Derail, Diverge, Converge

"Carry the battle to them. Don't let them bring it to you. Put them on the defensive and don't ever apologize for anything."
~Harry S. Truman.

Two Days Earlier. Washington, D.C.

If Maura Morrow had to pinpoint an exact moment at which her plans began to derail, she wouldn't choose the moment that the bomb went off unexpectedly, or even the moment that she ruined her chances of making Benjamin Fuller's death look like a suicide.

No, she'd choose the moment that Todd Wilkes from The District Times had called her back.

She'd called Mr. Wilkes on the morning of the bombing—after the explosion, as the mad scramble began. They'd still been lucky, because the incriminating email from Dr. Reid to Linnea Charles had already been sent before the accidental detonation. The main target of Morrow's vengeance was thwarted, but she could still uphold her unspoken vow to John Curtis and continue to implicate the BAU.

Obviously, her own aims for the attack were lost, from the moment the bomb went off. She'd accepted that, and she'd comforted herself with knowing that if she played her cards right and kept all her resources intact, she'd get another chance, later on. Even after losing Benjamin, Maura still believed that she could prevail, against the odds—in her mind, there weren't hardly any odds at all. There wasn't a single connection between her and Fuller, except that he'd been a fan of her work. She'd been careful in covering her tracks, and so there was no need to worry.

She'd used the burner phone to call the newspaper and leave an anonymous tip, but she hadn't ditched the phone—it might be useful again, she'd told herself. Then the phone had rung twenty-four hours later. She didn't answer, of course, but she listened to the voicemail as soon as it was left.

And that was when, with startling clarity, she realized that she'd made a mistake. If Todd Wilkes could track her down, even through an anonymous tip line, then it stood to reason that anyone could. That wasn't an issue, per se—the real issue was that particular number would show up again in Benjamin Fuller's phone records (because once they realized that it was a murder and not a suicide, they'd certainly examine every inch of Fuller's life).

It was possible that Wilkes would never speak to the FBI, that he'd never make the connection, that this phone number would never have the chance to be recognized—but this late in the game, chances weren't something worth risking.

Maura Morrow filled with the sinking certainty that in the end, they would know that she was connected to this scheme. Even if the FBI didn't get this number and realize it was connected to Benjamin, what if he'd left behind something else that incriminated her, like those damn journals? What if she'd missed something, somehow?

The uncertainty was more crippling than the actual consequences of her actions. Maura was not a woman who quavered or quibbled, and yet here she was, like the proverbial squirrel in the middle of the road.

The feeling of invincibility that had enveloped her the night of Benjamin's murder was completely evaporated. Now she felt cracked open, the sensation of vulnerability making her skin feel physically raw. Every nerve ending sang and whined with desperation and anxiety.

It was not a feeling to be relished.

She decided that it was time to make a graceful exit—she'd had an escape plan in place for almost two years now, and she silently thanked her former self for the foresight and lack of hubris. That was yet another lesson learned from John Curtis' ending. John had always assumed that he was so intellectually far above anyone else that he'd never need a Plan B, much less an exit strategy, because all of his plots were too clever to fail.

She knew better than that. Even her escape plan had a chance of failing.

If there was one thing that Maura couldn't stand, it was loose ends. At this point, only one such end existed: Linnea Charles.

The burner phone was used one last time to call Charles' office. The receptionist had cheerfully informed her that Charles was attending a meeting at The District Times.

Which was where Wilkes worked. The light bulb all but shattered in Maura's brain. Linnea was obviously talking to other reporters, and they were beginning to solve the case themselves. Now it would only be a matter of time before they took their findings to the FBI. Her so-called anonymous call to the newspaper and its corresponding definitely-not-anonymous phone number would be brought up—and it would only be a matter of time before someone realized the number was one that showed up in Fuller's phone records.

Getting records took time. Subpoenas had to be drawn up, and signed, and enacted. In the meantime, the burner phone could be dumped—however, there would be no escaping the glaring fact that someone other than Benjamin Fuller had been involved. Someone female—not a description that could be pinned on Dr. Reid.

Had she really been as careful as she thought? Over the past few years, had Benjamin really not confided in anyone else about her, about their meetings, their connection? Most importantly: was she willing to gamble everything on her certainty, which was diminishing by the minute?

No. Linnea Charles was both a loose end and a liability. She was also a direct link to Dr. Reid, further proof that he'd acted out of some kind of vengeance for the death of Maeve Donovan, her sister. Fortuitously, she also happened to be female—and a prime target for placing blame.

Of course, if the FBI questioned Linnea, they'd quickly discover that she had absolutely no connection to the attack whatsoever, much less an actual connection to Dr. Reid. In fact, she'd be helpful in Reid's defense, she could prove his innocence.

That left only one option. The FBI could not be allowed to speak to Linnea Charles.

And there really seemed to be only one way to ensure that.

Two Days Later. Serenity Yoga Studio. Washington, D.C.

Ramira Novalisa Bustamente let out a slow, measured breath as she pushed back with her arms, smoothly transitioning from upward dog to downward dog. Unlike most of the other women in the room, she actually hoped that someone noticed her ass in this position because, let's face it, she had a lot to offer in that department.

In particular, she hoped that the new, fit, and much-younger yoga instructor was taking notice. She also hoped he liked forty-something Cubanas with I-want-to-speak-to-the-manager haircuts and a set of hips that weren't what stereotypically came to mind when one pictured a "yoga body", whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Ramira might not have been a size 0, but thanks to her decades-long love affair with yoga, she was just as flexible as that skin-and-bones twenty-two year old three mats over. Granted, her love for the practice was deeply rooted in her love of how it helped her outside the studio—she spent so much of her daily life in pencil skirts and hobbling heels that it always seemed to shock the men in her life whenever they first had the pleasure of witnessing just what her body could do.

Of course, there was the added benefit of bringing balance and some sense of serenity to her generally fast-paced and soul-crushing line of work, and that was the mantra she usually gave to colleagues and acquaintances. Not everyone needed to know her true motives.

Someone's phone was ringing, and Ramira had the sinking certainty that it was hers—mainly because she was the only person whose day job didn't allow her to simply put it on silent and forget about it. She barely restrained a growl of frustration and momentarily contemplated just letting it ring. However, that would be poor etiquette and would do nothing to aid in her current quest to seduce the new yogi.

So instead, she left her flattering pose and padded on bare feet across the studio, weaving her way between rows of mildly irritated practitioners. Assholes. As if she'd wanted to disturb this peacefulness.

The yogi was back at the front of the class now, watching her with mild concern. With her most winning smile, she held up her finger as if to say, just a second, I have to take this, and then demurely slipped into the hallway.

Once she was outside the studio, she answered: "Bustamente speaking."

"Miri." It had been a hot minute since she'd heard that voice, but she recognized Jack Dawson's husky tone immediately.

"Jack," she wavered between irritation and delight. "You betta' have a damn good reason for pulling me out of my afternoon meditation."

She'd lived in the upper circles of the District for twenty years now, and yet she still sounded as if she'd just stepped off her mama's front stoop in the Bronx.

"I'm sure whoever he is, he'll happily wait," Dawson dismissed her mainly-feigned crossness.

And now she allowed herself to grin. Jack had been a fun time, for a few months—several years ago. He'd been between wives, and after a particularly vigorous weekend on Martha's Vineyard, he had even entertained the notion of making her the next Mrs. Dawson. Granted, she didn't blame him, but she'd quickly shut that down—Jack was the settling type, but she most certainly was not. In fact, she'd reminded him that she had two other boyfriends, and another good friend who was a good time every few months (she'd given up all three when she'd taken this new posting, sadly, because her schedule was too hectic and D.C. politics were too brutal—now she was only allowed one-night stands with strangers who didn't recognize her, generally in locales far away from the Capitol). Variety was the spice of life, she'd told him, and she'd wanted her life to stay as spicy and varied as her abuelita's cooking. Life's a buffet, and I'll be damned if I'm giving it all up. He'd respected her decision, and although they'd met up a few times after that, she'd felt him slowly pulling away. But she hadn't tightened her grasp. If anything, she'd quietly stepped back, too. Because even if she didn't love him with the kind of all-consuming devotion that would allow her to give up her current lifestyle, she still did love him, in her own way, and she'd never wanted to hurt him. He'd always seemed to understand that, and through the years, they'd remained amicable friends.

"Honey, you know I'm always here for you," she kept her tone light and amused. "But if it was that kind of meditation, I certainly wouldn't have left just to answer your call."

"Miri, you wound me."

"Uh-huh. Sure thing, Jacky. Now whaddya want?"

"I need your help. Extradition."

"From where?" Ramira instantly dropped her smile and her light-hearted mood. This was a work call, and not just any run-of-the-mill work call. Jack Dawson was a straight arrow—this had to be serious.

"UK. We think."

"And why can't you run it through the proper channels, instead of trying to slip it in through your ex-girlfriend?"

"Ex-girlfriend? I never knew you saw us like that."

"You know what I mean, Dawson. Don't you change the subject on me. Which, by the way, is how I know you're up to something—you always get shifty whenever you know you're not on the moral high-ground. You dodge the question."

"Miri, I'm not up to anything—"

"Then you can call a regular attorney and have a judge sign a warrant for extradition, just like every other law enforcement officer in this country. And when it gets to OIA, then we can talk—"

"Oh, please, Ramira. You don't look over every request that goes into the Office of International Affairs—"

"And how do you know what I do?" She couldn't stop herself from challenging him, even when they both knew he was right.

"Because you're the goddamn Assistant Attorney General of the Criminal Division," he was becoming frustrated, an emotion she'd rarely seen in him—and a sure sign that whatever he was asking for, it was big.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Jacky?" Even though she used his old nickname, her voice was still serious, heavy with premonition and dread.

"I'm on the Quantico bombing." He informed her.

She was fully aware of the attack on the Bureau—hell, anyone in the western world with access to TV or newspapers was aware at this point—but her own office had been dealing with other issues, so she hadn't been as fully apprised of all the details as she normally preferred to be.

But the pieces still clicked together. "And your prime suspect has fled the country—to the UK, presumably."

"No, we know for sure that's where she went—whether or not she'll still be there by the time we get a warrant, that's a different story."

"She? Well, that's a new one." Ramira returned her attention back to the more important matter, "We have a pretty good relationship with the Brits. They're one of the best allies in extradition cases. It shouldn't be a problem, if you've got all your ducks in a row. Although they won't give her up unless you can guarantee that the death penalty won't be on the table."

"I have no control over that, Miri."

"Then you need to talk to whichever US Attorney is handling this and tell 'em that they have to put this in writing. The Brits don't play with that kind of stuff."

"Miri," Jack's tone shifted, becoming almost hesitant, almost pleading. Ramira decided that she didn't like this new version. "It's not…there's a lot of circumstantial evidence at this point, and we haven't formally charged her—that's why I'm calling you. We need a little leeway, here—"

"Holy shit, you don't have enough for an extradition warrant." The lightbulb went off—hell, it exploded. "You want me to pull an extraordinary rendition."

An extraordinary rendition was, as its name implied, for extraordinary cases only. Most of the time, the process when like this: your country used extradition to request the return of someone who'd already been convicted or at least charged of a crime. Their running was deemed further proof of their guilt. The country agreeing to the request then performed rendition, a surrendering of the suspect or convict. An extraordinary rendition was basically kidnapping your suspect. Sometimes the host country was informed of this action, and sometimes it wasn't. The United Nations had declared extraordinary rendition a violation of human rights, and despite its prevalence, it was still viewed with disdain.

"Jesus, Ramira, I'm not asking you to ship her to Guantanamo," Jack became defensive. "She'll be brought back to Quantico. For proper questioning. No enhanced interrogation, nothing under the table."

"It's gonna take a helluva salesman to push that through the British channels."

"Or saleswoman."

"Nah-uh, Jack. I see where you're going with this, and I am declining the invitation to join you on this ride through loco-ville. None of this is my area of expertise, and it certainly ain't in my job description—did I mention how much I love my job? How much I want to keep it?" She had to force her voice back into a lower register—she knew that she was almost yelling now, and this wasn't the best time to draw attention. She took a deep breath, "Look, I wanna help, I really do. I'm sure you have nothing but the best of intentions. But it's not just my reputation or even my career on the line here. We're talking about the integrity of the entire Attorney General's office, our nation's credibility—"

"Oh, c'mon, that's been tanked for a solid decade by now—"

"I know that's supposed to be some kind of a joke on your part, Jack, but it's not a laughing matter."

"Do you hear me chuckling?" The edge of frustration in Jack's tone answered the question itself. With a slight sigh he quietly added, "She may have kidnapped a woman, Miri."

"Did she?"

"We're certain—"

"One hundred percent certain? In-possession-of-irrefutable-proof certain?" She challenged, already knowing the answer. "See, the issue is that you're paying attention to kidnapped, and I have to pay attention to may have. It's called due process, Jack. Your suspect gets that whole reasonable-doubt and presumed-innocence defense package until you can pull in concrete evidence. And I have to uphold that—it's literally my job, in case you forgot."

"Ramira, you know me." That was all he said, all he needed to say. Because it was true—she did know him, and she knew he didn't make this call lightly, nor did he easily place suspicion on a suspect without a whole lot of good reasoning and a dash of his usually on-point gut feeling.

She took a deep breath—and even in that simple act, she made her frustration known. There was a beat of weighted silence. She didn't want to leave it like this. He'd called her because he'd truly needed her help, perhaps for the first time since they'd met all those years ago. And when it came down to it, she'd failed him. However, she didn't blame herself for it—he was asking too much, and they both knew it.

She shouldn't have said what came next. But she did anyways.

"Listen, Jack. I'm not saying you can't do what you're proposing. I'm just saying I can't know about it." She shook her head at her own foolishness, but she continued anyways. "So just…be careful, OK?"

"Understood," he returned.

"I mean it. I really don't wanna see your ugly mug on the other side of a federal courtroom."

"Ugly mug? Miri, you're really breaking my heart here."

"Your heart ain't broken and your face ain't ugly, and you know it, on both counts."

"You know, I've never met another woman who could give a compliment quite like you."

"That's cuz I'm all original, baby. One of a kind."

"Indeed," his voice was warm with knowing, a tone and shade that Ramira hadn't realized she'd missed until this moment. Then Jack's voice took on a softer quality—another tone she recognized, although she hadn't heard it in many years. "So, how've you been?"

"Nope," was her only reply before she curtly hung up the phone. That tone was trouble, just as much trouble as Jack's other scheme.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

The room was silent, but certainly not peaceful. From his position in the corner of the room, Aaron Hotchner took quick stock of his fellow agents. A few minutes earlier, Jack Dawson had brought him back to the conference room, which was currently incident command for Linnea Charles' kidnapping, and had informed the others that Agent Hotchner was on the case again (although from a technical standpoint, he'd never been officially on the case to begin with). Cruz and O'Donnell had looked relieved, too exhausted to be concerned or even surprised at this new turn of events.

Across the room, there was a dry-erase board with a hastily-written timeline of Linnea's last known movements. Gaps were measured with red-inked question marks, and DMV photos of various players in her final scenes of known activity were taped to certain points in the timeline. It was simple, linear, cut-and-dried. Nothing like an actual person's life, which was fluid and uncertain and certainly not as stable or predictable as a line across a board.

Aaron took this into consideration as he glanced around the room again. Dawson had stepped out to make a phone call, during which time Shostakovich had called in to give a brief recap of his interview with John Adams. Cruz had jotted down a few points of interest, while O'Donnell paced at the other end of the room, fielding calls from various friends, family, and acquaintances of Linnea Charles, trying to further expand their timeline and to set up more one-on-one interviews, which he then had to assign to the agents who'd come down from the DC Field Office to conduct the initial interviews of the Quantico employees. Aaron could sense O'Donnell's uneasiness, the underlying sense of mistrust that he now felt towards the newcomers—and he didn't blame the Quantico SAC, since the Flying Js had so thoroughly turned his branch and his sense of trust on their heads.

This whole case had that effect. It took away the sense of security that was the foundation of every investigation—pivotal and irreplaceable. Without that sense of balance, the world became incomprehensible, which translated to overwhelming—especially for a man like Scott O'Donnell, who lived a life in straight lines of duty, honor, responsibility, and rules. Every aspect of this investigation challenged that, and in turn, challenged O'Donnell's reality. And all the while, the man was still expected to run the most well-known branch of the Bureau, which was currently in the national spotlight, and to head two separate investigations, either one of which was stressful enough on its own.

Aaron Hotchner realized that when it came to professional success, he never wanted to be any further up the chain of command than his current position. He didn't envy Cruz or O'Donnell for the extra scrutiny and stress placed upon their shoulders, and the idea of being unable to simply focus on solving the case chafed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the reappearance of Jack Dawson, whose frustration was apparent from the moment he opened the door. Dawson looked around quickly, finding Hotch and motioning for the BAU chief to join him in the hallway.

Dawson waited until the conference room door was fully closed before he spoke, glancing around quickly to make sure they were alone.

"We've got issues."

Hotch bit back the retort that they'd had issues since the start.

With a sigh and a frustrated rub of his hand through his hair, Dawson continued, "There's no way we'll get an extradition warrant in time. In fact, I was basically told that we should just grab Morrow without the paperwork and try to smooth it over afterwards."

"And are you prepared to do that?" Hotch's dark eyes drilled into the man's face, scrutinizing every micro-expression.

Dawson stared back, unfazed and unafraid. "I'll fly over there myself, if I have to."

Hotch gave a curt nod of approval and agreement. "I may have a less drastic solution."

Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

Alex Blake gave a helpless shake of her head as she stared down at her tablet, which currently displayed a photo of Maura Morrow. "I'm sorry. I still just don't see how it could be her."

She'd spent the entire morning in Garcia's apartment with Rossi, Prentiss, and Callahan, going over all the ins and outs of the Amerithrax Case. Morgan had returned after dropping off Garcia at the Academy, and the process had continued. It was redundant at times and seemed entirely futile, but they had nothing else to go on, and they needed something to keep themselves from feeling completely helpless and inadequate.

Prentiss was by no means Garcia at the keyboard, but she knew enough to get what she needed. She'd accessed the old Amerithrax files, and they'd gone over the list of agents who'd been assigned to the case, attempting to jog Alex's memory. She looked over at the list, which was displayed on Prentiss' tablet, but honestly, she could've recited their names by heart now. "It would be a total shock if any of them were involved in something like this, much less Maura."

"You were pretty shocked to learn that Curtis could possibly be the Replicator, too," Rossi pointed out. The gentleness of his tone softened the bite of his words.

Thankfully, Alex Blake's ego was well-balanced—she merely shrugged one shoulder and made a face that implied he had a valid point. She scanned the list of names again. "Gilman and Birdwell both ended up in Seattle, I don't think they'd have any complaints with how their careers ended up—at least not later on."

"Curtis ended up with the Department of Justice," Rossi reminded her quietly. "It isn't about where they ended up—it's about what they lost along the way."

"Well, we all lost face, at least publicly," Alex admitted. "But I don't think anyone was as devoted or antisocial as Curtis."

With a sigh, she returned her attention to Maura's photo. "It just doesn't make sense. There's no…reasoning behind it all, no motivation."

"There's always a motive," Morgan leaned back in his chair, slipping his hands behind his head as he tried to stretch out the muscles along his spine. Despite his attempts to keep some kind of normalcy to his life, he hadn't kept up his usual workout regimen, and he wasn't walking the streets for hours on end or pacing around his office, like he would generally do on a case—his body had begun to protest the hours of sitting without any kind of movement. Prentiss had already teasingly pointed out that was what happened when you got old, and Rossi had been more than a little offended that Prentiss saw Morgan as old (what does that make me, gattina, impossibly ancient?).

"Which means we're missing something," Prentiss announced, still perched in Penelope's computer chair.

"Seems to be a recurring theme on this case," Rossi muttered, quite unhappily.

Prentiss swiveled the chair to face the computer again, but her cellphone buzzed before she could type a single letter. She answered without ceremony, "What's up, Hotch?"

"I need your help."

"Well, that's kinda why I flew 3700 miles," she returned dryly.

Not surprisingly, Hotch was unimpressed with her droll sense of humor. "Dawson says we won't be able to get an extradition warrant for Morrow—we know she's still in London, or at least she will be in London again on Monday morning."

"That's a really quick turnaround," Prentiss was already thinking of the evidence that would have to be found and verified in order to provide enough cause for an extradition warrant. Granted, she'd always been better informed than the average citizen on matters of this nature, but her position at Interpol over the last few years meant that she was keenly aware of just how little they really had, when it came to asking for such a favor from the British authorities. "I mean, if Morrow had been formally charged before she'd fled, it would be a cakewalk. But at this point, the best we could hope for is that the Brits send some agents to interview Morrow—if they could find her."

"Which wouldn't help the situation at all," Hotch surmised, his tone grim with certainty. "Our one advantage is that she doesn't officially know that we're on to her. She thinks she has time. If we tip our hand, she'll vanish."

She hummed in agreement. "So, what do you want to do?"

Because she knew that he had a plan. He always did. It was one of the many traits she admired about the man—his mental agility, his ability to think on his feet and formulate a response to every scenario in the blink of an eye.

"I think it's time we color outside the lines."

She took a full breath before she quietly asked, "Hotch, are you sure?"

There was a slight noise across the room. She glanced up to see Rossi, Blake, Callahan, and Morgan all listening intently—Morgan had shifted forward in his seat, all but leaning completely out of it in curiosity. Something in her tone had alerted them to a change in the game, and the mixture of anxiety and dread in their faces was palpable.

"I wouldn't have called if I wasn't." Hotch's voice brought her back to the present issue.

She ducked her head at the statement—that was true, she knew. Leaning forward to place her elbows on her knees, she lightly propped her forehead in her hand as she admitted, "If we do this, we have to use people who can't be professionally sanctioned for their actions. People who can disappear into the woodwork, if there are repercussions afterwards."

Now Derek Morgan was on his feet, his shoulders as taut as the string of a bow. He didn't like where this was going, Emily could tell, but that wasn't her problem, not at the moment.

"And do you know people like that?" Hotch asked, although his tone implied that he already knew the answer.

"I think we both do," she admitted.

Hotch didn't seem fazed by the statement, so she assumed that he'd made the connection. Quietly, he declared, "Then reach out to them. We need to move quickly."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "I'll call you back when it's done."

"And," Hotch spoke quickly, then stopped, as if he were reining himself in. His voice lowered, as if he feared being overheard, "I wanted to say—it's nice, being on a case with you again."

"It is," she couldn't stop the stupid smile that slipped over her face.

"Talk to you soon." It was a command, and a request.

"Talk to you soon." She repeated, a promise and an agreement.

She ended the call, fully aware of the four profilers less than five yards away, who'd been analyzing her every move.

"I'll explain everything in a few minutes," she promised, rising to her feet. She glanced down at her phone again, scrolling through her contacts to find the right number. "Just…hang on."

She headed for Penelope's bedroom—this call needed to be made in privacy. Before shutting the door, she spared a look over her shoulder. Rossi merely arched a brow in her direction (careful, gattina). Alex Blake was a portrait of confused concern. Callahan's face was meticulously blank, but curiosity still screamed from her attentive eyes. Derek Morgan was grinning like a madcap.

She thought about the decision she'd made the night before—and if anything, this moment only solidified it.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite black sheep," Clyde Easter's unenthused monotone crackled in her ear. As usual, he gave no greeting.

"You're the one who told me to take a few days off," she countered easily.

"Yes, and I meant go to a spa, take a walk—not go traipsing across the pond to solve another terrorist attack without so much as a by-your-leave—"

"That's what really bothers you, isn't it? That I didn't wait for your approval." Emily kept her tone easy and light, knowing that Clyde wasn't really looking for a row. Snark was simply how they communicated, most of the time.

"What bothers me is the fact that you run one of the most high-profile branches of Interpol and yet you still answer to the BAU's beck and call like a trained lap-dog," came the droll rebuttal.

"Ah, so you're mad that I'm not your lap-dog."

"Basically, yes. Now, what's this about? I know you didn't call just to check in."

"I need your help, Clyde."

"Oh, god. Emily—"

"Just shut up and listen, OK?"

"You cannot use your standing at Interpol to somehow interfere with a domestic case—"

"I'm not really using Interpol at all." She judiciously decided not to mention that the London branch had already been assisting the BAU in the search for Morrow.

"Then why the hell are we even talking right now?"

"Because I need your help. Your help, not Interpol's."

"What do you want, Emily?" His tone was guarded, but she could tell that he was already weighing options in his mind, trying to find a way to fulfill her request, before she'd even officially made one.

"When's the last time you spoke to Constance Connelly?"

She could hear the exhale of breath, as if Clyde had physically been punched in the stomach.

"Emily, I haven't spoken to her since Nairobi—since she shot you, in case you forgot—"

"No, I definitely remember that part," Emily replied flatly.

"And I let her go—it was more than just a dismissal from Interpol, Emily. I haven't spoken to her, or seen her, or in any way tried to engage—"

"Look, Clyde, I know Connelly's sleeper-agent turn was a very personal matter for you," Emily cringed at how cold she sounded, but she also knew that Clyde would hate compassion or sympathy of any form. Besides, she needed him to remain practical, not emotional—not an easy task, considering how the situation with Connelly had ended.

"Yes, I won't pretend as if it wasn't," he admitted quietly. Constance and Clyde had known each other for decades, and were probably as close to a definition of friends as those two could be, with their personalities—he'd brought her back into Interpol around the time that Emily had become the branch chief, and he'd been completely oblivious to the fact that Constance had been recruited by Israel's Kidon during her time away, building a reputation as an assassin simply known as Agent Azriel. At Interpol, she'd merely been the head of Information Intelligence, but once she'd accompanied Clyde to Nairobi, her cover story had begun to unravel. Clyde had found out the hard way that Constance's ultimate loyalty was to Israel and the Kidon—and not to him. He'd lost more than just an agent, and even more than just a friend—he'd lost a decades-long illusion that he'd held in believing that she trusted him and was worthy of his trust in return. For a man like Clyde Easter, who kept confidences with very few and considered even fewer as friends, it was a particularly hard blow.

"I still need your help," Emily returned gently. "We saw first-hand what Constance is capable of—she has a skill set that we really, really need right now, and she can operate under color of law, which again, is something we need—"

"Why can't you just wait for the Fibbies to get the evidence they need to extradite her?"

"We're on a very tight timetable. Of course we're continually working towards building enough evidence to procure a warrant, but we just don't want to put all our eggs in one basket."

"Wise decision. I hope you learned that from me."

"Of course."

He gave a light huff of amusement, and she knew that he'd caught the patronizing tone in her words. There was a slight shuffling noise, as if he were resettling into his seat, and then, with a dramatic sigh, he announced, "You're lucky that I'm a masochist, Chief Prentiss."

"Most saints usually are," she returned dryly.

"As are most demons," he deflected her compliment with his usual drollness. "Now, do you have any other requests that are sure to wreck my day?"

"I've asked enough for now, I think. I can forward you all the details as soon as I've spoken to Aaron Hotchner again."

"Ah. I see. And how is the strapping Mr. FBI Agent?"

"He's fine." Emily intentionally kept her tone neutral.

"Well, for your sake, I hope he's a sight better than just fine. You deserve a good time."

"Clyde, I physically just threw up a little bit in the back of my mouth. I'm not having the conversation with you."

He laughed, a true and deep laugh from the pit of his stomach. "You know, I wouldn't tease you about it if you didn't make it so much fun."

"Goodbye, Mr. Easter." Even though she tried not to grin, it still crept into her voice—she was amused and he knew it, and that only gave him ammunition. However, she quickly became serious again, "And thank you. Really."

"Of course," was his reply, his tone low and lined with emotion. Clyde Easter was a stereotypical stiff-upper-lip Brit, and she knew that this was a close to a declaration of affection and friendship as she was likely to ever receive. "And Emily? Do be careful."

"I'm not the one who's planning a visit to a trained assassin," she returned dryly. Easter gave another huff at her retort, but she knew that he was smiling.

"You owe me big for this one," he informed her, although they both knew it was an idle threat.

"Just add it to my growing tab," she said, and then she hung up, taking a few beats to simply stare at the phone in her hand.

She needed to call Aaron again, and then go talk to the others. They were moving forward, but it seemed like they were moving uphill and through waist-high sludge. Every step counted, but each movement was a battle.

What was worse was the feeling that she hadn't been able to shake, ever since she'd boarded the plane at Heathrow—their world would never be the same again. Something felt irreparably changed, as if a chasm had opened up between what is and what will be, as if some seismic shift had happened across the continents of all their lives. At this point, they were still in the dark, still unsure of what had changed or how or even why. That was the worst place to be, in Emily's opinion—stuck in flux, incapable of changing course or even controlling the damage, helplessly adrift in chaos and still too blinded to even see what the chaos was, much less find a way to minimize its effects.

She glanced over at her suitcase, tucked neatly away in a corner of Penelope's room. She'd stowed her shopping bag inside, away from curious eyes. She still wasn't sure that she'd made the right decision.

Maybe the changes and shifts in their lives weren't all bad. Maybe good could come of this, after all.

That would have to be her mantra, in the coming days. There had to good in this, somehow, somewhere.

She felt a wry smile twist across her lips at the thought. She was beginning to sound like Penelope Garcia. Which, she had to admit, wasn't a bad thing at all.

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

Jessalyn Keller tasted blood and realized that, not for the first time today, she'd bitten her bottom lip hard enough to break the skin. She wasn't one to bite her fingernails (little girls have pretty hands, Jessalyn), or tap her feet or move about anxiously (good little girls sit quietly and don't disrupt, Jessalyn), so this was her one and only nervous tic, which she'd abused beyond measure over the past twelve hours.

Waiting through Jude's surgery had been hellacious. It was like being in sensory deprivation—she couldn't see Jude, couldn't hear her, couldn't get any sense of how she was doing or even where she physically was within the hospital. She'd felt helpless in a way that made her bones ache, as if she'd been bound by some invisible burning cords. Her mind had been restless and running, while her body had been listless and drained, becoming its own prison as fear physically paralyzed her.

Waiting for Jude to wake up was even worse. Because at this point, the doctors and nurses had done all that they could. Whatever happened next was the best case scenario, and Jess found herself frightened at the prospect, because until Jude woke up, they wouldn't truly know what that scenario even was, much less how to deal with it.

That was the hardest part, not knowing. Jess kept vigil in an uncomfortable chair at Jude's bedside, bandaged hand clasped over Jude's unmoving one, mind whirling with a hundred different scenarios and trying to find an answer to each one.

She wanted to be ready. She wanted to have an answer for every response that Jude might have—it was her way of taking care of her lover, of proving that she was meant to be here, by Jude's side. She wanted to remain calm and collected and in control, to shelter Jude and take away all sense of fear and stress so that she could concentrate on healing.

There wasn't a single shred of doubt in Jessalyn's mind that, if the tables were turned, this was exactly what Jude would do for her. Her heart swelled with love and anxious concern again as she remembered just how close she was to losing this woman, to losing this love and all the ways that it had shaped her life for the better.

Her mind slipped back to the first time that she introduced Judith Eden to her family. It had been a holiday weekend, Labor Day, and as families in the South are wont to do, there was a huge get-together, a cookout complete with twangy country music and fireworks. Jess and Jude had left Richmond on Saturday morning, making the 200 mile trip in good time. The family event wasn't until Monday, but Jess had wanted her immediate family to meet Jude first, and to get to know her.

Thankfully, Jessalyn had come out to her family as bisexual long before that moment. After a lifetime of being a perfect and darling little Southern daughter, Jessalyn had been wracked with fear of ruining that look of delight in her parents' eyes by telling them the truth. She'd gone through a thousand different scenarios in her mind, each one worse than the last—but her parents had turned out to be surprisingly progressive. Once her relief had worn off, Jess later wondered if it was because they only saw this as a phase, or if perhaps her bisexuality still meant that she could possibly marry a man, have kids, and still fit into the life-view that they understood and inhabited themselves. She also wondered how different their reaction would have been if she'd been gay instead.

The theory had been tested that weekend, since Jude was the first woman that Jessalyn had brought home for familial approval. And her parents had truly lived up to their promises—because they had welcomed Jude with open arms.

Later that evening, Jessalyn had slipped out onto the porch to sit with her father in the two huge wooden rocking chairs that had been a part of the house for almost as long as she could remember. And between the beats of silence, their creaking and rhythmic rocking had created a cadence that was equally familiar—she'd learned to tell her father's moods, based on the speed of his rocking. At that moment, she could tell that he was wading his way through some deep thoughts.

She's much older than I expected, her father had finally spoken, voice low and soft, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

Jess had hummed in agreement. There wasn't anything to be done about that. Her father had added, carefully and with a voice lined in compassion, She's going to go before you do, sweetheart.

Jess had to agree with that statement too—but she'd added that while she loved Jude, she wasn't making any plans on life-long commitment just yet.

And then her father's expression had turned from contemplative to outright amused. With a crooked grin, he had drawled, You forget that I've known you your whole life, baby girl. You wouldn't have brought her here if it wasn't serious. And I've seen the way you two look at each other. This one's for the long haul, whether you realize it yet or not.

As usual, he had been right.

Over the years, she hadn't forgotten the conversation, but it had taken on a new meaning. Originally, it had been the very first time that someone had predicted how this relationship would last.

But now, it was a prediction of how it would end.

She's going to go before you do, sweetheart.

Jess knew this to be true, with every fiber of her love-soaked heart. She also knew herself to be absolutely helpless against changing this truth.

She's going to go before you do—yeah, but not today and not without a goddamn fight.

Jess thought of her confession to Dawson, earlier this morning—she'd meant it then and she meant it even more now. Yes, she was going to lose Judith Eden one day. But when she did, she'd be so surrounded by sweet memories and years of commitment and love that it would be a comfort during the loss. She'd make it count, and she'd stop hiding behind the excuses and walls that they'd built.

She leaned forward to gingerly kiss the top of Jude's hand, making a silent promise to them both. A slight stirring sound caught her attention—she looked up to see Jude's head shift, her once-blank face contorting back into life as she slowly slipped into the waking world.

Jess sprang to her feet, hitting the nurse call button behind Jude's bed and informing the nurses' station that the patient was waking up. She turned back to Jude, quietly watching and waiting.

Jude gave a low groan, the sound raspy and dry. Jess heard the quick and steady patter of rubber-soled shoes on waxed tile floor and knew that the nurse was here, although she never looked up from her partner's face. The nurse appeared in her periphery, and Jess knew that the woman had given an instinctive yet cordial smile in her direction before checking Jude's vital signs on the monitor.

It was probably a full minute before Jude opened her eyes, but to Jess, it felt like an eternity.

When she did, the nurse spoke, "Agent Eden, you're in the hospital. Do you remember how you got here?"

Jude didn't answer. Her big brown eyes were locked on Jessalyn's face, and the relief in their depths was clear as day.

"You," she whispered, giving a small smile.

"You," Jess repeated back, with a smile of her own.

"Is everyone—" Jude grimaced, as if the words were physically hurting her vocal chords, but she fought on. "Everyone OK?"

Jessalyn's heart melted all over again—because of course Judith Eden, upon waking up in a hospital bed and wracked with pain, would first ask about everyone else, rather than herself.

"We're all OK. It's all OK." Jess leaned forward to reassure her. She instinctively kept her bandaged hands down, out of Jude's line of sight, although she wanted nothing more than to brush the hair from Jude's face, to physically feel her and know that she was really, truly here and well.

Jude was relieved. She turned her attention to the nurse, her throat clicking with dryness again, "I remember. What's—what happened to me?"

The nurse seemed to understand that Jude meant what had happened since she arrived at the hospital. She moved efficiently, moving to the corner of the room where the standard plastic pitcher and cup waited, pouring a glass of water and adding a straw as she answered, "The explosion did some damage—there was some shrapnel in your lower back, but the surgeon was able to extract it. You were in surgery for several hours this morning, you're going to be woozy and probably have some headaches. Just let me know how you're feeling, and we'll adjust your meds to help."

She helped Jude sip the water, offering another sunny smile as she continued, "I'm going to let the doctor know that you're awake. He'll come and explain everything in further detail and answer any questions you might have. But for now, you need to rest."

Jude gave a small nod, shifting against the pillow again. With a wry grin, Jess decided that her lover must still be extremely drugged, to accept the command so easily.

With one last round of smiles, the nurse breezed out of the room again. Jude looked over at Jess. The younger woman simply sat down in her chair again, keeping her hands below the bed and out of sight.

There weren't any words that could convey the emotions of the past few hours, for either of them. So Jude simply lifted her hand to affectionately cup Jessalyn's cheek, and Jess leaned into the touch. Then she quietly laid her head to rest on the side of Jude's thigh. Jude's hand traveled upwards, gently brushing Jessalyn's hair back into place, continuing the rhythmic motion at a comforting lulling pace.

And when the doctor finally arrived, that was how he found them—both asleep, Jessalyn's head still resting on her leg, and Jude's hand still resting on her cheek.

"How is this our life,

all this magic and splendor,

all this quiet joy?"

~Tyler Knott Gregson, Daily Haiku on Love.

*Author's Note: Although she'll probably only show up just this once, I wanted to share my mental casting for Ramira Bustamente: the brilliantly talented Selenis Levya.*