A/N: Thank you, as always, for supporting the story. I really appreciate every review, follow and favourite. Hope you enjoy the update - there's lots of drama ahead!

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The thudding bass of his neighbour's music pounded through the floor, its rhythm disturbing any illusion of peace and quiet, but also ending the eerie silence which had filled the late afternoon. It was a relief not to hear every car door slamming in the street below – his frazzled nerves couldn't have taken much more of that. But he was far from calm.

With an anxious glance, he pulled the curtains apart and cast an eye over the dark world outside. Under the orange glow of the streetlights, some kids lurked on the sidewalk, daring anyone to ask them to move out of the way. Across the street, TV screens beamed an unearthly blue light from dimly lit apartments. Life was proceeding as it ought to. No one outside of his paper thin walls had any idea of what was coming.

Perching on the edge of an armchair, he found himself playing out the scenes his imagination has spent hours creating. Gloved hands lifted fingerprints from every surface they'd touched and extracted DNA from each cigarette end they'd tossed away. There hadn't been time to clean; there had barely been time to disappear.

A cough, from the otherwise motionless body on the couch, reminded him of what had caused him so much trouble. Connor was starting to stir. He'd have to deal with that soon. Until they were out of the city, he couldn't risk losing control of his friend. Not after he'd already given their location, and most likely their identities, to the FBI.

The buzzing of his cell phone caused him to jump, reaffirming his level of anxiety.

"Have you found somewhere?" he demanded, making no time for pleasantries.

His face contorted into an irritable scowl as the caller chastised him for his tone, but relaxed as they proceeded to give him the news he needed.

"You're sure it's not linked to anyone?" he questioned, that sense that he was being hunted closing in once again.

The caller reassured him that the address he'd provided was perfectly clean. No one would have reason to look for them there. Then the old family friend determined it was time to share some words of wisdom.

"I've got it," he snapped. "I'm not Liam, and he's not Doyle. The delivery's handled – we'll be gone before then."

And just as it had begun, the conversation was over without a trace of small talk.

As he slipped the phone away and performed another quick scan of the street, he reached into his pocket for the remaining pills. There were just enough to repeat the same dose as earlier. Crouching by the coffee table, he pressed them against the hard, smooth surface, grinding a glass over the top, until all that remained was gritty, white dust. After a brief pause to ensure he wasn't being watched, he brushed the powder into the glass, topping it up with the contents of a can of soda. The liquid fizzed as he swirled the mixture around, and then it settled to resemble its previous innocuous self.

Just in time.

"Damien?" Connor mumbled, his tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth. "What's going on?"

Feeling an immediate sense of panic, Damien reached for the glass and pressed it to his friend's lips. The inflamed bite mark on his forearm served as a painful reminder of trying to get Connor out of the warehouse before the drugs kicked in. He couldn't risk him becoming too aware of his surroundings.

"You're sick," he replied, the lie sticking in his throat. "You need to drink."

He tipped the glass to a steeper angle, letting the sweet, tainted contents spill onto Connor's lips. Slowly, the drowsy and disoriented man swallowed the liquid.

"All of it," Damien encouraged, his hands trembling slightly as Connor obeyed.

This was why business and friendship shouldn't mix. Anyone else would be dead by now, but he couldn't kill someone who'd been closer to him than a brother since grade school.

"That's it," he praised, placing the empty glass on the floor and using his thumb to wipe the residue of the drink from the other man's chin. "Just sleep."

/
/

Oddly, it was the sensation of being relaxed and safe which eventually caused Emily to sit bolt upright in bed. Her stomach flipped as she chastised herself for being so off guard. And then she remembered where she was, and some of the calm surged back.

It didn't take long to realise she'd been moved upstairs to Derek's old bedroom. There was a slight smell of dust from a radiator which hadn't been turned on in a long time, and the double bed was a little too big for the room, but other than that it didn't seem much had changed since he was a child. The walls were a cheerful blue, and the collection of football trophies and awards filled two shelves, forming a memorial to his past life. She smiled at the thought of how proud his mother would have been each time he came home with the news of a win or achievement, but her grin faltered as images of Carl Buford entered her mind. The boy who had been raised here had known a lot of love, but he'd also endured things no child should have to suffer.

The sound of the grown-up Derek's laughter drifted upstairs and reached her ears, causing her lips to curl once again. She hated what had brought them here and everything she'd put him through, but seeing his family was good for him. That easy going teasing and overt closeness was something she'd never really experienced with her own relatives, but it came so naturally to the Morgans.

As she slowly slipped out of bed, testing her stability before getting to her feet, it was thoughts of family which filled her head. An unfamiliar feeling lingered from her dreams. It wasn't unpleasant but it was accompanied by the same unsettledness which had drawn her from her sleep.

There had been a baby – Lucy, but not Lucy. The infant had looked the same. Same eyes gazing up at her and the same weight nestled in the crook of her arm. But an entirely different feeling.

She'd been a mother. Not just pretending, but properly. The baby she'd been holding was one she was going to see grow into a toddler and a teenager. It was one who would scrape her knees falling off the jungle gym, only to be picked up and comforted by her father's muscular arms, and one who's excited smile would bring magic to every holiday.

Family – not quite the nightmare of cold guns and hot breath that she'd feared, but it seemed to leave her just as restless.

/
/

By the time she joined Derek and Fran downstairs, Emily had done her best to shake off her dream. The sudden pull of motherhood wasn't something she had room for in her already bursting mind. For now her pain was under control, and she was feeling better than she had in days, but she had more than enough problems to be dealing with.

"Hey, you're up!" Derek smiled, getting up from the table and crossing the kitchen towards his girlfriend.

Emily was wearing the sweatshirt he'd left at the foot of the bed, the sleeves hanging over her hands as she wrapped her arms around her torso. She hovered by the door, suddenly reluctant to intrude on time the mother and son were spending together.

When Derek came close, pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek, she was a little confused. They weren't the sort of couple who needed the constant displays of affection. But it made sense when he whispered in her ear as she pulled away.

"She knows everything," he informed her. "I had to explain."

She turned towards his mother, stopping herself from frowning as she noted the older woman's changed expression. Fran was watching her with a mixture of sympathy, admiration and the slightest trace of fear, which made her wonder exactly what Derek meant by "everything".

"How are you feeling?" Fran asked, as the couple headed back to the table.

"Better, thanks," Emily smiled, allowing Derek to pull out her chair and help her sit down.

"Can I get you something to eat?" she continued. It was hard not to treat Emily differently, knowing about her past and all that had happened in recent weeks, but it also increased Fran's instinctive need to take care of her.

"I don't want to put you to any trouble," Emily replied, despite the fact her stomach was growling quietly. It was after ten o'clock and dinner was clearly long over with for the others.

"Emily, you need to eat," Derek reminded her, trying not to sound like he was nagging, but mentally counting the hours since her last meal.

"She's just being polite, right honey?" Fran smiled knowingly, already getting to her feet. "Do you want some soup?"

"Thank you," Emily nodded, returning Fran's smile as the other woman saw straight through her insistence that she didn't need anything. "But let me get it," she added.

Fran shook her head, ignoring Emily's suggestion and continuing to lay out all that she needed to reheat her meal. Derek laughed, knowing Emily wouldn't have a chance to lift a finger.

"Don't argue with her on this, Princess," he grinned, before he was distracted by his ringing cell phone.

"Who is it?" Emily asked, immediately starting to worry about what could have happened back at home.

"It's Hotch," he replied, standing to leave. "He told me he'd check in later," he assured her, sensing her concern and kissing her forehead. "I'm just going to take it outside."

"We'll be fine without you for five minutes," Fran teased, sharing a smile with Emily. "You can trust me not to scare her away!"

Derek smiled, but he felt anxious as he left the warmth of the kitchen behind. He had a lot still to say to both Emily and his mother, about the past and about the baby. About what he was feeling and about the things he wanted to ignore. Neither really knew everything and, right now, there were secrets he'd rather they didn't explore together.

/
/

After returning from the deserted warehouse, JJ, Rossi and Reid spent an anxious afternoon waiting for the first of the results to be returned on the evidence that had been recovered. There was enough paperwork to complete to ensure that they could remain on the case for another day or so, but unless there was call for them to develop their profiles, then they would soon be ordered elsewhere. A personal connection wasn't enough justification to keep bureau resources on a case the police could handle, but they were all understandably reluctant to let it go.

It was a little after eight o'clock when Penelope rushed into the bullpen with news. Hotch had already joined the others, as they watched time tick by with nothing better, or more productive, to do.

"They've found a match!" she exclaimed. "Multiple matches!"

Tossing a printed copy of the data she had intercepted – in order to spare the time it would take for the crime lab to forward the results – towards her eager colleagues, she could barely stand still.

"The striations from the bullets in the warehouse matched the bullet which killed one of Emily's assailants," Reid commented, as he read the papers. "And they've identified several sets of prints."

The team gathered around Reid's desk, reading the names of their pool of potential suspects.

"Garcia, could you run a…" Hotch began, intending to start the process of checking the backgrounds of the men.

"If you are going to ask me to check them out, then it is already done, sir," she informed him. "The majority of the casings had the prints of a Connor Brennan all over them."

"Any connection to Doyle?" Rossi enquired. They were almost certain this was where the Valhalla connection came into play, but there were still some missing pieces.

"No immediate connection," Penelope replied. "But this boy has form for running all kinds of pills and powders around the city. And…"

"Some of these other men are linked to Doyle," Reid completed, his memory piecing together the puzzle just as quickly as Garcia's machines had. "Damien Connelly is the nephew of Liam Connelly. Liam was killed the night Doyle took Emily, but Damien had no involvement at the time. The police had to let him go."

Garcia looked a little put out at having her thunder stolen, but quickly recovered as she remembered the bigger picture.

"Exactly, and you will also find that most of those other names can be found if you search long and hard amongst the family trees and networks of lowlife scum which surrounded Doyle and his men."

"So is this Brennan our shooter?" JJ thought aloud, glancing at the picture of a sandy haired man, who could easily have been mistaken for a high school senior. Though experience told her it was definitely possible, his almost childlike appearance made it difficult to see him as a dangerous killer.

"We're looking for someone young and erratic, who clings to the idea that Lauren Reynolds is some sort of heroine. Brennan's the right age and his criminal record fits with the possibility of a kid who's ended up in over his head," Rossi theorised. "Have we got anything else on his background?"

"Not much, other than his record" Garcia frowned. "A few referrals to a counsellor when he was in high school and subscriptions to some gun magazines."

"He looks like a good fit," JJ stated, with some reluctance to seem overly confident. "The forensics show he's probably handled the gun."

The team expressed agreement, but with the same edge of reservation. No one wanted to make the mistake of focussing all their resources on someone who could be the wrong man. But at the same time, there were far too many coincidences to not be cautiously optimistic.

"We should start looking for him," Hotch instructed. "And the other men – just in case," he added. "I need to speak to Morgan."

/
/

Derek was still outside when Fran placed the bowl of soup in front of Emily and slid into a chair across from her. They'd hardly spoken a word as the soup warmed on the stove and Emily could only manage a grateful smile and quiet thanks before she started to eat. She wished she knew what was going through Fran's mind. Did the woman know about her past relationship with the terrorist who went on to try to kill her? Was she blaming her for putting Derek in harm's way? Or judging her for the choices she made?

Or was she still simply trying to get to know the woman who had fallen in love with her son?

"He told you about Lucy," Emily stated, before she could chicken out and hide in the silence. "And Ian Doyle, and the rest of this mess?" she checked.

Fran nodded, glad that Emily had been the one to bring up the subject, but found she was still at a loss for what to say.

"I can't imagine what you've been through," she responded, after an unnaturally long pause.

With no easy small talk to make, quiet again descended, and Emily continued to eat. It was the first thing she'd had in days that didn't wasn't served on a plastic tray in a hospital bed, or purchased from a vending machine.

"This is really good," she complemented. "I can see why Derek misses your cooking."

Fran smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. Emily looked so lost with her pale, tired complexion, and drowning in her boyfriend's clothes. Her walls were building back up with each passing second of her recovery, but she was in need of so much more than a bowl of chicken soup.

"I have two daughters," she blurted out, the statement making very little sense without the context which remained in her head. "I might not be of much use when it comes to kidnappers and killers, but I'm a good listener when it comes to other things."

The lump forming in her throat as Fran spoke made it more difficult for Emily to swallow. It was easier to remain in control when she wasn't surrounded by so much kindness, and the temptation to break down and share her confused thoughts remained.

"I'll remember that," she forced out. "Thank you."

Fran sighed, as the younger woman's visible effort to straighten up and disguise her upset continued.

"Emily," she began, more directly. "The pacifier in your bag… I saw your face. And Derek…" She trailed off – this wasn't her place – they should be working this out together. "You're not the only one who got attached to that child. Or to the idea of having a child."

The dark haired agent's eyes grew wide at her words. She opened her mouth to respond but found that none of her thoughts would translate to speech. Deep down she'd known that Derek hadn't found walking away as easy as he made out, but still, she'd remained utterly convinced that it was what they needed to do.

"You don't have to say anything," Fran continued. "It's okay that you got involved and it's okay for you to want a family."

"But what if I can't…" Emily started, her need for answers overtaking her desire to keep her feelings to herself, only for the question to die in the air at the sound of the front door opening.

Fran waited eagerly for her to finish, but realised that her mind was now elsewhere.

"What did he say?" Emily demanded, as soon as Derek re-joined them in the kitchen. His expression made it clear that there was news, but not whether it was bad or good.

"They think they've identified the shooter from the safe house," he replied. "A kid called Connor Brennan."

Emily thought carefully about the name. It was one she'd never heard before but now one that she'd never forget. Connor Brennan – a man who'd saved her life, yet was now the subject of a federal manhunt. A hero and a villain all rolled into one. And another reason any tendencies towards motherhood had to be put on hold.

/
/

An hour had passed since he regained consciousness and realised he was somewhere unfamiliar. The bedsit was dark, and the windows and doors locked and bolted, so that he was confined to its stale and dated prison. As he rose from the bed, and rubbed his aching temples, hazy memories of sickly sweet soda being poured between his lips merged with the sensation of drought in his mouth.

He knew instantly that he'd been drugged. You didn't spend years dealing in forged prescriptions and stolen pharmaceuticals without knowing a little about the side effects of sedatives.

By the time Damien returned, his eyes had adapted to the lack of light and he could make out most of the objects in the room. He waited in the corner, crouching in the shadows with his knees pulled tight against his chest. How could he have done this to him? They were supposed to be friends.

The other man unlocked the door and stepped inside, confirming his captive's presence only with a quick glance towards the rumpled blankets and pillows on the fold down bed. He set the crate of beer, which had occupied both his hands, on top of the counter, before placing his gun beside it. While grateful of any accommodation, the neighbourhood was even worse than the one they'd fled and he hadn't wanted to take any chances on his trip to the store.

Connor waited for the right moment to make it known that he was awake.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" he demanded, causing his captor to jump as he reached for the light switch.

"What the fuck am I playing at?" Damien replied, hitting the light switch and allowing the irate face of his friend to come into view. "You called the Feds!"

"I was trying to speak to Lauren!" Connor responded, jumping to his feet to stand just as tall at the other man. "And you drugged and kidnapped me!"

The men came to face each other in the centre of the room, squaring up to one another with anger fuelled bravado.

"You should be thanking me. They showed up, ready to make an arrest, less than an hour after we left."

Now that there was no longer the excuse of his extreme sleep deprivation, Damien had lost his little patience for Connor's delusional ramblings. His obsession with the fictional persona of Lauren Reynolds needed to stop. He turned his back on the man and made his way towards the crate of beer, slipping a bottle out from one side and rummaging through the kitchen drawers for something to open it. Connor followed him, snatching it from his hand and throwing it across the room.

"We're not done talking," he snarled, as his friend watched the pale amber liquid drip down the dirty white wall.

"I've got nothing to say to you," Damien responded, turning away and reaching for another bottle.

"Then let me out of here," he continued, his eyes darting between the locked door and the keys sticking out of the other man's pocket. He wore the expression of a caged bear but his words sounded softer than before.

"Not until you calm down," Damien answered, mirroring Connor in the way he lowered his voice to a less frantic level.

"I'm calm – please let me go."

The sudden switch in his tone made his friend uneasy.

"Not tonight. Have a beer and watch some TV. We'll make a plan in the morning."

Drink in hand, his back remained turned to Connor, as he made to settle on the deflated sofa, oblivious to the hand creeping beyond the crate to grasp its desired object.

"We don't have time. I need to contact Marissa and I need to find out where the baby is. Lauren knows I'm looking for her. I need to make contact before…"

Damien spun around, snapping from fear at what was happening to his friend's once sound mind, and irritation at the trouble it was bringing them.

"Lauren isn't real. You're losing the fucking plot!"

His expression never had the chance to recover from his final burst of anger. The first bullet hit his chest at the same moment his words came to an end. The second pierced his forehead before he could fall to the ground. And the rest of the clip was emptied down the length of his motionless body, in intervals which resembled the targets of a shooting gallery at a carnival.

Connor collapsed to his knees as the final casing rolled across the carpet. Blood seeped into the once beige fibres, edging ever closer to his faded jeans.

"Lauren's going to fix it," he whispered to his best friend's corpse. "She just needs my help."