Chapter One

Quantico, Virginia was never where Emily thought she would end up. Virginia was never supposed to be the place she called home, at least not permanently. Sure, she'd been through the Academy, but that was almost ten years ago. The FBI had bases across the continent and, for years now, Emily had enjoyed bouncing between them. Most recently, she'd been in the Midwest, in Chicago, in St Louis. She never stayed in one place for too long, and she never stayed long enough to put down any roots. Virginia, however much she might like the city, however much she might know the city, was much too close to her. Luckily for Emily, Elizabeth was hardly the maternal type, so she doubted she'd be getting a surprise visit any time soon. For the time being, at least, she was safe, while she found her footing in her new job.

Since childhood, Emily had been a loner. She didn't build bridges, she didn't exchange personal information and she definitely didn't invite any deeper connections. Connections, romantic or platonic, were messy, unnecessary and, she had learned early on, only hurt in the end. The only friends she had ever considered herself close to, the only friends she had ever wanted to keep around, where Matthew and John, and even they hadn't heard from her in years, although she liked to keep her own tabs on them from afar. That, however, was how she liked it. Anything more than the surface level civility to which she would occasionally consent was just dangerous. That was why Emily had liked the Midwest so much. She had been in constant motion, moving from city to city, never in one place long enough to put down roots that anybody else could pull out of her solid ground. Putting down roots, Emily had learned, did nothing but hold you down and hold you back. Roots were the things that let you get hurt, not the things that let you grow. Emily had learned that time several times over, and each time had hurt more than the one before. The lesson had gotten through to her at an early age, and she had stuck to it's teachings ever since.

So, it begged the question, how had Emily Prentiss found herself back in Virginia, almost nine years to the day after leaving it, supposedly for good? It was more through necessity than choice. There had been a couple of...incidents. Regardless of all of her efforts to distance herself from people, regardless from whether she managed to refrain from getting attached, whether she got along with the people she worked with, whether or not she had friends, which she didn't, Emily still had one fatal flaw. She always took the cases to heart.

It was the first and most important lesson they taught at the Academy. Separate yourself from the situation, maintain a professional distance, compartmentalise. With the horrors she came across in her job, on an almost daily basis, that was the way it had to be.

Emily had excelled at the academy. She'd been top of her class, had won awards and had set new records at the shooting range. But, still, there was one lesson she had never learned. That first and most important one. She felt it all, deeply and personally. Each case, Emily poured a little of herself into it, lost a little of herself to it. Sometimes, more often than not, that got her into trouble. More than once, Emily had questioned the chain of command, had disobeyed direct orders to do what she thought was best, which was never a good idea. But Emily had done it anyway. Perhaps, somewhere inside of her, there was still a hint of the Ambassador's daughter; the spoiled, elitist child who always got her own way and who was used to being catered to and used to people bending to her will. But, she wasn't in her mother's house anymore. But, back in Chicago, she wasn't the daughter of Ambassador Prentiss; she was SA Emily Prentiss. Not even SSA, since that had been taken away months before, over a similar set-to with a previous boss. Quickly, she was earning a name for herself among the FBI circles. She was becoming known as someone who was difficult to work with; a rogue who had difficulty following orders. That, she knew, could describe half of the FBI task force, but as a woman, and as the daughter of an Ambassador, who people already assumed got the job based on her mother's merits rather than her own, Emily didn't get any leeway. Regardless of her impressive academy reputation, no one wanted that girl on their team.

So, when the call came, with the offer of a job, her Supervisory status back, and a clean record, Emily had been shocked, but she had been forced to weigh her options. It was, in many ways, a no-brainer. It was a permanent job. Or, as permanent as they came for Emily: a year, at the very least. And then there was a question of the debt she would be entering into, which would eventually need to be paid. Once again, that arrogant child she used to be raised her head. Emily, though she hated to admit it, was her mother's daughter in many ways; one of which being that she hated to be indebted to anybody. But, she knew that if she didn't take the job, she was going to lose it all. If she did take the job, her slate would be wiped clean, she could start again, start working her way up the ladder and make a name for herself, without Elizabeth's help. She was a good agent. Her credentials spoke for themselves, her record and her Academy score sheets, too. It was the following orders part that she had never been particularly good at.

Virginia wasn't so bad, Emily reasoned, as she tucked her hands into her pocket away from the cold, and wandered down a street that was familiar. The city hadn't change much in the decade since she'd been a student here. A few of her old favourite haunts had closed down, new bars springing up in their place, but such was the nature of a busy and transient city. The roads too, looked as though they'd been relaid a couple of times while she was away, and there were definitely more skyscrapers and blocks than there had been back then but, all-in-all, it was the city she knew, the city she recognised.

Having moved around so much as a kid, Emily had never really enjoyed any stability. There was no single family house that she remembered more than any of the others; every house she'd ever lived in melded into one inside of her head, created a sort of labyrinth of rooms in her head that she could picture herself running through. In each room, she was a little older, a little younger; she could never really tell which house was which or which house was when. So, there had never been a home. Virginia wasn't home, either, but Emily thought it might be the closest she would get to one.

One of the bars she remembered, a little Irish pub, was not too far away from the Academy, and Emily found herself heading in that direction by pure habit. If it was still there, she knew that it would be quiet on a Sunday night, and she didn't want to head back to her new apartment just yet. It still smelled like the Chinese food she had ordered in the night before, and it was too cold. The downside of moving so much was that she'd never bought any furniture, never decorated an apartment for a permanent stay, but she thought she may at least have to buy a rug for the new place, if only to keep her toes warm.

The twenty-nine year old followed the steps that her younger self knew so well, ones she remembered regardless of the decade that lay between the two, until she found herself standing outside of the familiar bar, it's green sign just as bright as it had been when she was ten years younger. The K in O'Keefe's flickered, just a little bit, but besides that, it was exactly the same. Now, the shamrock held more meaning than it had for her back then and Emily took a moment, staring up at that sign, to think back on the Emily of the decade before, and she shook her head at her naivete. She had absolutely no idea what was in store for her next.

Making her way into the bar, Emily half expected to bump into some familiar faces; a couple of classmates from the FBI, the same old barman who knew her order off by heart, a couple of the old regulars she used to sing old Irish drinking songs with. She spotted one. He was an old man, who had seemed ancient when she was younger. He used to hand out by the jukebox and play the same song on repeat and, sure enough, Emily could hear the drone of Piano Man throughout the pub. With the notes, a wave of nostalgia washed over her and, suddenly, she felt ten years younger again. The server behind the bar, however, was new. A woman, not the old guy with the red hair and the beard that she remembered. She was wiping down the bar, but glanced up at Emily as she entered, offering her a toothy smile.

"What can I get you?" She asked, and Emily noted that she, at least, had a similar Irish accent to the one that her old bar tender used to have.

Emily cast a glance around the place, with it's old, polished oak floors and it's outdated wallpaper, it's huge bar that extended all along the right wall, lined with beer pumps. It was as quiet as she had anticipated it would be. The same old guy, who she smiled at, but in whose eyes she saw no recognition. A couple of groups of students, from the looks of them, rowdy and laughing, even on a Sunday evening. A guy sitting by himself at the other end of the bar, staring into his scotch as though he wanted to fall into it.

"I'll take a glass of red," Emily returned the girls smile as she took up a seat at the bar, though it fell from her dark painted lips quickly. "Rioja, if you've got it."

They didn't have it, and Emily shouldn't have been surprised, so she ordered a glass of the house red, instead. It was bitter and sweet at the same time, but it was red wine. She shouldn't have expected anything special from a student bar. The wine was as shit as she remembered it being, and suddenly Emily wondered what had encouraged this short and nostalgic trip down memory lane. Even back then, Emily had known what good wine tasted like, and this absolutely was not it. She was eyeing the short glass of scotch glass at the end of the bar, wondering if perhaps she should have opted for a spirit instead of the wine, when she realised the man who wanted to drown in his drink was staring at her. She frowned, offended, her eyes wide with a question, what are you looking at?, before she realised she had been staring at him first.

Averting her eyes without so much as a smile, not wanting to invite any conversation, Emily lifted her wine glass to her lips, thinking that, even if the wine sucked, she would at least get a good night's sleep tonight. What she wasn't expecting, was for drowning guy to sidle into the seat beside her, or for him to speak to her.

"The scotch is pretty good," He said, tilting the glass in her direction. Even in her peripheral vision, Emily could see his attempt at a smile. Emily glanced towards him, then to the glass in his hand, and back again, calculatingly.

"Yeah, I'll bear it in mind," She replied, curtly, hoping to discourage this conversation. He didn't seem to want to take the hint, however, and was still looking at her. She avoided his eyes, instead looking at her glass, but, apparently, he wasn't taking the hint.

"You're not from around here," He prompted, looking at her with warm eyes, "You've been here before, but not for a long time."

That perked Emily's interest. She was intrigued by his summation of her, and Emily raised an eyebrow at him, surprised. "Oh? Care to explain how you've come to that conclusion, strange man in a bar?"

He smirked a little at her comment. "Well, when you first came in, you paused on the threshold. I watched you glance-"

"You watched me?" Emily raised an eyebrow, "You know that's creepy, right?"

"Pretty woman walks into a bar, it catches my attention. I apologise if that makes you uncomfortable." He explained, and, regardless of the playful nature of his tone, Emily thought she could hear sincerity there. "May I continue?" She gestured for him to go on, lifting her glass to her lips once more. "I watched you glance around, like you were looking for something. You smiled, just a little, like you were comfortable. You recognised him," He indicated the old man, who was once again queuing up Piano Man on the jukebox, "Although he didn't recognise you, awkward-" Emily laughed at that, "But not her-" He indicated the Irish barmaid, "And she's been working here for a good few years now. Believe me, I'd know."

He wasn't looking at her, but at the amber liquid he was swirling around in his short glass, and Emily took the moment to regard him. How curious. And she thought she was the one who was good at reading people; hell, it was her job, she ought to be good at it. But he had gotten all of that information, and all of it correct, from just a glance. How curious.

"So," He was smiling down into his glass now, as she regarded him, the roles having been reversed, "How did I do?"

"Emily." She said, offering her hand out to him. He regarded it a moment, before extending his own.

"Aaron." He took her hand, shaking it. He didn't let it go, though, glancing down at her hands. "And you bite your nails." He shook his head, though Emily thought she saw a smirk on his thin lips. "It's an awful habit, you know."