He insists on driving her to the airport. She gets in the car like a ghost and sits staring straight ahead, pale and poker faced. Emily, are you sure… Emily, I'm sorry… Emily, I love you… He doesn't say it, any of it, because he can't.

He carries her bag into the airport, makes sure she has her passport, her boarding pass… Then he just looks at her, and she looks back, her expression betraying no hint of excitement or anticipation, or even anything he can classify as ordinary nerves. Not much of anything, actually. "Hotch," she says, the quiver in her voice just about killing him. "I don't – I don't want you to wait with me."

He gets that. He holds his arms out uncertainly and she steps toward him, her head on his shoulder, and their arms wrap around each other. He looks up, blinking away tears. "You're going to be amazing, Emily. You know you can visit, whenever…"

When she steps back she smiles, or tries to – it doesn't get anywhere near her eyes. "Thank you."

He brushes his hand down her arm one last time, and he turns and walks away.

He regrets it as soon as he's out of the parking lot but it takes him longer to process why he regrets it. He's losing her, he knows that. He missed his chance, missed a thousand chances, watched her slip away and now she's going forever. He can handle that because she said she needed this, she said she was looking over her shoulder in DC and something has to change…

Except she said it backed up against the corner of the café, her eyes never quite meeting his, her hands trembling on the table until she caught him looking and sat on them, her fingernails bitten down so far they bled onto the tablecloth… She lied to her therapist for months, she nearly got blown up… The dissociation, the hypervigilance, and he knows she hasn't been sleeping… He turns as soon as he can, checking his watch. If he puts his foot down, he can make it back before she has to check in.

She goes to the bathroom, locks herself in a stall and sits down on the closed seat, puts her head between her knees as her vision starts to swim, her body shaking violently and her breathing ragged. She tries holding her breath, something her therapist tried to teach her, but it hurts, she can't breathe, it isn't working… Her phone rings and she sits up straight and answers it on autopilot, her chest too constricted to say her name.

"Emily?"

Oh God, Hotch, why now… She closes her eyes, tries to hold her breath again…

"Emily, are you there? Listen, I know you didn't want a big goodbye, but I need to talk to you, okay? I'm coming back."

Finally, she catches her breath enough for one word. "Why?"

"Because you're not okay," he says, his voice low and soft and calming. She presses the phone closer to her ear. "And I need to make sure that if you do this, you're doing it for the right reasons." He pauses, and she knows he's listening to her trying to breathe. "Try slow breaths," he adds. "Out first, as long as you can. Then hold it, and then back in, okay?"

She gets herself together, almost, and stands where he left her, chewing her thumb. Every time she blinks she sees the rage in Doyle's eyes, and the metallic taste of her blood isn't helping, but she can't stop… When he arrives he takes her by the shoulders, pulls her gently toward him, and she tucks herself as close as she can get, her hands slipping under his jacket and around his back.

"Emily, are you sure?" he whispers into her hair, holding her tight. She's shaking, her hands trembling against his back. "It's an amazing opportunity, if you want it, but if you don't…" She pulls herself in tighter, nuzzles into his neck and he gives up on hiding and half truths and just says it, low and quiet right in her ear. "Sweetheart, I love you. I love you and I just want you to be happy."

She stiffens, and for a moment he regrets it, loosens his grip on her a little until he realises if anything she's holding on tighter. And there's a wet patch forming on his shoulder as she tries to figure out how to say what she's been thinking since Clyde offered her the job. "I just want this to be home," she mumbles. "I finally had a home and I lost it, and I just want it back."

He nods, bringing a hand up to comb through her hair. "You can take it back," he says softly. "Ask Easter for more time, do therapy… Properly," he adds, and she gives a shaky laugh. "Tell him you need time to think."

She's quiet for a long time, her fingers spreading out over his back. "I don't."