Present Day

My mind is shouting the name Morgana on repeat, louder and louder, until it's almost all I can think about, until it takes up all the space in my head and forces out all other conscious thought. Morgana, Morgana, Morgana.

Emily is staring at me, almost concerned, eyes so soft and exactly the way I remember them when she used to look at me. She must have asked if I'm alright because her lips move, but I don't hear any sound. I'm not sure of the answer anyway, so I say nothing.

There are so many questions I want to ask, so many things I want to say. Things like 'But you're supposed to be dead!' Things like 'Let me protect you.' Things like 'I love you...' Exactly none of them are safe to say while we're being watched.

I'm not sure she'd want to hear them anyway. I've spent the last fifteen years thinking of her daily, but for all I know, I'm nothing but a ghost to her.

I swallow all the dangerous words sitting on my tongue before they can escape and do any damage. It feels like swallowing thorns, scraping at my throat all the way down until it feels rough and raw, until it feels like blood should come bubbling out my mouth.

"You could lose all of them if you don't help us out here – talk to us and we'll protect you and your children," I say, when the burning has finally died down and the silence has stretched on so long it might as well have been an eternity. I'm not sure what I'm implying they need protection from...maybe Ian, though I doubt after fifteen years together he's any threat to them, even if he's a very dangerous man.

I can see the 'Fuck you' blazing in her eyes, a mama bear whose cubs have been threatened and I'm standing directly between them. "If you want to protect us, you'll leave us alone." It's calm and collected and oh so very cold – it's almost a threat. I've never known her eyes to be so icy, not towards me, at least.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Em-Lauren." I wince at the slip. I'm sure she's innocent, but I say it anyway because there's a script I'm expected to follow. "You're a material witness at best, at worst a co-conspirator."

That seems to get a rise out of her. I can see in the set of her jaw, in the tightening fists, that she's fighting the urge to chew her nails. She taps her foot nervously instead. "Excuse me? Since when am I a suspect?" Her voice is imperious, with a hint of disbelief.

She isn't really – we have no useable evidence against her – but we're hoping to knock her off balance long enough to get her to admit something of use against Doyle since she doesn't seem about to incriminate him on her own.

Unfortunately, she's rock solid. She always has been. "Charge me or let me go," she says on a sigh and I can suddenly see every one of the fifteen years in her face. Her eyes are begging me for compassion, to remember what we used to be...

As if I could ever forget.

Not a day goes by where I don't think of her. Of what we were, what we could have been, if fate had been kinder. I still wear her ring on a chain around my neck, as a reminder; I want to touch it now, but don't want to give away too much of myself.

My head is muzzy and my mouth feels like it's full of cotton and how can she possibly still have this effect on me after fifteen years? I open my mouth, hoping the words will come to me, but they don't and I just gape stupidly for a few moments.

I'm startled by a sharp knock on the two-way glass and I excuse myself, glad for an excuse to put a little space between myself and the woman whom a part of me still cares deeply for.

Hotch's expression is something akin to 'the fuck, dude?' or, it would've been, if he weren't Hotch. I just shake my head because what else is there to do? He either doesn't know what to say or he's saving the dressing down for later because he says nothing. His silence does nothing to make me feel any better.

Garcia is looking at me like she's got a lot she wants to say on the matter, but it isn't her place. I'm grateful she doesn't say it because I know she sees right through me like I'm as insubstantial as smoke and I really don't think I can handle her well-meaning words, her all-knowing gaze right now.

"I think we should let her see her kids," I say suddenly when no one else says anything, surprising even myself.

Hotch's brows leap up his forehead. "She hasn't asked to see them," he points out. What he really means is that it isn't according to procedure.

I scramble for a logical reason, not having planned on saying that. "Right now, she's our best shot at putting Doyle away and she's not exactly being cooperative," I counter, gesturing towards the interrogation room where she's the picture of calmness. "Maybe if she's reminded of what's at stake, she'll be more inclined to help us."

Eventually, he nods, but he doesn't appear to be happy about it, not that I'd expected him to be. This isn't about him, though...

It's about Emily.

And, my mind whispers traitorously, Morgana.