A/N: Here is part three. As much as I loved shattering hearts with part two, I'm a sucker for a happy ending and couldn't leave them in such pain. As always, enjoy! 3
...
Oh, I'm a lucky man
To count on both hands the ones I love
After the funeral, they all dive right back into their work with the usual efficiency and urgency as before. It's what makes them the team they are, but it's not the same. It never will be, ever again. They all know the ugly truth like some elephant that hangs in the room, and yet the only way they can begin to look past it is to do what they've always done - solve cases, apprehend unsubs, rinse and repeat.
It's an impossible situation for them all, but it's close to unbearable for him, each day harder than the previous, his grief all consuming and real.
He has to get out. He has to get out of here. Anywhere but here.
Pakistan isn't something he ever imagined agreeing to, but when the opportunity arises, he takes it without question and says his goodbyes to the team. He says it's just temporary and it is. But the truth is, he just can't be there anymore. There's no pardon from the onslaught of grief, and he can't stand the silence that's been a near constant since he said goodbye to her in that drafty hangar almost seven months ago.
It's never silent in Pakistan, he learns quickly, with helicopters and shouting and the constant hum of something or other. Even at night there's the sound of the whistling wind that fills his senses and drowns out most of his thoughts. He doesn't sleep well there at all, but he hasn't slept well in months. The heat is oppressive and cloying, like a blanket wrapped around him too tightly in the midst of a nightmare, but he throws himself into the work and doesn't let himself think about anything for too long.
There are no reminders of her here, but tucked in the bottom of his bag is the Yale sweatshirt she'd left behind on his bed, as if she'd come back the very next day and put it on. It doesn't smell like her anymore - it hasn't in months - but if he just closes his eyes, he can feel her next to him, and suddenly his bed in the middle of a foreign country, thousands of miles from home, doesn't feel so foreign anymore.
Jack takes his absence better than he thought. Jessica barely says a word about any of it. She's confused by it all, that much he knows, but he doesn't have the heart to tell her the full story. She knows the basics - that Emily's death had hit the team pretty hard - but she doesn't know just how hard it hit him. And he won't ever tell her - out of respect to Haley. It just doesn't seem right.
It's not a long-term solution, he's very much aware of that. He's a father first and foremost and his son needs him, which becomes obvious as the weeks tick by. Each time he bids Jack goodnight as he's about to start his day, he knows there's only so long he can stay here, blocking out the reality of what awaits him at home.
...
Morgan calls one day when the sun is scorching and relentless; there isn't a cloud in the sky. It's one of the days he can't think too much, one of the times he feels her loss more intensely than usual, but if he just focuses on the task at hand, she'll fade into the background for a little while. One of the stages of grief, he'd thought that morning, but he's stopped trying to pinpoint exactly which one it is. They all run together at this point - denial, bargaining, anger, depression - it's one big mess. He still hasn't gotten to acceptance. He never will.
"Hotchner."
No one calls him Hotch here. He likes it better that way.
"How's it going out there?" It sounds like he's treading lightly, and Aaron wonders just why Morgan would be calling him out of the blue like this without as much as a warning.
"You know, long days. Some territorial issues to work out." It's just as vague but he can't say much more than that. They never can in this line of work.
"Nothing surprising." Morgan doesn't say anything else, and Aaron is smart enough to know this isn't a social call. He wouldn't be calling without a good reason.
"How's everything there?"
"Hotch, we found Declan Doyle."
There it is.
"What?" He nearly drops the damn phone right in the dirt, stopping in his tracks. So they've been digging around, he thinks. He had a feeling they would eventually, but he'd been so blinded by grief he couldn't focus on the fact that someone else might be grieving just as badly, in their own way. Maybe this is how they coped for so long.
"Listen, I knew that finding the kid was the only way I could find Doyle, Hotch. I know what you're thinking, man."
"Is Declan safe?" That's his first question, because if not, they'll have bigger problems to contend with.
"Yeah, he is for now. I've had surveillance at his house and his school for a few weeks." There's a determination in his voice that Aaron knows all too well; he's seen it firsthand. He knows just what happens when Morgan is set on something. There's no stopping until it's over.
"Morgan, I didn't authorize this." His stomach twists; this could throw everything into a tailspin.
"I know you didn't Hotch, but listen to me. I think Doyle may have found Declan too."
That's all he needs to hear to confirm that the threads are starting to unravel. If someone pulls too hard, the entire thing will fall apart.
"All right, I'm coming back." It's not even a question now.
"You want me to wait?" Morgan sounds incredulous, as if he can't understand what's being said. Patience has never been his strength, Aaron thinks with a shake of his head.
"Morgan, it could be a trap. You make sure you have eyes on Doyle." We can't lose this son of a bitch again. If we lose him again, we'll never get him back. He's too smart for that. And then any chance of her coming home will evaporate.
"And if it is him?"
"Then you take the shot."
He's on a plane within twenty-four hours of taking Morgan's call. It's the first time he's had a chance to think about all of this, and in the cold, dry air of the tiny cabin, he rests his head against the window and wonders just how the fuck he's going to get through this. Just how much they've found, and what they will find the more digging they do, may just completely undo everything he and JJ have buried.
The secrets, the truths, the lies. All of it. It might all come crashing down.
…
They have more intel than he ever thought was possible, and despite the fact his own mind starts to spin, he's never been prouder of his team for the work they've put into this, all on their own time. They did all of this because of her, he thinks. To honor her the only way they knew how to. There are questions to ask and answers to tell but there's more pressing issues at hand as Doyle is brought in for questioning.
Aaron waits behind the glass wall, knowing full well if it were him in that room he'd tear Doyle apart into pieces and enjoy every moment of it. He looks like a broken man - scruffy and tired, and he can't help but notice the parallels between this … criminal and himself. Two men who loved the same woman without question, only to have their own heart decimated by the truths surrounding the circumstances of it all. It isn't sympathy he feels, no definitely not, but an understanding of sorts. A common ground of loss.
Doyle doesn't break, despite Morgan's persistence, not that Aaron expected him to, and soon enough, it becomes painfully clear that she is the only way to get to the bottom of this. "It's time," he says to JJ as he paces down the hall of the BAU with determination.
"Why? Morgan may be able to break Doyle without her."
"Declan tried to make a call. She's on her way."
This is it.
Aaron struggles with what to say to the team because what can he possibly say at this point? Once they're all there in front of him, he starts to speak, making most of it up as he goes, his own voice sounding much more confident than he feels. "As you all know, Emily lost a lot of blood during her fight with Doyle …" Every memory he has of those days is vivid, he remembers it all in perfect, painful detail. Time hasn't spared him an ounce of reprieve.
"She's alive?" Garcia croaks, asking the question that they're all thinking, the tears already starting to roll down her face. She speaks for them all, each of them processing the news in their own unique way.
"But we buried her." Reid's heartache is palpable, Derek's anger even more so, and Rossi just stares between Aaron and JJ, completely at a loss for words.
"Like I said, I take full responsibility. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed towards me." He should take the brunt - this was his doing, after all.
And then Emily is standing there, close enough that he could touch her if he wanted to. He doesn't, because there's a table and five other shocked and confused people between them, but also because if he does, she might disappear again.
Her composure isn't a surprise to any of them, nor is the fact that it's only a matter of minutes before she's all in again, working alongside them without missing a beat. She has answers to all of their questions about the case, and the bits and pieces of what they were missing all along suddenly come together. It's confusing, perplexing even - to watch her just assimilate right back in, and pick up where she left off. Whatever trauma that remains from her past with Doyle isn't even obvious as she questions him only a few hours later, the perfect mix of menacing and determined, and she gets exactly what they need to put an end to all of this. He wants to know how she manages to do it, how she can just … start all over again without as much as a pause. But there isn't time for anything else. Time is ticking.
...
In Baltimore, it's like she never left them at all. They close in on McDermott and Chloe, sirens wailing around the pier, a near constant stream of lights and noise. She and Reid are in charge of Doyle, leading him by the arms to the waiting airplane to make the switch and the air is still; no one dares to breathe. This all rests on a few very critical moments; one wrong move could very well be the end for them all.
It happens impossibly fast - the gunshots take them all by surprise and Emily covers Declan immediately, taking him to the ground smoothly, and shielding his body with her own in one last protective gesture to keep him safe.
Aaron is tempted to rush to her first, to make sure she's alright, but the blood on her arms and face luckily isn't hers. When he goes to secure Doyle he quickly sees there's no need; the end is near. He managed to sustain the blow from at least three of the gunshots, his blood pouring out onto the ground under his abdomen.
"I'm sorry, son," are Ian Doyle's dying words as he lays on the ground in Baltimore. Of all the places for him to die, Aaron thinks ruefully, Baltimore certainly wasn't on the list. When Doyle closes his eyes, Aaron closes his too, not letting himself look at Emily as they all watch the last few moments, and the light fades from his face. Declan is still in her arms as his father takes his final breath.
It's over.
...
It takes longer than he expected to secure the scene, but eventually the Baltimore PD takes over, because this is in their hands now and this is their jurisdiction. The Bureau has been calling him all night; news travels fast, apparently, with the news of Emily's sudden, unexpected arrival causing a mini uproar even though it's past midnight. He deals with those phone calls and a few from Erin Strauss, assuring her it will be taken care of.
"This is just the beginning, Agent Hotchner," she says icily, and Aaron all but ignores her. They'll figure it out later. Tonight, he has other priorities, none of them involving the bureau or any of Strauss's demands.
It's the middle of the night by the time they finally get the go ahead to leave Baltimore. Emily left hours ago with Declan, to take him back to Virginia and get things settled, even though things won't settle for quite some time. Aaron can't help but feel sympathy for the poor kid, who'd waited for the car with a despondent look on his face, Emily at his side. She didn't leave him once, and she'd all but ignored Aaron's requests for her to be seen by a paramedic, too.
He drives alone back to Quantico, with nothing but his thoughts for company.
Their last moments in the hangar six months ago play at the forefront of his mind, like a loop movie on repeat. It's a raw memory; he remembers every moment of their exchange. The way she'd felt in his arms, pliant and fragile, the salty tears on her skin and his as they'd kissed, the scent of her perfume and shampoo as he'd said his final goodbyes. He'd memorized the angles of her face, the curves of her body and he still remembers those too; it's what's gotten him through some of the darker days and nights. But of course he remembers the fraught, desperate way they'd clung to each other in those final moments, knowing they may never have another. There's nothing similar to a pain like that, he's found.
"She's in my office," Rossi says when Aaron strides through the doors, looking for her, only to find the entire bullpen empty, like a ghost town. It's like he reads right through him. "Sent her up there to get some rest when she refused to come to my place. She looked like hell. So do you. Maybe take a few days to yourself? I don't think the place will fall apart without you. We've survived this long."
"Dave," Aaron begins, knowing full well he owes his friend an explanation of everything, but not sure where to start.
"Aaron," Rossi's expression changes, this time he's serious. "Let it be known I've had my suspicions about this from the beginning. About the two of you."
"Dave," he tries again to no avail, still unable to find the words he needs.
"Luckily, that doesn't matter anymore. What I do know I have watched you mourn Emily for months, aching for a chance to redo all the things you never did. The rest can be figured out tomorrow. Now go up there, take her 're getting a second chance. Not many people in your shoes will ever be able to say the same. Don't throw it away."
"You … you knew?" Aaron blinks, as if he didn't hear Rossi at all.
"I'm old, Aaron. I'm not stupid. Plus, I've been in your shoes once or twice myself." Rossi winks, the lines on his face wrinkling with years of wisdom. "I wasn't sure at first and God knows I wouldn't have asked you then. But seeing you today told me all I need to know."
Aaron can only nod, swallowing the heaviness in his throat as Dave gives him a friendly clap on the back before disappearing out of the BAU. It's just us now, he thinks as he ascends the stairs.
Emily is dozing on Rossi's couch, her hand tucked under her cheek, lips pursed, and her knees curled up. Despite the small space, she appears to be somewhat comfortable, her eyes closed peacefully, her chest rising and falling. There's a blanket tossed over her lap, a piece of hair in her face. And he doesn't have the heart to wake her right away, when it's probably been so long since she's gotten any sleep at all.
Through his sobs (and hers too) he'd tried to console her that night, and tell her it wouldn't be forever. At the time, there was no way of knowing for sure. He'd told her he loved her - it was the truth then, still is now. She'd told him the same - that she loved him, but she'd shaken her head, clearly not believing his promise to bring her home. She's resigned herself to her fate. He's never not loved her, and as he watches her sleep, he closes his eyes and opens them again, just to make sure she's still there..
It takes another moment to realize that not only is she awake, but she's talking to him.
"Aaron? How long have you been sitting there?" Emily is watching him from her place on the couch, yawning and stretching her limbs.
"A couple of minutes," he says, getting up from his chair and moving closer to her.
"Liar," she mutters, glancing at the clock on the wall. "It's been at least an hour, hasn't it?"
She knows him well. Looking at the clock, he sees she's right. "Something like that."
"Rossi needs to get a better couch," she complains, grimacing. "I think I threw my back out."
"I'm not surprised. It's time to go home." Aaron crouches down next to her, putting a hand on her arm. "You can't sleep here all night." As she opens her eyes, he wonders just how many places she's slept in the last seven months. He'll probably never know, and he's not sure if he wants to, anyway.
"I don't have anywhere to go, Aaron." She glances around the office, her eyes hazy with fatigue. "Remember?" It's a heart-wrenching reminder of everything that's happened. The last few hours have been a blur - it seems barely plausible that not long ago he was in Pakistan and she was … well … still dead, officially. None of this is normal, yet having her back there, in the BAU, is the closest thing to normalcy he's felt in months.
"Come with me." He doesn't take his eyes off her, even when she averts hers. "We'll figure the rest out in the morning."
"It is morning." She tilts her head in the direction of the clock; she seems uncomfortable, as if looking in his eyes is too much. "I need to check on Declan in a few hours, anyway."
"We will," he assures her, his thumb brushing over her forehead, then his fingers running down her face. "I'll take you there myself. But please, let's go home for a little while."
"You're still persistent, I see." Something close to a smile tentatively stretches across her face. "I'm not surprised." And then she nods in a reluctant agreement, rising from the leather couch. She only stumbles a little bit down the stairs, but Aaron still reaches out, steadying her with his hand on the small of her back.
The trip back to his apartment is quiet, both of them lost in their own respective, complicated thoughts. When he pulls into the parking lot, she glances up at his building, a touch of apprehension on her face.
"You ready?"
He's not sure who he's asking at this point.
His heart is pounding, but the only place to go is up.
…
"Where's Jack?"
It's the first thing she asks when they step into his apartment, after he's fumbled with the keys in his hands and they've climbed the steps. There's no sign of his son anywhere - no backpack or sneakers by the chair, no toys or sports equipment littering the doorway. The entire place is spotless, as if no one even lives there. He doesn't miss the concern in her voice when she tentatively takes a few steps further inside, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in.
"He's with Jessica at Hershey Park for the weekend."
"But -" she shakes her head, confused. The place is spotless, she realizes upon further inspection. Blankets neatly folded on the couch, the pillows perfectly straight, even the vacuum lines on the carpets. "What's going on, Aaron? Why does it look like no one's lived here in months?"
"No one has." He reaches for the bag in her hands, setting it down on the floor. "I've been in Pakistan since the spring."
She does a double take, her eyes widening. "Pakistan? What the hell were you doing there?"
"Special assignment." It's the truth, but not the whole truth, and she sees right through it, like he knew she would.
"You left the team? After everything that happened? You left them and went to Pakistan? Just like that?"
He hadn't expected her to call him out this fast. "I couldn't be here anymore, Emily. I … I had to get away." It sounds so cowardly now, he's refused to admit to himself she was the reason he left, but it's so abundantly clear.
Her lips curl in a scowl. "That's not the Aaron I know," she says, hardly bothering to hide her disappointment.
"I lost you, Emily. We all lost you … it was -"
"You're not the only one who lost someone, Aaron. I lost all six of you." She folds her arms defiantly over her chest, her face full of disappointment. "They needed you."
"How can you say that? We wouldn't have lost you if you'd only told us the truth from the beginning." It's not what he meant to say, but it's what comes out, and she recoils as if she's been slapped, her face growing pale.
"I couldn't, she hisses, anger flashing in her eyes. "You don't see that by now? If you can't then maybe I shouldn't be here in the first place." She spins on her heel, taking a few steps toward the door, but he's faster, and wraps his hand around her arm. "Let me go, Aaron."
I won't ever let you go again, Emily, is what he thinks and squeezes a little tighter. "I don't want to fight, Emily. Not tonight. I know there's a lot to discuss, but … please … not tonight. Please stay."
She pulls her arm free, taking a few cautionary steps away from him, turning in a circle around his living room, looking around at the familiarity, and it hits her just how much time has passed. He's changed nothing - he didn't have the heart to. It's almost exactly as it was the day she left. It's been cleaned, a few things put away, the mail sorted, less clutter, but other than that, it's the same.
"I remember the last time I was here," she whispers now, stepping further into the kitchen now. "Do you remember? It was a Sunday morning."
How could he ever forget? They'd had coffee, just the two of them, in the morning sunlight on the very same couch she just walked past. He'd made it - he'd started keeping her favorite brands around even if they made him grimace - and she sat, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, her face free of makeup, her legs tucked beneath her and a steaming mug in her hand. They'd whispered and laughed even though it was just the two of him, his hand casually resting on her bare thigh as he sipped his own coffee, wondering just how he'd ever gotten this lucky.
And then, after coffee, and breakfast too, he'd taken her back to his room, tossing her onto his bed playfully, only stopping long enough to pull his own shirt from his body and then pushing hers up over her hips. He'd followed her down, bringing her legs over his shoulders and taking her apart with his mouth until he had to silence her moans to keep the neighbors from hearing. He'd done so with his lips, moving up and over her, loving the way her legs still shook as he'd pushed inside of her in one smooth motion. She'd sighed with pleasure when he started to move, arching up into him with a moan. A few rocks of his hips, some well-timed strokes of his thumb are all she'd needed and she'd buried her face in his neck and bit down with a whimper, bringing him with her seconds later.
It'd been peaceful, a blissful moment in time, one of the last ones he can actually remember being at ease and happy.
Of course, it'd all been over just days later, and most of the memories like that are just splintered fragments. But that one … that one he'll never forget.
"Of course I remember."
She says nothing; she only smiles. She remembers it too.
...
It's not the passionate, cliché rushed encounter he'd imagined it would be once they're in his room. It's anything but frantic, instead it's tentative, as if they're relearning one another, afraid to make a mistake. They've already made enough of those for a lifetime.
Their clothes become a pile on the floor, first one piece and then the next until everything is gone, just the smooth slide of her skin against his. He just wants to look at her, to remember her, and when he comes up and over her, her eyes darken in the dim light and he realizes she's shaking.
"What's wrong?" He peppers her face with kisses, only to pull away and see her staring back up at him, her eyes dark and full. "Are you alright?"
"Aaron," her hands are pressed against his chest, with the weight of him above her. "You don't know about it, do you?"
Only when she covers her chest with her hand does he realize what she means. He knows Doyle had branded her just hours before they arrived at the warehouse. He'd read the reports; he'd talked to the doctors. He knew it was there, but he'd never actually seen it for himself. The thought of it had made him sick - to consider what Doyle was willing to put her through as revenge. Her face flushes in shame.
"Emily," he says softly, pulling away just enough to give her space but not enough to let her pull away completely. "Emily, sweetheart." He catches her wrists in his hands, keeping his gaze on hers. "I know already."
"You do?"
He nods. "I saw the report."
She blinks. That makes sense; of course we would have seen that. It doesn't stop her from averting her gaze, or her hands from trembling.
He pins her hands down gently, just enough that she can't try to push him away, and he glances down, staring at the crude branding of a four leaf clover just above her left breast. It's healed, of course, but it still looks angry and red, misshapen and discolored. Her eyes are on the ceiling as he inspects it carefully, unable to watch his reaction.
"I was going to get it fixed." She sounds almost apologetic, trembling when he lowers his head to get a better look at it. "It's ugly," she adds with a grimace. "But … I don't know. I never … I don't know if I could." There's baggage there too, he knows that. Baggage he'll never understand fully, and he's not sure he's supposed to. Maybe one day. She's watching him now, her hand pushing into his hair, threading her fingers through the thick strands. "I hate it, you know."
His fingers trace over the mottled skin, gently, but with just enough pressure she knows it's him and no one else there with her. "Stop," he soothes, cupping her head with his hand and pulling her up to him. "Nothing about you is ugly. Not now, not ever." Aaron's firm voice is a complete juxtaposition to the tenderness of his hands, and it burns a little bit when she lifts her eyes to his once again.
He means every word he says, just like always.
"I have them too, you know," he says, kissing her cheeks and her forehead, bringing her hand to cover the puckered flesh on his right side, and then her other hand to his left. His scars are still there, the aftermath of Foyet, even after two years, and her knees tighten against his sides when she feels them, as real as the one she has now. She's seen them before; they're nothing new. But it's his reminder to her, in his own unique way, that he isn't angry with her, that he still accepts her. He's leveled the field, humanized her, made sense of the last seven months in one of the only ways he can.
"Look at us," she almost laughs, moving her hands up to his face, cupping his chin in her hands. "We're a mess." Then a tear escapes from the corner of one of her eyes, her forehead pressed against his. "A complete, total mess."
"I don't care. I missed you," he chokes, wishing he could just pull himself together. "I missed you so fucking much." They could be a mess or not, and he wouldn't even care, just as long as she's with him, and there aren't thousands of miles between them.
"I know." Emily presses her lips to his because if she doesn't silence him, she'll start to cry too, more than she already has. She's missed him too. More than she ever thought was possible.
Aaron slips his arm underneath of her to cradle her against him, unable to fully comprehend the fact that he gets to do this once more (and hopefully again and again after this time). She fits against him perfectly like she always did.
They've done this before, so many times. Some have been rushed and frantic, in the middle of the night in hotel rooms across the country. Others have been slow and tender, in the early morning hours in the solace of her apartment, or his. He'd never taken her for granted, yet he'd never anticipated the fact that one day she would just be gone.
And because of that, he savors every possible second of it this time around. He takes his time, using his mouth and hands to bring her as close as he can only to pull back, enjoying the way she moans in frustration when he won't just let her go. It's a build up, seven months of time between them, and there's not much she can do than just let it happen. He knows she's trying to relax, to enjoy it but she's so damn close, her entire body flushing red with effort, her legs shaking within minutes. But he's not ready for it to end just yet. He wants her to enjoy this, no matter how long it takes.
"Now, Aaron," she whispers when he comes over her once again, settling between her legs and lowering himself enough to kiss her as he shifts, adjusts, and pushes into her, slowly so she can adjust to him. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs that sigh he's heard before, but this time it nearly takes the air right out of his lungs. "God, you feel good."
"Em," he manages a whisper too, kissing her wherever his mouth will reach. He knows she's close; it won't be long now. "I love you." And then he moves, a quick push of his hips only to do it again, this time with a bit of force, and her eyes pop open in surprise.
"I love you too," she breathes, pulling him close to her and lifting her hips to meet the insistence of his. "God, I love you," she repeats right before she breaks, her body melding against his as she takes him right over with her.
She's exhausted afterward and so is he, as they lay in each other's arms in the dark. There will be plenty of time for talking later, tomorrow, and in the days to come. Now, it's all about peace. Peace of mind that she's home and he's here too, peace in the fact that all of this is over. Peace that yes, they'll get another chance, and they better not fuck this one up.
"It's just us, sweetheart," he breathes in her ear when she tenses in his arms a few moments later. There's a rattling against the windows - a tree in the wind - that sets her guard off, and he soothes her with a few kisses and a caress of his hand down her back. "You're safe." She hasn't stopped looking over her shoulder in the last seven months, maybe more. It'll take time, he reminds himself to be patient with her. "You're safe," he says again, noticing how she relaxes against him at the sound of his voice.
She snuggles against him, unable to get any closer than she already is. "I know."
"I told you we'd bring you home," he says, kissing the top of her head.
"I never doubted you would, you know. Not for a second."
It's all he needs to hear.
..