clyde took a sip of his coffee. Emily kept her mug firmly in her hands, but did not drink. She stared at the Brit across the table.
For once, Clyde didn't immediately start chewing her out. He just stared back. He looked — worried?
Emily's brow furrowed. She'd never seen such a look from him before.
"What's going on, Clyde?" she asked, suspicious.
"How've you been?"
Emily blinked, eyes narrowing. "Fine. Why?"
"I heard you were on bed rest. Must've been a nightmare."
"It wasn't fun," she agreed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.
"Baby alright?"
"The doctors seem to think everything is under control."
"That's good," he said, staring straight into her eyes — he was attempting to read her. Emily was glad he wasn't a profiler. "You're getting big. How much longer?"
"Eight weeks or so," Emily responded evenly. "It's sneaking up on me."
"Got the nursery done?"
"If by done you mean that there's still a desk with a large stack of serial killer files taking up most of the room, then sure." She was growing anxious — was the baby really due in only eight weeks? Shit, they really were getting behind on getting ready — but, she thought, this was not the time to worry about such things. That could come later.
For now, she needed to focus on why exactly Clyde was sitting across the table from her and not across the ocean where he was meant to be.
"How come you're here?" she asked again. "I don't think you'd come all the way to the states just to ask me if the nursery is ready."
"You profilers know everything," he said flatly. "Surely you know why I'm here."
"Because you enjoy harassing me for sport?" she asked tiredly.
"I'm here because of our little problem."
"Our little problem?" she asked, eyebrows pinching together.
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"You tell me."
Emily stared back at him, trying to gauge how much he knew. His expression didn't give much away — but given the fact that it was Clyde Easter, he probably knew far more than she thought he did. It had always seemed to her that Clyde knew everything about everything.
Of course, that wasn't to say that she'd never been able to keep a secret from him, she supposed, thinking of her son just two doors down the hallway.
That had been a pretty successful secret.
"Are you here because of the man that was shot outside of Rossi's last week?" she guessed, starting off with something easy — it was highly unlikely that he didn't already know about that.
"No."
"Are you here because I think someone has been following me?"
"No."
Emily tilted her head. "Are you here to talk shit about Declan again?"
"No."
She frowned — maybe she actually didn't know what his purpose for this visit was. She ran through the list of options in her brain again, and then paused as something dawned on her. Her heart skipped a beat.
"Did you find him?"
"Did you?" Clyde asked.
Emily blinked. "No, I didn't."
Clyde leaned back in his chair and his lips pressed into a thin line. "But you think it's a great idea for you to go back undercover and try to hook back up with him."
"What? Where did you hear that?"
"Don't be silly, darling, I know that your father asked you to go back undercover. I really didn't think you were stupid enough to agree, but apparently I was mistaken —"
" — I didn't agree," she interrupted, eyes wide. She had, of course, considered agreeing, but she had not given her father an official answer yet. "Where did you hear that?"
Clyde paused. "You didn't agree?"
"No, I — why? Who told you that?"
Clyde frowned deeply, studying her face — she was a talented liar, he knew, but he'd also known her since she was twelve.
She was not lying to him now.
"I heard it from... well, let's just say I have a few contacts floating about."
"Trustworthy contacts?" she asked.
"Yes."
Emily's phone began to ring — she sent it to voicemail without looking at the screen.
"Are you sure they're trustworthy?"
"I have the utmost confidence in them," he replied.
"Would you bet your life on it?"
"I wouldn't bet my life on anything. But I can assure you that my people are reliable."
Her phone rang again, and again she sent the caller to voicemail.
"And your super-duper reliable people are telling you that I told Velius I'm coming back?" she asked doubtfully. "They don't sound all that reliable to me."
"No, they don't know your father," he said slowly. "They've told me they've heard that Lauren Reynolds is back."
Emily tilted her head, confused. "What do you mean?"
"They're not agents, darling, they're Irish mob."
Emily's phone began to ring for a third time — finally she looked down at the screen. It was Hotch.
"I'm sorry, I need to take this," she said, stomach sinking. Why would he need to reach her so badly?
"Did you hear what I just said?" Clyde asked angrily. "I think you might actually be in trouble here —"
She held up a finger, and he fell silent with an indignant eye roll. She hit 'Accept' and put the phone up to her ear.
"Emily?" Hotch asked before she could even say anything. She could tell that something was wrong.
"Yeah? Are you —"
"Can you go get Jack?"
"Of course," she said immediately, setting down her coffee and standing. "What's going on?"
"He's in the hospital."
Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God — why —"
"He fell off the monkey bars at his friend's sleepover. They think his wrist is broken. The mom is there with him but I'm hours away — I'm getting in the car, though — and I can't get ahold of Jessica —"
She quickly stood, grabbing her purse. "I'm on my way out the door, Aaron. Which hospital is he at?"
Hotch gave her the info and thanked her roughly a million times, and after she promised to text him when she got there and call him as soon as possible with updates, they hung up and she could focus on actually getting out the door.
"What's going on?" Clyde demanded as soon as she hung up.
"Jack broke his arm," she replied — Clyde saw a fierce determination in her eyes which was usually reserved for high-pressure cases. She rolled her lower lip between her teeth for a second, glancing between Clyde, the bathroom door where Declan was still in the shower, and the front door. "Can you do me a favor?" she asked tightly.
"You know I'd do anything for you, darling," he replied flatly, staring back at her through slightly narrowed eyes.
She hesitated slightly. "Can you stay here with Declan?"
He breathed out shortly through his nose, almost like a snort, but with less effort. "Fine. Alright."
"He just takes so long in the shower," she chattered, "And then he'd have to get ready, and I don't like the idea of bringing extra kids to the emergency room when it can be avoided —"
"I'll look after him," he said emphatically. "Go, if you've got to."
"He usually goes straight to bed afterwards, anyway —"
"Go, darling," he said, getting up and steering her towards the door — he was starting to wonder if he should even let her drive if she was operating under this apparent level of panic. "I can handle a sleeping ten-year-old for a few hours."
"He's eleven."
"Eleven, then," he agreed, dropping her car keys into her hand.
"Set the alarm behind me," she warned.
"Of course. I'd hate to see what would happen if any of your Irish friends dropped by while I'm sitting here so heavily armed."
She winced. "Call me if Declan needs anything."
"This isn't my first time babysitting —"
" — it's not?"
" — No, of course it is, but I'll figure it out. Go."
She stretched up on her tip-toes and threw her arms around his neck in an awkward two-second hug. "Thank you," she breathed, and then she dashed out the door towards her car.
"Anything for you, darling," Clyde repeated softly to himself, under his breath.
Emily pulled out of the driveway less than a minute after she'd hung up with Hotch, driving a bit faster than usual, trying to get to Jack as quickly as possible.
...
"Excuse me," Emily said somewhat frantically to the nurse behind the desk. "I'm looking for Jack Hotchner, his dad called me and said he hurt his wrist —"
"Are you his mother?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Emily heard herself saying to the man — she surprised herself, but it was probably good that she'd answered that way — who knew if "Dad's girlfriend" would've been good enough to get her into the hospital room. She definitely didn't have time to sit and negotiate her way in. Not when Jack needed her.
"He's probably in the waiting room just down the hall. His friend's mom is with him. You can go on back."
Emily breathed a hasty thank you and then hurried on down the hallway — where she finally found a group of chairs where people were waiting.
"Jack?"
The little boy's face was streaked with tears, but it still lit up when he saw her. "Emily!" he cried.
She rushed to take the chair next to his. "What happened, baby?"
"We were just playing on the monkey b-bars and I fell," he told her, cradling his bad arm, which was in a sling. "It hurts really bad," he added miserably.
"Oh, I know — come here," she told him, shifting so that there would be room for him on her lap even with Bean — it was still possible, but just barely, and only if she twisted her torso. He clambered up and leaned back against her shoulder, and she rested her cheek on his hair and wrapped an arm around him. "Let me see."
He shifted a little so she could look down into the sling.
His wrist was black and blue. Emily winced.
"Yeah, baby, that definitely looks broken," she told him. "Did you hear it snap when you fell?"
He nodded, and more hot tears streamed down his face. Emily felt her heart breaking.
"It's okay, buddy," she hugged him against her, careful not to hurt his arm. "Did you take any medicine?" she asked him softly.
"Mrs. Barton gave me some," Jack said.
Emily then remembered that the friend's mom was there. She quickly looked over at the other brunette woman, who was eying her somewhat warily.
"Emily, right?"
"Yes —"
"Where's Jessica?"
"We're not sure — Aaron couldn't get ahold of her; her phone goes straight to voicemail."
The woman still did not look convinced.
Emily started to grow slightly anxious — maybe being in the hospital with a broken arm required a real parent or guardian, not just a dad's-girlfriend. Technically, it probably did — she'd gotten past the nurse without an ID based solely on the panicked look on her face, but now Mrs. Barton was looking at her with the same suspicion, as though she was wondering whether she should actually leave Jack with this random woman that she barely knew. Mrs. Barton opened her mouth to say something, but Emily immediately cut her off, not wanting to allow her to voice those concerns. The last thing they needed was some completely unnecessary CPS agent to get wrapped up in all of this. She hugged Jack closer, careful not to bump his injured arm.
"What happened?" Emily demanded in a tone that was slightly more accusing than she'd intended. But that was fine — if she had to interrogate this woman slightly in order to be left alone with Jack without a fuss, it wasn't like she didn't have the skills to do so. She had been interrupted while playing bad cop earlier that morning, she remembered — although at this point, that felt like it had been six days ago.
That didn't mean she couldn't channel that energy whenever she wanted to, though.
Mrs. Barton looked surprised at the sudden force behind Emily's question. "Well, the boys wanted to go to the park to play this game — they call it Rocks, do you know it?"
"No," Emily answered shortly. Her childhood had not been conducive to learning many playground games.
"Well, it's sort of like Marco Polo, only they're on the playset — it doesn't really matter. Anyway, I think Jack might've been trying to get away from Nick, who was It, and he was trying to crawl across the monkey bars —"
" — You fell from on top of the monkey bars?" Emily asked Jack incredulously.
He nodded sorrowfully into her collarbone.
"Jack, baby, you're lucky you didn't hit your head."
"I just didn't want to be It," he said, voice breaking.
Emily felt a sob wrack his body. "I know, I know," she murmured. "It's okay." She brushed his hair back from his slightly-sunburnt forehead and then kissed the top of his head. He smelled faintly of chlorine; his friend must've had a pool. "You'll be alright."
Mrs. Barton was sitting on the edge of her seat with her purse balanced on her knees. Hesitantly she said, "Well, I think — if it's okay — I should probably get going. My husband and his sister are with the rest of the boys, but they've got our five-year-old and newborn to watch, too —"
"Yeah, if you have to leave, I totally understand," Emily said flatly, her attention already back on Jack.
"Well... Have Jessica or Hotch call me tomorrow and let me know how he's doing, if you don't mind?"
"Sure."
"Feel better soon, Jack."
"I'll try," he said miserably.
They both watched her walk away. Emily looked down at her sweet boy, and ran her hand over his hair, pressing her cheek against his forehead. "Do you want to call Daddy?"
...
Clyde heard the bathroom door open, and then nothing. His brow furrowed. "Declan?" he called.
Emily's son stuck his head around the corner. His blonde hair hung limply in wet strands framing his face. He looked perplexed, an expression which seemed oddly one-sided thanks to the dark purple bruise blossoming under his left eye. "Where's my mom?"
"She had to leave," Clyde told him.
Declan stared at him. "What? Where?" His heart began to race. She wouldn't just walk out on him like that — was this man legit? Was he a threat?
"Jack has apparently broken his arm," Clyde explained in monotone, noting the child's apparent distress. "She went to meet him at the hospital."
"He did? Is he okay?" Declan asked, still not certain whether he should trust Clyde.
"He'll be alright. Your mum asked me to stay with you until they get back. Jack needs some x rays, so it might be a few hours."
"So you're babysitting me?"
"Evidently," Clyde muttered.
Declan eyed him warily for another second, and then he walked into the dining area and sat himself down across from Clyde at the table.
Clyde stared back. Hadn't Emily said he'd probably go straight to bed? He had no idea how to communicate with a child — particularly this child. Lucky for him, Declan spoke first.
"So, you're friends with my mom."
"Is that what she told you?"
Declan nodded. "Did you work with her in London?"
"I did," he said, leaning back in his chair but keeping his hands wrapped around his coffee mug. He didn't break eye contact. "But I've known her for much longer than that. Since she was your age, nearly."
Declan held his gaze. "Did you work for Interpol too?"
"I still do."
"How long have you worked there?"
"Seventeen years."
Declan averted his gaze down to the table's surface and began tapping his foot. He picked up a discarded paper clip from the tabletop and began to fiddle with it. After a moment, he said, "So, you knew my dad then."
Clyde frowned. "Not exactly."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I certainly knew of your father, but I didn't have direct contact with him," he said, not sure how much to reveal. He did not like the direction that this conversation was headed in.
Declan was quiet for a moment. "He did some bad stuff."
Clyde stared at him. "He did."
"Have you ever been shot?"
"I have," he said slowly, uncertain what had prompted the child's rapid change in topic — did he know something? "Not as many times as your mum, though."
Declan's eyebrows flew up. "My mom has been shot?"
"Sure. She never told you that?"
"No! When was that? How many times? Why —"
"Listen," Clyde interrupted. "I can't have you asking away hundreds of questions all night. We'll have to find some way — isn't there a game like this? With questions?"
"Twenty questions?" Declan asked.
"No, that's too many. I'll tell you what," he said, looking over at the bookshelf that was piled high with Jack's board games. He pointed. "Let's play that one."
Declan's brow furrowed. "Battleship? That doesn't have questions —"
"We'll play it like this: for each boat of mine that you can sink, I'll answer a question for you. But if I sink your boat, I get to ask you one. Deal?"
Declan considered. "Okay. But I get to be on the blue side."
Clyde scoffed. "Fine. But hurry up. You're meant to be in bed."
"I'm hurrying," Declan frowned, carefully selecting positions for his ships. A minute later he was satisfied and he looked up.
"Ready?"
"Sure."
"Alright. I've got three rules before we start, understand? We follow them or the game ends."
"Fine. What are they?"
"One: No lying. Two: I'm not telling you anything classified. And three: You're going straight to bed when the game ends. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Alright then. You first."
Declan narrowed his eyes at the board. "B2."
It wasn't long before he found one of Clyde's ships. "C7."
Clyde pursed his lips. "Hit," he said tightly.
"C8," Declan said.
Clyde's sharp grey eyes flicked up to meet Declan's. "It's not your turn."
"Yeah it is — I got a hit, so I get to go again."
"That's not how it works —"
"Yes it is, that's how we always play it —"
" — where are the instructions?"
"Sergio chewed them up."
"The cat ate the instructions, you expect me to believe that?"
Declan handed him the glossy, mangled piece of paper.
Clyde shot a dirty look at the black cat, who was watching them from the cat tree with his big yellow eyes. His tail twitched.
"Fine. Have it your way."
"C8," Declan repeated.
"Hit."
"C9."
"You've sunken my submarine. Let's have your first question, then."
Declan thought about it for a minute. "What was my mom like? Before I knew her. And when you first met her."
"She was a right pain in my ass."
Declan's thin eyebrows shot up in amusement. "Really?"
"Really. I first met her in Greece — her mother is an ambassador, you know, as was my father. They were both stationed there. She was twelve and I was sixteen. We were the only children around for the most part. I wanted nothing to do with her, of course, since she was much younger. But she was too damn curious for her own good, and bloody persistent, too. Followed me around like a lost puppy until we eventually became friends, and then that horribly irritating child grew up to be one of the best agents I'd ever met, for a while."
"For a while? Not still?"
Clyde wagged his finger. "Ah-ah. That is a second question."
It wasn't long before Clyde won a question himself. He lifted a finger toward Declan's face. "What happened to your eye?"
Declan's expression darkened. "I got in a fight at school."
"Bruise looks fresh. It's from today?"
He nodded.
"How come you were fighting?"
Declan waved his finger back at Clyde and echoed, "That's a second question."
Clyde fought to keep his expression neutral — Declan reminded him of Emily, in a way. "Smartass."
They went back and forth with their guesses, each missing a few in succession. Declan's knee bounced. Clyde leaned back in his chair, resting his hand on his chin. "F8."
"Miss. A1?"
Clyde sighed. "Hit."
It wasn't long before Declan sank another of Clyde's ships.
"Alright then. Let's hear it."
Declan leaned back so his body language mirrored Clyde's. He had so many questions that it was difficult to choose just five — the man sitting in front of him had a wealth of knowledge about everything that he wouldn't dare to ask his mom about. Not because he thought she wouldn't tell him, or he thought she'd get mad, or he didn't trust her — but because he'd seen that far-away look in her eyes every time he brought up his dad, and he didn't want to make her sad.
Especially not, he thought guiltily, after what he had said to her that morning. His stomach sank when he remembered that look on her face.
No, it was better to ask Clyde.
He swallowed, trying to think of something to ask — but his mind kept getting stuck on his mom, instead of his dad. Why had Clyde said she was the best agent he'd known — for a while?
Wasn't she still one of the best agents out there?
"How come you said my mom used to be one of the best agents?"
Clyde's mouth flattened. "She... lost objectivity," he said after a moment's consideration. "B2."
"That wasn't a complete answer," Declan argued.
"It was the only answer you're going to get."
"Why? It's not classified."
Clyde gave him a look. Declan glared back.
Yes, Clyde thought, this child definitely belonged to Emily. Maybe not biologically, but he could see it in his attitude, in his facial expressions.
It was a bit unnerving, actually.
"She gets emotionally involved."
"That's bad?"
"It affects her decisions. Makes her unpredictable."
Declan stared for a moment, and then gave a small nod. "Miss."
"What?"
"You said B2. That's a miss."
"Right..."
Clyde won a turn next, and elected to repeat his previous question — "How come you got in a fight at school?"
"Some jerk was making fun of me," Declan said, "Because I don't have a dad." He stared at Clyde, his jaw tight and his chin raised, almost daring him to make a negative comment.
"Did you get some good hits in?"
Declan's mouth curled into a smile. "Yeah, I did."
"Did Emily ground you?"
"No... not that she told me."
"Do you think she will?"
"I... don't know. I've never gotten in trouble before."
They looked at each other for a minute. Clyde took a sip of his coffee. "Your turn."
They went back and forth a few more times before Declan located another of Clyde's ships — just three questions left now, and he knew he needed to make them count. He decided to be direct. "What do you know about my dad?"
There was a few seconds' silence, filled only by the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Clyde stared at the child in front of him, wondering how much he knew. Did he remember much about his father? Anything at all? How much had Emily already told him?
"That's too vague."
Declan frowned. "Okay, fine. What's the worst thing that my dad has done?"
Clyde definitely wasn't going to tell him that — and besides, it was against the rules of their game. "That's classified."
"Why was Interpol after him?"
"Also classified."
They stared at each other. Declan's scowl was deep — he was frustrated, asking questions that made him feel so vulnerable and getting no answers. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "When you profiled my dad, did you think he was a psychopath?"
Clyde knew that Emily would not like it if he answered this question, but he had promised not to lie to the child. A child who, he had to admit to himself, he was growing more and more — maybe not fond of, but tolerant of — by the minute.
"We did profile him as a sociopath, yes."
"My mom said he wasn't a sociopath."
"Well... Like I said, sometimes she gets too emotionally involved."
Declan did not want the answer to this question but he asked it anyways: "Is that what happened when she lived with us?"
Clyde opened his mouth and then paused. "That is... How it appeared from the outside."
Declan felt like his stomach dropped out of his body. He scowled in an attempt to hide the hurt that he was sure was written across his face. "So what, you don't think she really loved us?"
"No, I'm sure she loved you," Clyde said flatly. "But she wasn't supposed to. She was supposed to be doing a job."
"You don't think she was pretending?"
"I know she wasn't."
"How do you know?"
Because you're still alive, and your father is still alive, and he impaled her and impregnated her and he's out there somewhere and yet she refuses to do a damn thing about it, he wanted to say. Instead, he muttered, "Classified."
Declan watched him through narrow, watery eyes.
Clyde relented. "There weren't many people who were kind to her before you and your dad came along. I do know that."
"Why?" Declan couldn't imagine a reason why people wouldn't like his mom — she was caring and warm and funny and she never yelled and, he thought, she was his hero.
Clyde shrugged. "Rotten luck, I suppose. Just know that you're not the only one with a tragic backstory." Declan's gaze fell to his Battleship board. Clyde continued, "Now, we ought to end the game here, since you just asked a dozen questions for one ship, but I'm willing to let it slide if you'd like to keep going. Up to you."
"J4."
...
It was late by the time Emily and Jack finally got back home — she hadn't arrived to the hospital until 10 PM, and then they'd had to wait around forty-five minutes for x-rays, and then an hour to hear back that Jack's wrist really was broken, and then two and a half hours more for the swelling to go down enough for them to put a cast on it.
Why they couldn't just wait three days and split it like usual, Emily didn't understand.
Getting the cast hadn't been so bad — it was the x-rays that were the hardest. The x-ray technician had of course been as gentle as possible while manipulating Jack's arm into the necessary position, but that didn't mean it still didn't cause him excruciating pain. He'd sobbed until his face was bright red and his eyes were nearly puffed shut — and what was worse, the doctor wouldn't allow Emily into the exam room with him due to her pregnancy.
It broke her heart to listen to him sobbing for her while she had no choice but to stay outside.
When he was finally done, he came out cradling his arm in his sling, with three stickers and two lollipops clutched in his fist, and the tear tracks on his cheeks matched the ones on Emily's.
He'd looked around for her and didn't spot her — she saw him start to panic but then the nurse gently tapped his shoulder and pointed at her with a quiet, "Your mom is right over there, sweetie."
Jack didn't correct her — he was already running into Emily's arms.
Emily squeezed him tight. He'd never hugged her so hard before — his good arm was tight around her neck, pulling her hair, but she didn't mind. She peppered his face with kisses. It wasn't something she'd do in front of his friends, but she could tell from the puffy rings around his eyes that right now he wouldn't be embarrassed.
Now, he just needed a mom. And that was something that was coming so naturally to her right then that she probably would've had to fight off every single one of her instincts in order to mess it up.
Jack stopped crying shortly after they were reunited. She'd apologized profusely that she wasn't able to stay with him during the x-rays, and he wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve and told her that was okay because he was just glad that Bean was safe.
Emily's eyes stung and she held him close — he was so much like his dad. So sweet, and so brave. She was desperately proud of him.
He fell asleep in her arms in an uncomfortable chair in the ER waiting room. She held him tight, careful not to bump his swollen and bruised arm, gently running her hand up and down his back and wishing her bump was a little smaller so he could be a little closer and sit a little more comfortably.
She was almost asleep herself when the doctor finally called them back for a cast at 2:15 AM. She'd been awake since six the previous morning — up for twenty hours at eight months pregnant wasn't going well. Her body — and her mind, for that matter — were completely exhausted. She'd woken up that morning in Louisville, delivered a profile, led an interrogation, flown home, picked up Declan, fought and made up with him, dealt with Clyde, and then rushed to the hospital to be with Jack.
When was the last time she'd even eaten? She couldn't remember.
So now that she was finally pulling back into the driveway, at 3 AM, she could not wait to crawl into bed. She parked the car and went around to get Jack out.
The dark sky was cloudy — it was starting to drizzle. Emily ran a hand over her hair — she needed it cut badly. She could tell it was falling flat in some spots and frizzing up in others, probably due to the humidity, and the incoming rain. Emily gently woke Jack and, standing in the rain, she helped him undo his seatbelt around his sling and grabbed her FBI windbreaker from the front seat, wrapping it over his shoulders to make sure his new glow-in-the-dark green cast didn't get wet. After all, she wouldn't want to risk ruining the two signatures he'd already collected.
Hers, and Bean's.
Thunder began to rumble low in the distance, and the wind picked up. The house's front door opened and then slammed shut. Emily's head snapped up over her shoulder in its direction, a strand of damp hair falling into her face.
Clyde was approaching the car with an umbrella. Emily stared.
"You alright, darling?" he asked softly. His piercing blue-grey eyes bore into hers even in the dark, trying to get a read on her. She'd definitely cried since she left earlier — her mascara was slightly smudged.
And mascara streaks over dark purple spots under her eyes was not a look he liked to see on her.
"I'm okay," she mumbled.
"Get inside before you catch a cold. Take this," he commanded, passing her the umbrella. "I'll take Jack."
Emily could not believe her eyes as Clyde — the most self-absorbed, arrogant prick she'd ever met — gently lifted Jack's exhausted little body out of her car.
"Get the door," he said tightly, jerking his chin towards it.
Emily tucked her windbreaker tighter around Jack before she led them towards the house.
"Can you put him right in bed?" she asked quietly as she tossed her keys in the bowl, kicked off her boots, and locked up.
"Where?" Clyde grunted. He didn't know why he'd thought carrying the child was a good idea — clearly sixty pounds of dead weight was a lot heavier than anticipated.
"Second door on the left."
Clyde disappeared into Jack's room. Emily glanced at the clock. 3:14 AM.
At least Aaron would be home in just an hour or two.
"Emily?" Jack's sleepy voice called from down the hall. She turned her attention back towards him, padding barefoot down to his room. Clyde stepped out into the hallway.
Emily sat on the edge of Jack's bed, moving his large stuffed minion out of her way. "We're home now. Are you okay, baby?"
"I'm tired."
"I know. Me, too. You can go to sleep now," she said, gently stroking his hair. "Does your arm hurt?"
"A little," Jack said, snuggling closer under his blankets. "Do you know where Barry is?"
"I think he's in your bag in the car — I can go get him —"
"I've got it, darling, here," Clyde said, already handing her Jack's Lego Movie backpack.
Emily took the bag, fished out Jack's bear, and tucked it under the covers next to him. She helped him prop up his aching arm on top of an extra pillow, kissed his forehead, and wished him goodnight.
"I love you, Emily," Jack said in a small voice.
"I love you, too, baby."
Clyde hovered in the hallway, waiting for Emily to finish putting her son in bed. He still needed to finish their conversation, but even Clyde wasn't persistent enough to try to make her stay awake any longer. She was practically swaying on her feet with exhaustion already.
It was clear that the poor thing just needed to lie down.
"You need to sleep, Emily," Clyde told her in a tone more tender than he'd used with her since long before she went undercover. Her dark brown puffy eyes met his in surprise, and he knew that she'd noticed it, too.
"I'm serious. You're very pregnant, and I'm sure you haven't slept in hours — when was the last time you've even eaten something, darling? Did you have dinner?"
"I don't know," she mumbled, trying to remember. Her brain felt like mush. Did she have a granola bar for lunch today, or had that been yesterday?
"I made mac and cheese," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "For Declan. He said he was starving. There's some left. And I made you some tea — but darling, I must tell you, I hesitate to call it tea when it comes on a string and you heat it in the microwave —"
Emily finally looked around the kitchen, and through the haze in her brain, she made out the pot of Kraft sitting on the stove, the refilled cat food bowls, and the Battleship board game on the kitchen table.
Shit, maybe Clyde actually was a good babysitter.
Huh. She hadn't expected that.
"Thanks, Clyde," she said, eyes beginning to sting. Had he ever been so good to her during their actual relationship? Not that she remembered. He was being... well, he was being sweet. In an asshole-older-brother, I'm only taking care of you because I'm not convinced that you can take care of yourself, but it's a major inconvenience to me, and if you ever mention it I'll kill you, type of way.
"Anytime, darling. You know that. Now eat, and then I want you to go straight to bed. You need to rest if you want a healthy baby."
"You're so bossy," she quipped, mostly mumbling, but the corners of her mouth turned up so he knew she meant it in a friendly way.
"Well, someone has to boss you around. Speaking of bosses, is your dear boyfriend almost here? I've got places to be, darling, can't be waiting for him all night —"
"You don't have to wait," she said between large bites of cold Spongebob-shaped mac and cheese. "I can handle this."
"You can go to sleep, is what you can do."
"Aaron should be here in less than two hours — I'm just going to wait up for him —"
" — absolutely not. Your baby needs you to rest."
She finished her food and he put the dishes in the sink, wondering why on Earth he was even bothering with her. She was foolish and stubborn and reckless and impossible — and yet he still cared about her more than he'd ever admit. Something like the extremely irritating younger sister he'd never had.
Begrudgingly.
And somehow, tonight, the responsibility of getting this foolish, stubborn, reckless, infuriating woman and her entire family into bed properly, had fallen to him.
Because apparently, the man who was supposed to be taking care of her, was too busy off somewhere tracking down serial killers.
How wildly irresponsible.
"What are you doing?" he asked her sharply as she sunk down onto the couch.
"I told you," she said. "I'm waiting up for Aaron."
"No, you're not. You're going to sleep. I will wait up for Aaron."
She shook her head. "You can go home. Or — wherever you're staying, I guess. I'm good now. Thanks for staying with Declan."
"I will drag you," he threatened.
And he did. Well, more carrying than dragging, but the principle was the same. She'd fallen asleep less than five minutes later so he hoisted her up into his arms and walked down to the end of the hallway and laid her down on the bed in the master room, tucking her into bed.
Tucking her into Hotchner's bed.
If anyone found out about this, he'd have to hand over his balls.
Good thing no one was there besides him, her, and the sleeping children.
He threw a blanket over her body and made sure it was tucked around her feet. Then he refilled the glass of water next to her bed.
And then he went out onto the porch and sat himself down on one of the faded red chairs, gun in his hand, ready just in case. She'd said Hotchner would be home in two hours. He'd keep watch until then.
He gripped his gun a little tighter and stared out into the oncoming storm.
And if anyone Irish happened to drop by, he'd make sure they weren't around to bother Emily ever again.
...
When Hotch finally pulled into the driveway at almost 6 AM, the sky was dark and the rain was still coming down in sheets. The storm was so severe that he probably should've pulled over and waited for it to slow down at a few different points — but so strong was his desire to get back home and make sure Jack was okay, that he had pushed through, pretending that the rain wasn't coming down so hard that he could barely see out of his windshield.
He'd nearly hit a deer somewhere in West Virginia, but that hadn't slowed him down.
Now, nine hours after he'd left Louisville, his eyes were burning and he wasn't sure how he was still awake, but he was finally home.
And there was a man sitting on his front porch with a gun.
Hotch groaned. Emily had told him on the phone earlier that Clyde Easter had come to visit, and that he was staying with Declan — a decision which Hotch thought to be slightly questionable, given Declan and Clyde's respective feelings towards Ian Doyle — but he'd been too frazzled about his son's injury to ask Emily why her old "friend" had come for a visit.
And why was he still there? Emily and Jack had called him again when they were on their way back from the hospital — and her car was in the driveway, so clearly they'd made it home — so why was the Brit still sitting on his porch?
Hotch switched off his headlights and collected his trash from the rental car: two granola bar wrappers, a large paper coffee cup, and an empty grape 5 Hour Energy.
The taste of that alone had been enough to keep him up for five hours — it was somehow bitter and disgustingly sweet at the same time. It definitely woke up his molars.
Next time, he'd stick to espresso.
He pulled the keys out of the ignition and tucked them into the pocket of his dress pants, removed his gun from its holster and wrapped it up in his long-discarded suit jacket so it wouldn't get wet, and yanked his go-bag out of the passenger seat and over his shoulder.
He wished he had an umbrella.
Though the rain was still coming down hard, Hotch made sure to keep an even pace as he approached Clyde on the porch, as though somehow allowing the other man to see him running through the rain would give him the upper hand in whatever conversation he was sure they were about to have — but that didn't change the fact that his dress shirt was soaked through and his hair was dripping cold trickles of rainwater down his face by the time he made it beneath the overhang just a few seconds later.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
"Is she asleep?" Hotch asked then in a low voice, just barely audible over the sound of the rain pummeling on the roof and gushing down the downspout. He hoped the sump pump was running.
"Passed out while eating mac and cheese," Clyde said in an equally low tone, staring at him darkly.
The corner of Hotch's mouth turned up just perceptibly — Clyde did not notice.
Without saying anything further, Hotch opened the front door and deposited his go-bag, gun, jacket, and trash inside. He quickly removed his soaked white button-up shirt and tugged a sweatshirt from the front closet over his damp undershirt.
Hotch used his sleeve to wipe the beads of water off of his face, rubbed his eyes — hopefully he could stay awake for just a bit longer — and then he stuck his head out the front door.
"Can I get you anything?" he asked tightly.
Clyde's surprise showed through his carefully-expressionless mask — good, that had been Hotch's goal, to throw the other man off of his game. He didn't know why Clyde was here, but this time he was going to find out. Even if that meant using some slight interrogation techniques.
Clyde regained his composure quickly. "No," he said darkly, knowing exactly what Hotch was up to. He turned his gaze back towards the dark street.
Hotch nodded and then stepped out onto the porch. He pulled the other faded red chair away from the table before sinking down into it and leaning forward to drag the black plastic tray full of carnations from the nursery a bit closer to the house — some of the rainwater was dripping out of the gutters and pouring into the flowers. Emily would be upset if they got too wet and drowned.
Clyde watched Hotch's movements out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't imagine that Hotchner would actually care about planting flowers — so that meant he was just saving them for Emily's sake.
Hmph.
They sat in silence for a minute or so, both looking out at the rain as it poured down under the street light. It was starting to get a little brighter towards the east — the sun was almost ready to peek over the horizon. Hotch's entire body was exhausted, his eyes felt dry and his eyelids impossibly heavy — he'd been up for twenty-four hours now. All he wanted to do was get inside and crawl into bed.
But not just yet.
"What are you doing here?" he asked Clyde, finally ending the silence.
"Taking care of your children and heavily pregnant girlfriend in your absence," the Brit said accusingly, still staring out into the street.
Hotch's stomach did a backflip. His mouth flattened into a line. "That's not why you're here," he replied flatly.
"No, but it is what I'm doing, isn't it?"
Hotch did not reply, nor did his expression betray the immense guilt that was beginning to settle into his torso and make him feel sick. "Why are you here, Easter?"
Clyde turned to look at him, his piercing blue-gray eyes searching Hotch's face. "You know I can't tell you. Interpol business. And CIA."
"Doyle?"
Clyde didn't answer. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and turning his gaze back to the rain. "She's reckless," he said softly.
"I know."
Clyde's eyes turned sharply upon him. "She's going to get herself killed."
"She can take care of herself."
"But she won't," he spat. "Somehow she's got it in her head that if she survived it once, it means she's invincible. But she's not. She's incredibly vulnerable and she's too stubborn to realize it, let alone admit it. Do you want another dead spouse on your hands?"
Hotch glared. "Of course not," he said tightly, resisting the urge to take a swing at the other man.
"Then you need to keep a close eye on her. And don't leave her alone for days on end in a location where the mob knows exactly where to find her. You cannot continue to gallivant around the country while she stays here like a sitting duck."
"The man who was stalking her is dead," Hotch said.
"He was a pawn. The people interested in her are very dangerous."
"People? Not just Doyle?"
"No, not just Doyle. Maybe not even Doyle."
Hotch's brow furrowed. "Who then? Who else would want to hurt her?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that," he said, standing and tucking his gun into its holster.
"The Irish mob?" Hotch guessed, also standing.
Clyde's face gave a barely-discernible twitch. "Like I said, it's Interpol and CIA business."
"Why would the mob be after her? She was in Italy with Doyle, not America — why would they even know about her?"
Clyde reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and then tossed his matchbook down onto the table.
"A word of advice, Agent Hotchner," he said slowly as an unmarked black car came into view, driving slowly down the road in front of the house. It parked at the end of the driveway and the headlights switched off. "You'd better keep letting her travel with your team, or she might be gone when you get back."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means stop thinking about serial killers for five minutes and start taking care of her. Do not keep leaving her alone like this," he said, pointing at the house. "Or I can assure you, you will come to regret it, just like you regret what happened with your ex-wife."
"Don't talk about Haley," Hotch warned.
Clyde dipped his head. "That's my ride, anyways. I'm sure I'll hear from you again soon, Agent Hotchner. And don't worry — I'm taking care of it. You just focus on taking care of her," he said, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it before stepping out into the rain.
Hotch stayed on the porch for a few minutes, long enough to watch the unmarked car drive off into the storm. He thought about what Clyde had said, guilt settling in — why had he decided to stay in Louisville when Emily had to leave for Declan? If he'd just flown home with her, he could've been there to help — and he would've been home when Jack broke his arm, he could've gone to the hospital with them. Was he prioritizing his position as Unit Chief over his position as her boyfriend, as a father?
Was he making the same mistakes that he had in his marriage?
Hotch turned to go inside when Clyde's matchbook caught his eye — it was silver, with a black four-leaf clover on the cover. A clover that looked a little too similar to the one burned into the flesh on Emily's chest. He reached for it and turned it over — The Black Shamrock, it read. His eyes narrowed. He pocketed it with the intent to look further into it later.
He needed to think — but not now. Now, he just needed to sleep.
Hotch went back into the house, set the alarm, and kicked off his wet black dress shoes. He checked on the boys, still feeling a heavy sense of guilt that he hadn't been around today when they needed him. They were both asleep. Declan had a dark bruise around his left eye, and Jack's broken wrist rested next to his head on the pillow, the glow-in-the-dark plaster casting a light green glow that reflected off of his little face.
He gave each of them a kiss before heading down the hallway into the master bedroom.
Hotch felt almost too guilty to even look at Emily by the time he stood next to their bed, but he did anyway — she was asleep, clutching his pillow against her chest — he felt another twinge in his stomach. She missed him enough that she was clinging to that piece of him in her sleep.
He pulled off his sweatshirt and the damp undershirt underneath, relieved — the wet fabric against his skin was starting to itch. He discarded both on the ground and tugged his dress pants off, now wearing only his boxers. He was about to head to the bathroom to wash his face when he heard Emily stir.
"Aaron?" her sleepy voice mumbled.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yeah. I'm home, sweetheart."
The corners of her mouth turned up, but her eyes didn't open. "How was the drive?"
"Long, but not too bad."
"Did the rain slow you down?"
"Not much — was Jack okay?"
"He's brave," she murmured. "He did great. Lie down with me," she commanded.
He laid down next to her and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck and breathing in the sweet smell of her as he held her tight.
They spoke at the same time:
"Emily, I'm so sorry —" he said.
"I'm so happy you're home."
His eyes started to sting as her arms wrapped around his torso, gently stroking up and down his bare back. "I'm sorry I wasn't here all day," he whispered.
"It's okay," she mumbled. "You were working."
"I shouldn't have been. I'm sorry. I know you and the boys needed me here —"
"I didn't need you here, Aaron," she said, gently massaging the nape of his neck. "Of course, I wanted you here — but I can take care of things like that. Especially when we have a case."
"I don't want you to think that I think work is more important than our family," he said, his voice cracking slightly.
Her fingers stroked his hair and she cradled his head against her chest. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I've never thought that. Not once."
She felt a hot tear drip down onto her collar bone, and her heart broke for him.
"Aaron," she said, fully awake now, her eyes wide with worry. She slid her hand underneath his chin and pulled gently upwards so he'd look at her — and when he did, his eyes were full of unshed tears.
"Babe," Emily whispered, eyebrows pinched together. Her cold fingers gently traced the dark circles beneath his eyes, wiping his tears away. "What's gotten into you?"
He said nothing. She peppered gentle kisses all across his face, and then pressed her forehead against his. "Aaron, look at me."
Slowly he raised his hazel eyes to meet her dark brown ones — his were full of shame, hers of compassion, and both pairs were full of tears.
"I don't know why you're beating yourself up," she said evenly, "but you need to stop, okay? I will never be mad at you for working. I love how dedicated you are to work. I know that was a sticky spot with Haley, but that's one of my favorite things about you. I have never felt abandoned, or neglected — just proud of you. Because I know you're out there doing really hard work — and being a hero."
He tucked his face back against her neck, flushing red — her fingers tangled in his hair, and she kissed the top of his head again.
"I can take care of things here when you're gone. You don't have to worry about us. And you definitely don't have to be out there feeling guilty when you should be focusing on catching unsubs. Our job is hard enough."
After a few seconds, his arms tightened around her. "Emily, I love you. More than anything," he whispered.
"I love you, too, more than anything," she said with a smile, still running her fingers through his hair. "Now come on, under the covers with me." She held up the sheet. "When was the last time you slept?"
"Too long ago," he murmured, tugging her against his side.
Emily snuggled up to him, resting her head on his shoulder and throwing one of her legs over his. He caressed her belly, feeling Bean's little nudges, and Emily gently traced the white scars scattered around his chest, until finally the storm slowed down and the sun began to rise outside, and they both fell asleep.
