Chapter Text

I

PRESENT

Emily’s hands moved down the bare back of the woman in front of her. Her fingers tracing the familiar path from the dimples in her back, up the indenting of her spine, until they tangled into the silk of her copper hair. 

She grabbed hold—yanking the woman’s head backwards, drawing a grunt from the back of her throat as she held onto the wall for balance. 

Emily, taking this to her advantage, pushed the woman further up against the wall, leaning in until her mouth was hovering next to the woman’s neck. Close enough to dampen the skin with her breath, but not close enough to touch.

She released her gip, both hands now roaming down each side of the woman, her fingernails lightly scratching their way over her waist, down to her hips, and lingering on her thighs.

The woman chuckled lightly, head lolling backwards—resting it on Emily’s shoulder. “Such a fucking tease—,”

But before she was even allowed to finish that train of thought, Emily had wrapped her arm further around, had slid her hand between the woman’s thighs, and had managed to draw out a moan by sliding her fingers inside with determination. 

“Fuck,” The woman bucked forward, head taking the position over from one of her hands against the wall, as that had made its way backwards, grabbing onto Emily’s arm as she continued to work on her. 

Emily’s free arm snaked around the woman’s waist, putting a slight pressure and trying her best to keep the woman upright as her body had started to tense and shiver and Emily knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before those shivers would have made their way down her body, damning her legs useless. 

The woman’s breaths were shaky and ragged, and her eyes were still closed as she pulled Emily’s hand away. Seeking and trying to regain balance in her body by squeezing the living shit out of her wrist. 

“Okay. Done— I’m done.”  She breathed, untangling herself from Emily’s limbs and turning, leaning back against the wall and coming face to face with Emily’s smug face. “You happy with yourself?”

“Always.” Emily continued to grin. Wiping her hands dry on her own thighs. “You ask, I deliver.”

The woman nodded dopily, “Great slogan. You should start a business.” She mimicked a banner with her hands. “Emily Prentiss—,” she silences, thinking. 

“Please don’t.”

“Justice in the streets, passion in the sheets.”

Emily closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “That’s not—,”

“Arresting criminals, undressing clients.” She continued. Eyes still narrowed, thinking of more slogans. “The uniform comes off, but the discipline stays.”

“Oh my god, okay,”  Emily launched forward, covering the woman’s mouth with both of her hands. “That’s enough of that.”

The woman mumbled against Emily’s hands, eyes going all puppy-like.

“You know I don’t actually wear uniforms right?”

She grabbed hold of Emily’s wrist, freeing herself from the hold. “Way to ruin the fantasy.” She cocked an eyebrow, “Shame, you’d look hot in a uniform.” 

Emily shook her head, trying to refrain herself from laughing. “Alright, well,” She retracted herself, looking around the mess that they’d created in the room, trying to detect her own belongings. “One day, maybe.”

The redhead shrugged, tippy-toeing herself over to the bed and plopping down on it face forward. “I’m exhausted.”

“Work?”

“Hm,” The woman turned on her side, watching Emily pick up pieces of clothing from the floor, and either putting them on or tossing them on the big chair in the corner. “Busy, understaffed, overworked,”  she shrugged, “the general healthcare life.”

“Well,” Emily looked up from her squatted position, “at least you look good in scrubs and get a fancy title in front of your name.

“Oh yes,”  the woman nodded exaggeratedly, “totally worth the debt.” 

Emily smiled, standing up and leaning over the bed to collect her keys from the opposite nightstand. “Get some sleep, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she saluted. 

Emily grinned, padding the woman’s legs before standing up and making her way over to the exit. But before actually being able to make it out onto the hallway, the woman called her back. Emily turned, hand resting on the door-handle.

The woman smiled sweetly, “Good night,”

“Night, Jamie.” Emily smiled back, giving her a small wave before slipping out of the door, into the cold night air.

The drive home was easy and quick, it was a road she’d driven so often now, she was sure she would’ve been able to follow it blindfolded. 

She’d known Jamie for a couple of months now. After having returned from Paris, the office had required a mandatory physical check-up before getting fully reinstated and back into the field. 

And Jamie, having been a general surgeon at that exact hospital, had been doing her rounds during her visit. 

Despite the fact that they’ve been seeing each other like this for a couple of months now, they didn’t really know each other all that well. They knew each others occupations, and had a rough idea of what their social and family life was like, but that was the extent of it. And they were both fine keeping it that way.

There was a physical attraction—a sexual one. But not a romantic one. Neither of them wanted a relationship, with each other or with anyone else. So it worked. Both get to get off, and a listening ear whenever either of them needed a sounding board.

Emily entered her apartment. The place had never quite felt like home, but it wasn’t like she was really trying it to be either. There were still boxes strewn around the place that she’d never bothered to unpack. Which should have been a fundamental red flag considering the amount of time she’d actually been leasing the place.

To say the inhabitant had commitment issues was a fair observation.

But Emily was primarily just ignoring the fact that she had to come to terms with the fact that this was her life now. That she had to acknowledge that, despite the grave with her name on it had been empty, a part of her was in that ground nonetheless. But ignoring was easier. So we’re not going to get into all that.

She turned, locking the door behind her. Kicked her shoes off and threw her coat on one of the boxes in the corner. 

The apartment was fine really, it held all the essentials: working appliances, running water, enough space to not make her feel like she was going to have a claustrophobic meltdown. But in all honestly, she was barely home long enough to notice anyways. 

She flopped down onto the bed, closing her eyes briefly.

But that brief closing of the eyes, let to falling asleep, let to sleeping for multiple hours, let to oversleeping, let to being late.

Working at the BAU wasn’t exactly your typical 9 to 5, 5 days a week, kind of job. They worked irregular hours and inconsistent days. More often then not, they’d get called in from another state to support on any kind of case that needed profiling assistance. Which would take them out of DC for a couple of days, or on rare occasions weeks. 

And in between these out of state occurrences they would be plowing away at an ever expanding stack of paperwork to document their cases and casualties and to determine whether they’ve made mistakes, did the right thing, how they could have done better, or if there’s any improvements necessary were a similar case to ever happen. 

So the days ‘in between’ mattered, but not as much as ‘case’ days. Those days would usually start with a call or text message summoning the entire team to the briefing room.

Today wasn’t a case day, though. Yet Emily still rushed to get ready and get there as soon as possible. Because she really did not want to stay late and be the only one working late into the night to try and finish her part.

“Well well well,” were the first words coming out of Derek Morgan’s mouth when a disheveled Emily hobbled into the bullpen, bee-lining to her desk and plopping down into the chair.

She sighed, “I know I know, spare the lecture.”

“What lecture?” Morgan rolled his chair next to Emily’s, resting his elbow on her desk and looking at her with a theatrical interest. “Had a late night?”

Emily narrowed her eyes, shook her head and then continue to unpack the rest of her stuff and turn on her PC. 

“Had a date?”

The word date alone caught the attention of all the people sitting around her. Including JJ’s and Reid’s. Yet they kept quiet and just watched the conversation unfold with amusement.

Emily fully turned her body. Grabbed both armrests on Morgan’s chair and pushed him back to his own desk. “Just because you’re not getting any, doesn’t mean you get to vicariously live through me.”

Morgan raised one eyebrow and simultaneously pointed his index finger in her direction. “So you did get some.”

“None of your business.”

Morgan scoffed, “Fine, be like that.” He turned to face his screen again. 

Emily puffed out a breath of air, focusing her attention on the stack of disorganized files on her desk. Comparing hers to the ones on her colleagues desks. Which wasn’t even all that much different despite starting multiple hours later. 

“Here,” Morgan threw a couple of folders on the corner of her desk before rolling back to his own. “Copy pasted some of mine. Don’t tell Hotch.”

Emily smiled widely before making her way over next to Morgan, grabbing his chin and placing a fat kiss on his cheek. “You’re a saint.”

After a lot of speed-reading (Emily Prentiss-style, not Spencer Reid-style) she’d managed to get through a lot of the paperwork at the end of the day when everybody around her was starting to pack up and slowly drizzle out of the bullpen. 

And when there was barely anybody but FBI’s finest money spenders, Penelope Garcia turned the corner and waltzed straight towards them and sat herself down on top of one of the now-empty desks. “Ladies.” She turned to look at Emily, who was still working, and JJ, who was putting on her jacket. “Are we still conspiring tonight?”

“Tonight?” Emily mumbled, eyes never leaving her screen trying to fix her typo’s.

“Girls night?” Penelope squealed, temporarily halting her excitement as she looked at Emily’s focused state. “You guys didn’t forget did you?”

“Of course not,” JJ pitched in, attempting to take some of the load off of Emily’s back.

“Girls night?” Morgan chipped in, grabbing hold of Reid’s shoulders—completely taking him out of his focus. “What about us?”

“Not invited,” Penelope deadpanned.

“I sense some sexism going on here.” Morgan narrowed his eyes, gesturing between all three ladies. 

JJ crossed her arms, leaning back against her desk. “What do you think we do during girls night?”

“Oh I don’t know,” he shrugged, wearing a sarcastic expression on his face, “Paint each other’s nails and complain about boys.”

“Absolutely,” JJ nodded.

Penelope jumped up, coming up behind Emily and dragging her chair away from her desk. “Emily-yyyyyy,” she moaned, “Stop working.”

Emily grunted, and dropped her shoulder after regaining her balance from the sudden shift in gravity. “Fine,” she threw up her hands. “I’ll just do this—,” she gestured towards everything on her desk, “whenever.”

She looked up at Morgan, “Girls night,” she sighed, “we sync each others cycles, read each others horoscope and watch ex on the beach. Do you want to join?”

Morgan scrunched his face in revolt, “That sounds like my literal nightmare.” 

“Door’s open,” Emily tilted her head.

“I’ll pass,” Morgan nodded, “thank you very much.” He bowed, and returned back to his desk to collect the rest of his stuff. 

Emily shrugged, “You guys go ahead,” she rolled herself back in front of her desk and started typing again. “I need to finish this section and then I have to swing back my place to pick up the things I definitely did not forget to bring.” She halted, and smiled at Penelope and JJ, “Because I definitely did not forget about tonight.”

And after the rest of the team had left, and it was just Morgan lingering around, stalling his leave, she sighed, then turned to face him. “What’s up?”

Morgan narrowed his eyes, then crossed his arms. “Okay I have to know. What really goes down on girls night.”

Emily laughed, “It’s really eating you up, isn’t it?” She shook her head, watching Morgan pout. 

She sighed, “We get drunk and play who done it with amateur crime documentary’s.” 

“Are you lying to me again?” He arched one eyebrow, eying her skeptically.

“Dead serious,” Emily laughed, “We also just hang out and talk about stuff girls talk about.” She waved him off, “And that is something I will not disclose.”

After having swung by her apartment to grab whatever she had forgotten. She’d driven herself to Penelope’s apartment-complex. Knocking on the door and entering without waiting for a reply.

Penelope’s apartment was exactly what you imagine it would look like if you’ve ever met the woman. The place was small, but extremely cozy and everywhere you looked were small details and knick-knacks that embodied the personalization of Penelope Garcia—purple and yellow walls, fairy-lights, walls covered in photographs framed in different bright colored frames, old-fashioned furniture (but nothing matching nor from the same catalogue). Quite the opposite to Emily’s place.

“I am here to see my child.” She threw her arms in the air, announcing her presence. 

Both of them were in the kitchen, JJ on one of the barstools and Penelope busying herself at the counter. 

Penelope squealed, finger pointing to the couch in the living area. “That way.”

She walked towards the kitchen, put down a half full bottle of tequila and pushed it to the center of the island. “This is all I have to offer today.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes, contemplating. “You’re lucky we like you.” Grabbing the bottle and turning the back to fill up a couple of shot glasses..

Emily smiled at JJ, giving her arm a small squeeze in greeting before darting past her, straight towards the couch, kneeling and planting her face full into the furry mess of her old cat Sergio who started spinning on impact. “Hey bubba.” 

The cat immediately recognized her and rolled onto his back, letting himself receive all the love he could get.

“Such a grandpa,” she announced after eventually making it back to the kitchen, sitting herself down on the barstool next to JJ.

Penelope gasped, “Did you see his gray whiskers?”

“I did not!” Emily’s mouth fell open, her body swinging in the direction of the cat who was now stretching his body before jumping off of the couch.

“He’s the best cat though,”

Emily sighed, “I know,” she really did miss having him creating havoc in her apartment. But he was so happy here and she loved how much Penelope loved him. 

She looked around the kitchen, eyes signaling in on JJ’s drink, which looked like some dark black concoction in a fancy high-glass. “What are we drinking?”

“Espresso Martini,” JJ grinned, sliding the glass in front of Emily. “Try it.”

Emily did as she was told, clearing her throat after the burn in her throat had subsided. This was more like an Espresso Martini Martini with the amount of Vodka that must’ve been added into it. “Jesus—,” she coughed. “Who made this?”

JJ chuckled, pointing her finger at the lady of the house.

“Okay,” Penelope held up her hands, “I may have overdone it a bit with the alcohol, but she—,” she stared down at the blonde, “told me to make it strong.” She crossed her arms. “You get what you asked for.”

Emily pursed her lips, slyly sliding the glass back in front of JJ. “Yeah, enjoy that.”

“Okay, girls, now we’re all here.” Penelope came up to the island, resting her elbows on the surface, which her height allowed her to do so without contorting her body in awkward shapes. “I have some important stuff to talk about.”

Emily and JJ shared a curious look before focusing back on the woman in front of them.

She pulled out her phone, tapping on it, then stopped. She took.a deep breath, but didn’t show her screen yet. “This month I am officially going into the double digits of my panda-point collection—,”

“How long was one point again?” Emily frowned. “One—,”

“One month,” Penelope sighed.

“Nice,”

“Good for you,” JJ nodded.

“No,” Penelope frantically shook her head. “Not good for me.” She shoved the phone in front of them over the counter. “I have decided to download tinder.” 

Emily pursed her lips, trying to hold her laugh as she looked down at the phone. Which was showing her still-barren profile.

“You need to help me set it up. I can’t do it myself.”

“Why not,” JJ took the phone with curiosity, tapping through the different options and selections.

“Because, obviously—,” she gestured around herself. “whatever I have been doing has not been working.”

Emily let out her laugh at last, coming up close to JJ to look at the profile herself. She leaned over JJ’s shoulder, making the app return to the start screen. “And what about what we have been doing screams online-dating experts to you?”

JJ smiled compassionately, “I didn’t meet Will online.”

“And I don’t date.” Emily sat back in her stool, shrugging. 

Penelope turned, grabbing the shot glasses she’d filled with tequila, and moved them over the the island they were all sat at. “You cannot tell me I didn't out panda-ed you.”

Emily just scoffed. Not denying or agreeing with that presumption. Which just caused all of their eyes to move over to Emily and study her with scrutiny.

“Do tell,” JJ grinned.

“What exactly is your sum, Emily Prentiss?”

Emily sucked in a tight breath. It’s not like she really cared, but JJ’s eyes on her—and her opinion, it just mattered to her for some reason. “Zero,” she forced out through a constricted throat. 

Penelope’s mouth fell open, and Emily had started to mentally prepare herself for the whirlwind of questions that were going to be thrown at her head in circa 5 seconds.

And to help with that, she leaned forward, grabbed one of the shot-glasses and downed it in one go.

“You met someone?” She started, “Name? Date of birth? Where did you meet? How did you meet? What—,” she started, continuing with about twenty more similar questions.

Emily just sat there, letting all the questions fall over her until she’d finished off.

“—without telling us?”

Emily chuckled, “Yeah, you done?”

Penelope crossed her arms.

“I’m not dating. I don’t date.” Emily started, “Just friends—,”

“—with benefits?” Penelope arched an eyebrow, finishing her sentence.

Emily shrugged, “I guess.”

“Okay,” Penelope leaned in closer, “Do you have a picture?”

“No,” Emily laughed, crossing her own arms. “I do not.” Receiving a pout from the woman opposite to her. 

But she’d let the conversation drop after that. Which actually surprised her, knowing how the woman was known for wanting to weasel herself into everybody’s business. And she wasn’t sure why she’d dropped it that easily. But she wasn’t complaining.

JJ, who had remained quiet during the entire ordeal, stared at the woman next to her. Not even realizing she was doing it until she met Emily’s eyes. And then quickly looked back at the phone.

“Alright,” JJ started, her voice quiet and throat dry. “What’s your type? What are you looking for?” She glanced over at Penelope, a slight flush creeping up on her cheeks.

Penelope sighed, narrowing her eyes as she dug through her thoughts, not quite finding the right ones.

“Okay,” Emily held up her hand. “If you could date any celebrity out there, who would it be?” She suggested, trying to see if she could find a pattern in the people she’d pick.

“Hmm,” Penelope hummed, thinking. “Oh that actor, from that movie about that bus with the bomb on it, you know which one I’m talking about.” She waved her hands in the air towards Emily.

“Good movie,” Emily nodded, digging through her own memories of the actors. “The actress though,” she pouted her lips, “so cute.”

“You know what?” Penelope nodded, pointing her finger at Emily. “Fair.” She was quiet for a second, then started again. “Did you know they actually had major crushes on each other during production?”

“They did?”

“Oh yes.” She gasped in excitement, “Neither of them had the courage to tell each other. And they only found out about each others feelings a decade later.” She nodded along to her own story. “So they probably spend their entire lives searching for each other in other people, going through divorces and breakups because it was never the real thing.” She leaned her head on her hands. “Tragic really, can you imagine?”

JJ kept quiet.

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. Eventually clearing her throat, and grabbing the bottle of tequila she’d brought. “I’m too sober for this.”

It had been their tradition for years now, it started way before Emily had to leave to Paris. But it had been stagnated since then. Penelope had been too devastated and heartbroken to meet up with JJ like that, having made the group of three a group of two. And JJ had felt too guilty knowing what she knew. But having to keep it quiet because she knew it was for the best.

The entire team had suffered because of it in general. And with any of them, not exactly being the best in coping and griefing, they’d all been amping up the workflow, trying to prove that they weren’t complete failures, despite failing that case—costing them the life of someone who had become family.

And things were still off, even after Emily’s return. It was like they had found their new balance after she had left. And now that she was back, it was all out of balance again, and they had to start over. And there was no-one to blame for it.

JJ was sat on the corner of the couch, petting the cat that had started to curl up against her. Mindlessly staring at Emily who was sat slouched on the opposite side of the couch, keeping herself busy on Penelope’s phone. Scrunching up her face every couple of seconds as she’d turn the phone toward JJ en Penelope to show yet another picture of a men holding a fish.

“What is it with these fish pictures?” She gagged, eying JJ and Penelope respectively, “is that really what does it for you guys?”

“No.” Penelope grunted, pushing off of one of the sofa-chairs she’d been sat on to grab the remote. She turned on the tv, switching to their crime channel. “Maybe some hunting and gathering instinct or whatever.”

She popped back down into her seat with a sigh. “Men suck.” She addressed JJ, “No offense to Will, you got lucky with that one.”

JJ pursed her lips together, nodding slowly, “None taken.”

Emily eyed both women over the phone. Then nodded to herself and started tapping away. “I am switching your account over to women.”

“What?”

Emily tilted her head, “You don’t want me to?”

Penelope dropped her shoulders, halted for a moment, then gave an exaggeratedly long sigh, “Men are dumb, they’re easily entertained. Women are—,” she narrowed her eyes in thought.

“Women?”

She gestured around herself, as if it was the most obvious thing ever. “Women are women. They’re intimidating and gorgeous and—,” she flapped her hands in the air, “they scare me.”

Emily threw her head back against the couch, laughing, “Okay, I am definitely switching you to women.” She shook her head, “Easy is boring, you don’t want boring.”

She turned the phone around again, showing the screen before confirming, “Yea?”

“Fine.” Penelope grunted. “Whatever.”

“It’s time to get over that fear of yours ma’am.” She handed the phone over to JJ, who then passed it onto Penelope.

“Too bad you can’t filter the app on just ‘not a dickhead’ instead.” She stood from her chair, walking away.

JJ glanced at Emily, giving a pout in solidarity. “I feel bad.”

“Yeah,” Emily mumbled under her breath, “the lovely tales of the dating life.” She smiled, “Lucky you won’t have to deal with that anymore, right?”

JJ nodded, scratching Sergio under his neck, staying quiet.

“Will coming this weekend?”

JJ shook her head. The relationship between the detective and the SSA had been rocky for a while now. It always has been, considering the fact that he was stationed all the way up in New Orleans, and she in DC. But they’d managed to somewhat make it work by traveling to either place over weekends off. 

“You two alright?”

JJ slowly moved her head up and down, then shrugged. “He’s busy, it’s okay. I don’t really mind.” It was the second weekend in a row he had to cancel because he’d been picking up extra shifts—at least that’s what she’d been told. 

Their relationship had been mostly FaceTime and phone calls nowadays. It was like something that has been simmering in the background had slowly crept its way into the relationship and had started pushing the two away from each other.

The thing was though, JJ didn’t really mind the alone time. She’d started getting familiar with the solitude and wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about that.

Emily grabbed her phone, sensing a kind of discomfort radiating from the blonde, looking for a distraction. She pointed the phone at the woman, “Don’t make me give up hope that relationships are possible whilst working for the BAU, yea?”

JJ grinned, “I wouldn’t give up all hope yet, it has to be possible.”

“Yeah?” Emily narrowed her eyes, “What gave you that impression? The murder of Hotch’s wife, or Rossi’s multiple failed marriages, or the murder of Reid’s one and only girlfriend? Or—,”

“Okay, okay,” JJ held up her hands, breaking Emily’s rant, “I get it, I get it.” She let her head fall back against the sofa with a grunt. “It just has to be.”

Emily smiled, opening her socials on her phone. Not that she really kept up with any of it. She could not care less about seeing her former-colleagues or high school and college alumni getting either married, having babies, or buying houses. Her own history in her inability to lay down roots was telling her that she probably would never walk that road in life. And she was fine with it. She had to keep moving. Had to keep busy.

She scrolled for a bit, not really paying attention as she listened to JJ talk, when suddenly cold chills went down her spine, and the world around her came to a sudden stop. All because of one post. All because of the portrait picture of someone she hadn’t given the satisfaction of taking her mind hostage for over a decade now. Yet here he was, in all his glory—the same age as he was when she first met him.

The share and like count kept creeping up. First by single digits, then in fives, tens. Messages of how courageous it was for the author of the post to have made it public started flooding in.

They’d used an old image. And it gnawed at her. It made her wonder what he’d look like right now. She could look him up. But did she want to? Did she really?

“Emily?” 

She felt a hand on her arm, gently squeezing her back to reality. She looked up, straight into JJ’s searching eyes.

“Are you okay?” She gave an uncomfortable yet worrisome chuckle, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Emily sucked in a tight breath, almost as if she had forgotten how to breathe after seeing his face again. “Yeah,” she squeezed out. She swallowed, shut off her phone and put on a smile. “It’s nothing.”

Chapter Text

II

PAST

Emily walked over the cobblestone path in her new boarding school’s courtyard. The dry fall leafs crunching under her lacquered leather uniform-mandatory lace-up shoes. She stopped moving for a second, book tucked under her arm, eying the massive brick building.

She watched the people around her move in cohesion, her peers easily identifiable by their uniforms in a massive crowd consisting of parents, faculty and students.

It was one of the many schools she had on her ledger at this point. Every year a different one, every year a different location. They might’ve been entirely different campuses, but they all felt the same. And they all worked the same.

At first she used to get jealous of peers who told her they’d been living in the same house all their lives, how they’ve always been to the same school and have built solid friendships or even friend groups over the years. She used to get jealous at their consistent life-styles and their solidity. Because she never had that, she didn’t know what it felt like to build something up for oneself. 

She’d spent her entire life being dragged around from country to country. Which also had its perks, she had to admit. Languages came easy to her. Like remembering something that you’ve been taught once before. And she had perfected the skill of adapting to different cultures and situations—like a chameleon she was able to to blend into the background. It allowed her to observe, to look at things from an outsider perspective.

And if she didn’t like the school, or the students, it wouldn’t matter that much, because she’d be in a new location soon enough, having to start over again.

This year was different though, it felt different. She was tired. Tired of being the new girl. Tired of being the international. Tired of trying to make friends, and getting excluded out anyways. Tired of trying to catch up, or ignore, the inconsistencies in the educational differences from school to school. 

So she just observed, adapted, and tried to not draw any attention.

She turned away from the crowd, walked towards one of the oak trees that lined the courtyard, and sat herself down under it, opening her book.

She’d only managed to get through a couple of pages when a man, which based on the quick assessment of his attire and age would have been faculty, squatted down behind the tree she was sat at.

He didn’t really acknowledge her at first, just held his index finger to his lips as he looked around, signaling for her to keep quiet.

Emily had found it a strange sight, an adult man in his mid forties hiding for someone or something behind a tree as if he were a teenage boy playing hide and seek.

After a minute, or when he must’ve deemed it safe, he eyed her from top to bottom, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. “So,” he started, voice low and hoarse, “who are you hiding from, then?”

Emily eyes the man curiously, he looked kind of contradictory disheveled, with his shirt ironed, yet untucked in certain places, and a tailored suit, yet amateuristic-ly tied tie. 

He ignored her silence, just jutted his jaw towards the people she’d been observing before. “I’ve been cornered by about half of those people already, and it’s not even noon yet.” He grunted, “All of their children are supposedly holy and they will only settle for the best for them.”

He shifted on his heels, remaining his squatted position as he retrieved something from his back pocket—a pack of cigarettes, and flapped it open. But before continuing with what he wanted to do, he eyed Emily curiously, tilting the packet towards her. “I won’t tell if you won’t?”

Emily shook her head, not only was smoking not allowed on school-grounds. It was also something that she had been able to refrain herself from. Which was something she had started to take pride of. 

The man smiled, “Good girl,” he winked at her, before fumbling with the remaining cigarettes in the carton before putting one between his lips and lighting it behind his hand. “Filthy habit, really.”

Emily watched him shift the cigarette from one hand to the other, then extending his right hand out to her. “Oliver Gr—,” he cleared his throat, “Mr. Greene, pardon me, it’s my first week after the holidays too.”

Emily pursed her lips, debating, then slid her hands into his, “Emily Prentiss.”

“American,” he nodded curiously, observing her, “interesting.”

Emily’s features hardened, “Is it?”

He gestured around himself, “Not a lot of outer-Europeans on this school.” He blew out a puff of smoke over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact. “I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”

Emily shook her head.

He scanned her body with his eyes, which Emily figured would’ve been to try and gauge her age, attempting to determine in what year she’d be. But he didn’t ask—he never asked.

He nodded towards the people in the courtyard, “Any of those your family?”

Emily shook her head.

And he just kept looking at her, waiting for a longer reply—a better explanation as to why she was sitting here all alone in a new school with nobody to court her around. But Emily didn’t give him the pleasure of doing so.

So after a little moment of silence, he just looked around himself, looking for the next topic of conversation. His eyes fell to the book in her lap. He leaned in, reaching out for the book—his body so close to her, Emily had to lean back to avoid his accidental touch.

He flipped the cover, reading the title, “That’s Dostojevski.” He looked back at her, his brows furrowed, “You read Dostojevski? For fun?”

Emily leaned back against the tree, getting a little bit annoyed by this man’s complete lack of sense of personal space. The attention and focus on her was starting to make her feel exposed and vulnerable. So she just shrugged, hoping the man would get the hint and just leave her be.

Mr. Greene watched her, his dark eyes slowly scanning her face, almost as if he was expecting to be able to read her mind if he just stared long enough—if he just tried hard enough.

Then his eyes flicked over her shoulder, and he ducked, hiding his smoke behind his hand and muttering a curse word. 

Which made Emily grin, because she’d always found it funny when older people cursed. It humanized them to her for some reason—a single world held that ability to blur the lines between formal and informal.

He was now sat facing Emily, his back turned on the courtyard, and the older woman who was approaching them with apparent determination.

Mr. Greene just signaled her to be quiet. And Emily watched as the woman walked right past them, her focus so determined it was as though they didn’t even exist to her.

“Is she gone?” Mr. Greene hesitantly looked over his shoulder after Emily nodded the woman’s passings. Then sighed and aimed his focus back on Emily. “You’re an interesting one, aren’t you?”

He glanced at the book one more time, then shook his head and stubbed out the cigarette in the dirt. Then wiped his hands clean on his pants, and got ready to stand up and leave. “Well,” he started, “see you around, Emily.”

He gave her a sailors salute, and then ran off in the same direction the woman had disappeared to. And Emily watched him go—didn’t peel her eyes away until he was completely out of sight.

It wasn’t until classes had started, and Emily had walked into her English class, that she had found herself coming face to face with the man from before.

She’d taken her seat in the far corner by the window, just staring out at the droplets of rain cascading down the glass. When the teacher had entered the classroom, apologizing for his late arrival as he did so.

She hadn’t been paying attention, and only peeled her eyes away from the window to watch the teacher write his name in chalk on the board. And when he turned, and looked around the classroom at his students, she remembered him.

He hadn’t spotted her directly at first, but when he did, he met her eyes. And Emily could’ve sworn she’d seen him smile—he recognized her too. 

And Emily had smiled back.

At the end of that lecture, he had called out her name before she was able to leave the room and go back to her dorm. 

“So,” he started, playfully crossing his arms and turning his body towards Emily, “should I be impressed or concerned that one of my students is reading books that should be way above their general concept of understanding?”

Emily pursed her lips, trying to suppress a grin.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to academically challenge you enough.”

“I wouldn’t be too worried about that.” Emily let herself smile at last, “Being academically challenged is a personal concept, is it not? Something I would be able to determine myself.”

“Is that so?” He narrowed his eyes, obviously amused by her wit. 

“Absolutely.”

“Alright then,” he nodded. Turning back towards his desk, and stacking up the introduction assays they had written and had to hand in that class. “I look forward to reading your essay.”

Emily nodded, eying the papers. Silently cursing herself for not having tried her best on it. Because she was more capable than what she had written down. And now he was not going to be seeing that. “I wouldn’t be.”

“No?”

Emily shook her head, “No. But have fun.” She gave a sarcastic smile. But only for a second, before fixing her face as the realization set in that this was a teacher she was talking to—this was faculty, not friend.

She gave him a nod, before excusing herself and walking out of the classroom. Rolling her eyes at her own stupidity as she went.

English was the only class she was looking forward to most of the time, and also the only class she actually tried with. She loved reading, loved seeing the world through other people’s eyes. She’d grown up through books, through stories, through other people’s thoughts and observations. They had taught her everything she knew, she’d gotten parented by the advice and knowledge the writers were intending to spread onto their readers.

Mr. Greene had noticed this too. And one time he had caught her scavenging through the bookcases that lined the entire back wall of the classroom.

She’d taken notice of the books that were in there, making a mental note of the titles and authors, and would pick them up from the library later that day.

She wasn’t aware of him observing her doing this. He never actually pointed it out to her. But the next time she’d enter that classroom, there was a book waiting for her on her desk. A note tucked under the sleeve with the words ‘I think you’ll like this one’ written on it. It was a copy of one of her favorite books. She’d read it before, and loved it. So she read it again.

Every time she would finish one, she’d put it back onto the bookshelf, and there would be another book on her desk for her to read next.

He never actually physically spoke to her about it. They actually hadn’t spoken since that first day all together. But he just talked to her through the notes and the comments that he’d left on her assays.

And every now and then she’d catch him staring at her, whilst the rest of the class was hard at work. He’d look away when she’d notice. But Emily didn’t really mind. Because he didn’t look at her like her fellow students did. They looked at her like she was an outsider, someone that they’d found interesting to observe, not interact with—like the way you would look at animals in a zoo.

He didn’t look at her like that. He looked at her in a way that made her feel seen. Like she was a whole person. Like she was actually someone that was worth looking at and thinking about.

One day during class, when all the students had been handed back their essays for some last minute editing, and thus were violently scrubbing their papers with erasers, Mr. Greene had called her to his desk. Her essay had been the only one that had not been given back to improve, so when she eventually had made her way to his desk, she saw her essay in front of him.

He patted the empty chair next to him, signaling for her to sit down—which she obediently did so. “This is very good,” he smiled at her whilst simultaneously tapping the corner of the page that held a red circled 100% marking. 

Emily boasted, she’d been getting high grades for most of her essays all together, but this was the first time she’d gotten it this high.

She looked up at her teacher, smile still edged onto her face. And he gave a silent chuckle. It almost felt parental.

He shuffled his chair a bit to the side before pulling Emily’s chair between both of his knees, right in front of the essay on the desk. 

It hadn’t even startled her, she was just happy to be getting his attention. Her face dropped to the essay, flipping it around to see if he had written anything on it—which he hadn’t.

Mr. Greene leaned forward, his left arm resting on the back of her chair, and the other on the desk.

She was bracketed in now, and this time she did notice. But nobody else in the class room seemed to do so. She straightened her back, accidentally coming in contact with his arm. Causing her to lean forward again.

But when she turned to look at her teacher, he didn’t react. He had his entire focus on the essay, and was talking to her about what specific things he liked and he inquired her about certain word choices. 

It made Emily feel like his closeness to her was unintentional, or at least he had made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal, and Emily didn’t really know if it should have been.

So she just tried to shake the thought out her mind, and instead just focused on the way his hands brushed over the words on the paper, and tried to focus on his questions rather than his actions.

So she talked, explained. And he listened. And she felt heard.

For the first time in her life, she actually had felt heard. And it felt so natural that she’d almost forgotten how quiet being alone actually was.

There had been days where she wouldn’t have said anything. Or days where the only voice she’d hear for that day was her own voice as she tried to talk herself through difficult questions.

After what must’ve only been a couple of minutes, the school bell rung out, and he had leaned back, giving her her personal space back at last. 

The sounds of the hustling and rummaging teenagers as they grabbed their bags, dropped their essays on Mr. Greene’s desk and darted out of the classroom felt almost deafening. And Emily felt temporarily paralyzed and overstimulated as she let it all surround her.

When the noise had settled down she finally stood up, and so did her teacher. He held up the piece of paper for her to take, “Take this home at the end of term, I’m sure your parents will love to read it too.”

He’d meant it nicely, even smiled as he said it. But the concept of caring parents had caught Emily so off guard, that her face dropped—just slightly, like a small error in wiring. It could’ve easily be written off as a slight confusion, as if she hadn’t heard what he had said. But it had felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

But she took the paper anyways. “Thank you,” Emily put on a smile, collecting herself quickly, and walked back towards her desk to grab her stuff and leave.

The rest of the term had passed slowly, but surely. She read, studied, went to class, successfully failed almost every exam she took, and spend every Sunday morning on a bench opposite the local church that was just a short walk off-campus.

And it wasn’t until she got called over the intercom to go and visit the front office, that she had to deviate from that routine.

So now she was sat on one of the benches next to the front office, waiting for her turn to be called in. 

She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Straightened her checkered skirt. Pulled up her crew socks. And eventually just placed her hands in her lap and picked at her cuticles. Anxiously watching the people in the hallway walk past the windows. Each of them in their own ingrained routines.

“Emily?” A woman was stood in the now open doorway, one hand leaning on the doorframe and one on the handle. “Can you come in?”

Emily nodded. She remembered the woman from somewhere, and it took her a minute to pinpoint that feeling to that day outside. She was the woman Mr. Greene was hiding from. 

She followed the woman inside, and took a seat in the chair she had gestured towards, whilst she herself walked around the desk, taking seat opposite to Emily.

She’d never actually met the headmistress of this specific school before. She looked just like all the other faculty members. Strict, but she looked nice enough. But she also looked tired, which made Emily wonder what was keeping her from getting her full eight hours of sleep. Did she worry about something? Or someone? Or did she have a young child that was teething and wasn’t sleeping through the night anymore?

The woman ducked her head, trying to regain Emily’s attention. “Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry, what?”

The headmistress sighed, carefully placing her palms on top her desk. “Emily,” she started again, slower this time, overly articulated, which made Emily feel like she was being talked to as if she were a child. “I have taken a look at your recent test scores, and they are worrisome to me.”

Emily clasped her hands together in her lap. She’d been expecting this conversation, was actually anticipating it. This was her plan from the start, but she still felt embarrassed by being told off about her performance.

“If you keep this up, you are not going to be making it through the next term.”

Emily just sat there stoically, not letting any emotion seep through that mask of hers.

The woman sighed, flipping through the small stack of paperwork which must’ve been Emily’s file. “Emily, you’re a smart girl, you’re passing English with the highest score amongst your peers. Why are you not putting in the effort with your other classes?”

She actually was. She was spending all her free time studying, because she actually liked being knowledgable. She took a great amount of pride into being able to teach herself anything. But instead of convincing her of that, she just shrugged.

“Okay,” The headmistress pinched the bridge of her nose, not really knowing what to do with Emily’s behaviors and getting annoyed by her ignorance. “Well,” she started again, “I have promised your mother I would take care of it. So I’m proposing—,”

“You talked to my mother?” This had caught Emily’s attention. Feeling the sudden urge to interrogate the woman on what exactly her mother had said. Wanting to know if she had actually cared enough to offer Emily a piece of her mind. But she refrained from doing so.

“I am proposing you pick up an extracurricular to try and see if we can get your overall average up. You like English, right? Let’s see who—,” she flipped through the stack of papers once more, licking her fingers every couple of pages. “Mr. Greene,” she nodded to herself, then glanced back at Emily. “I’ll have a chat with your English teacher, see if we can come up with something for you to do.”

Emily nodded. Then went to stand up and leave, but before she was able to fully walk out of the office, the headmistress had called her back.

“Oh, and Emily,” 

Emily turned.

“Get the rest of those grades up, yeah?” She gave her a stern look, “Or I will have to contact your mother again.”

The following English class, Mr. Greene had waited until almost all of the students had filtered out of the class before he had come up to her. He’d taken seat on top of the desk next to her, “Do you have a minute?”

Emily stopped packing her bag, instead she turned to face her teacher and nodded, “Sir?”

Mr. Greene tilted his head, looking at her as though she had said something he didn’t like. But he didn’t point it out. Instead he put his feet up on top of the chair and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I heard you were having some difficulties passing your classes?”

Emily shrugged, not saying anything. 

“I spoke to some of your other teachers, they showed me some of your work.”

Emily looked down in her lap, already knowing what was coming. But she didn’t feel like explaining herself to this man, so instead she cleared her throat and got to packing again.

“It takes a very smart person to have the ability to always pick the most wrong choice, and write exactly the correct answer without using any of the words that get you the points.”

Emily stood from her chair, zipping up her bag and flinging it around her shoulder.

“Why are you purposefully failing your classes?”

She walked around her chair, getting ready to leave this room, and this conversation, behind her. But Mr. Greene had jumped up off of the desk and grabbed her arm. Preventing her from leaving. “Emily.”

“There is no point.” She mumbled. Violently shaking the man’s hand off of her. But she didn’t leave, she just stood there. Facing off with her teacher.

“No point to what? Passing your GCSE’s?”

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. Her brain failing her on coming up with a sensible response.

Mr. Greene sighed, “What do you want to do when you grow up?” He tilted his head, trying to capture Emily’s eyes. “What kind of profession do you want to pursue?”

“I’d probably follow in my mother’s footsteps.”

“What’s that?”

“Politics.”

Mr. Greene narrowed his eyes. “Do you like politics?”

Emily shrugged. 

“Well,” he crossed his arms. “Nepotism will only get you that far in life.”

“It doesn’t matter what I like or what I want.”

“What do you want?”

She thought on this for a second. Every time someone asked her, she would respond with the prepared answer she had just given. They would praise her and say she’d do great, and that would be that. She’d had that conversation so often now she’d almost forgotten what she wanted. 

“I want my life to have mattered.” She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling silly about how childish it sounded. “I want to help people.”

“Healthcare?”

She shook her head.

“Law?”

Emily shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” The tugged at the traps on her bag, eying the door out of this classroom.

“Emily why are you failing your classes?” Mr. Greene repeated his question from before. But angrier this time, more impatient. And it scared Emily a bit, it made her feel small. 

She wanted to get away from this conversation. But before she was able to turn around he’d grabbed her arm again, and repeated the same words. “Why are you failing your classes?”

The sensation of being trapped and cornered felt similarly like a belt being tightened around her ribcage. And this tension rose up into her throat until the words bellowed out of her mouth, “Because I am sick and tired of my mother taking credit for everything I am and achieve.”

She was practically shouting at the man, but she didn’t care. “So smart, so bright—,” she mimicked her mother, “She gets that from me. So tall and lean—those are my genes. So obedient and well behaved—I taught her that. She didn’t teach me shit.” Her body tensed up, slamming her finger into her own chest. “I did that. I studied. I worked hard. I taught myself. I. Did. That.” 

Mr. Greene swallowed at the outburst, then walked up to her and hugger her. And Emily fought against it at first. Not wanting to be touched. But the more she fought the tighter his hold got. And eventually she just gave in, and leaned into him. “Yes you did.” He spoke gently, “You did that. You did that.”

He leaned back, cradling Emily’s face in both of his hands. “Emily,” he started, his eye contact intense and sincere. “You are the strongest and smartest person I have ever met. You have gotten this far in life all on your own two feet. And now you are going to have to keep going.” He nodded at her, “You are going to pass your GCSE’s. You are going to go to university. And you will build your own life. You will get the job you want. The career you choose. But the only one you are going to be hurting by not passing your classes, is you. Not your mother. You.”

Emily’s eyes had started to well up, fat tears were cascading their way down her cheeks.

And he wiped them away with his thumbs, not releasing her face from his hands. “You are your own person, Emily. Don’t let your mother take that away from you.”

Chapter Text

III

PRESENT

Checking the upload had become compulsive at this point—that picture etched into her brain. His messy hair that couldn’t be tamed, no matter how much product you’d put in it. Those dark brown eyes that were so close to being black, it took a ray of sunlight to convince her otherwise.

She’d frozen his face in her mind, as if his life wouldn’t have moved on without her in it. It was a childish thing to think—that her presence held that amount of power. It was how she had felt at that time though. He had that ability to make her feel special like that. 

It had been years since she’d thought about him. Her mind had quite literally blocked those moments out of her life. And now they were slowly coming back to her.

Emily rolled onto her stomach, refreshing the page, over and over again. The interaction with the post had started to decline after the shock-factor had worn off, and it had faded into the background of people’s minds as just another one of those cases.

She didn’t actually knew the person who had uploaded it, or why she’d done it, and why now. She’d looked the woman up. Trying to see if she knew her from her time at the boarding school back then. But she didn’t recognize her—she was younger than Emily was. Which probably meant that she came after Emily had left. 

At the moment she’d felt special, he had made her believe that she had been, and always would be, the only one. But she knew now that that was just another one of those childish thoughts. 

She could’ve prevented that other girl, and perhaps many more, from getting hurt. But she hadn’t.

Emily moved away from the page, turning back onto her search engines and repeated the search terms she’d used before, over and over again. Almost as if she was hoping that, somehow if she kept on repeating that same cycle, more information would pop-up—but it never did.

This repetition kept on going far into the night. Even after closing her eyes in a desperate attempt to get some sleep, those pictures kept flashing in front of her eyes, with memories—whether real or fabricated, alongside them.

And she couldn’t take it anymore.

She’d considered driving over to Garcia to beg for her to use her technical skills to put his name through the bureau’s databases more often than she’d be proud to admit, but she never did. Because she wanted to keep this private, this was her thing. And she’d like to keep it that way.

So she’d gotten her phone back out, and booked the first flight out back to that hell hole she’d crawled out of. If she couldn’t find the information she needed online, she’d have to go back to the source—where it all happened.

UK’s weather was colder and wetter than she remembered. She remembered crisp air and snowflakes tickling her skin. Not slipping on slimy leafs and bursts of wind that kept blowing strands of her hair into her eyes and mouth.

But the roads were the same. She would still be able to find her way towards his house no matter how long it had been since she’d last been there. 

She’d spend the entire way there ruminating thoughts of what she would tell him, what she would ask him, what he would look like now. 

She’d learned about the criminal terms of what he had done to her as a child through her university courses. And she’d tried her best to see it for what it was. But she’d find it difficult to do so. 

Those cases involved such violence and exploitation—she felt like she couldn’t relate. A part inside of her still felt like he'd loved her. Like it was still a secret love story that both of them kept. 

But her memories of those moments were all messed up. She knew how old she was, she’d seen pictures of herself at that age, but she didn’t remember herself to be that young. It didn’t feel right.

Emily wrapped her arms around her waist, tugging her sleeves over her freezing hands. She turned the corner, her eyes glued onto the pavement—an unconscious decision to stall the inevitable. Her pace slowed down as certain mnemonics came into her view.

The entire street was uniform, all the houses looked the same from the outside. So she’d used specific objects to remember which house belonged to her teacher. Like the lamppost that told her that she was almost there. Or the old fire hydrant that she remembered running into all those years ago when she slipped down the stairs from his front porch. 

The hydrant was right in front of his house. She remembered him complaining about it the first time he had brought her there. It had been the only place on the entire side of the road where you could not park a car.

She turned, facing the house. Because it was just a house. It had never done anything wrong. It was just a house. A now, empty house.

The ‘for sale’ sign in the front lawn was her first hint. The second was the realtor that opened the door after she’d knocked. The man she was looking for was not going to be there. And she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. It wasn’t like she actually knew what she was going to do if he had been. But now she didn’t even have that decision to make.

The realtor was a younger looking man, mid twenties perhaps, he was wearing a navy blue tailored suit, and carried a clipboard under his arm. 

He’d narrowed his eyes at her as soon as he saw who’d rang the doorbell. Then consulted the paper in his clipboard, looked at her again, and tilted his head. “You’re not Mr. Johnson, I presume?”

Emily plastered a smile on her face, pushing down the nauseatingly hollow feeling inside of her right now, “I am not.”

The man nodded, then shrugged, “Well, you never know these days, right?”

“Right,” Emily rolled her eyes. Bigot. He didn’t notice.

He scratched his pen on the paper, crossing something out. “Can I help you with something?” He mumbled, his entire focus still on whatever he was doing on that paper.

“Sorry,” Emily held her hands up, “I think I knew the previous owner, I wasn’t aware of the listing.”

“Did you?” The man looked up now, “Lovely woman, sad way to go, way too soon too.” He shook his head, “It’s that cholesterol, man. Sneaks up on ya.”

“Woman?” Emily knit her eyebrows together, “was she married to someone?”

The man slowly shook his head, consulted his notes, then shook his head again with more confidence. “Not according to my information.” He narrowed his eyes, studying her. “I thought you said you knew the owner?”

Emily smiled, “Must’ve been the one before.”

The man stepped back, tilting his head at her, “‘D you like a tour of the place? Since my appointment is flunking out on me?” He shook his head, mumbling, “You’d think with this housing crisis people would not go around making appointments all willy-dilly now, but here we are.”

Emily swallowed, eying the hallway over his shoulder, then slowly nodded.

It’s just a house.

“Fabulous,” he stepped further back, gesturing for her to go inside, “in you go.”

The floorboards creaked under her feet as she slowly made her way through the hallway. It looked so different compared to how she remembered it—she was almost starting to wonder whether she’d knocked on the right door. 

The walls had been repainted, the kitchen had been redone, and even the light seemed to shine differently though the windows. But the framework was still there, it was still the same house. 

The living-room still had the same build-in bookcases that took over one entire side of the wall. The floor still had the same grayish wooden patterns. The ceiling still had those same tiles that she used to trace and count in her mind.

She walked through the living, approaching the bookcases. Tracing her fingers over the dusty shelves and the scratches and dents inside of the woodworks—her nails perfectly aligning with some of them. Memories of her digging her nails into the soft wood as his hands were spreading poison over her thighs flooded her mind.

“It’s a bit worn down, but the foundations are great.” The man passed her swiftly, the wind startling Emily out of her memories. 

He walked through the kitchen, halting before the glass double doors that lead straight into the backyard. “There used to be an enormous willow tree that used to block off most of the sun coming through, but the previous owner had it cut down—loads of natural light now.”

Emily nodded, her heart aching for the tree. She loved that tree—had found it the prettiest thing about this entire place. 

The man slapped a flat hand on the kitchen counter, getting ready for the new topic of conversation. “There’s a master bedroom and ensuite upstairs,” he gestured towards the stairway, then looked at her, “after you.”

She actually really really did not want to go up those stairs. But her legs carried her there anyways. Up the creaking wooden stairs, her hands brushing over the railing—which was still the same railing as it had always been, straight into his bedroom.

It was empty now. No bed frame that had her fingerprints etched into them. No memory foam mattress that would have the shape of her face carved into it. No sheets soaked with her tears and his cum. The room looked empty and soulless, now that it was fully emptied out. 

Walls that used to be white were now a deep navy blue, and it felt fake somehow. Like putting paint over mold—you couldn’t see it anymore, but it was still there.

She watched the man open and close doors in front of her, the bathroom where she’d involuntarily bowed in front of the toilet more than once, the bathroom where she’d unsuccessfully tried to rinse off the prints his hands had left on her. 

She forced her eyes away, scanning the floor, corners and ceiling. She wasn’t really looking for anything, but pretended to do so anyways. 

The realtor kept talking as he walked around her. It felt more like a theatrically prepared piece than a proper conversation. She didn’t really hear him anyways, just a faint ringing flossing through her brain, going one ear in and the other out.

It was his eyes on her and the crossing of his arms that told her that he had probably asked her something. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Would you like some time by yourself to scope the place out?” 

And when Emily didn’t reply on instant, he had already closed his clipboard and was moving towards the stairs, “I’ll be waiting outside, whenever you’re ready.”

It wasn’t until she was completely alone in that house, that the walls had started to close in and suffocate her. So she moved further into the room, her fingers brushing over the doorframe, slowly stepping onto the tiles of the bathroom. It looked the exact same as it always had. Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been redone. It was a perfect reconstruction of her memory.

She eyed herself in the mirror, her stomach churning and jaw tensing.

And for a second she saw her fifteen year old self looking back at her. Her eyes full of confusion and desperation. And Emily wished she was one of those people that would be gentle and tell their younger self that everything would be okay. But all that went through her head right now, was how much she wanted to reach through that mirror and slap that look off of that girl’s face. To tell her to stop looking for love and guidance in places where it doesn’t belong. That she was put on this world to suffer through it alone, and there was no changing that fate. Especially not through the hands of a man triple her age.

But when that rage wore off, all she was looking at was what had remained—the person that was left. She took a deep breath, and unclenched her jaw. The person in that mirror looked like a shell of someone she could have become—all the wasted potential seeping through the cracks of her skin.

She eyed the dark circles around her eyes, the shades under her cheekbones. When had she gotten this old? How had she gotten this old. She was never supposed to make it to this age. She was never supposed to have survived this long. But she had. And now, her entire life felt like she was chasing a train that was supposed to have ended her.

Back into the bedroom she bee-lined to the opposite side of the house, to the window that overlooked the streets. She fiddled with the window-lock, managing to move it through the rust, and eventually opened the window. Opening it as far as it would go, her body now half hanging out of the window. And she breathed. Just breathed. Trying to clear her mind. Or at least create some more space so she would be able to think clearly again.

She leaned down after her heart had regained its normal rhythm again, her chin resting on her hands. She looked down at the bushes below, it had felt higher back then. Everything looked longer and bigger and further back then. Had she really been that small? That young?

The streets were empty and quiet at this moment of the day, the sun casting a golden glow over the pavements. And all she could hear for the entire way, until the familiar building had started to take shape on the horizon, were her footsteps and the soaring wind.

It took about twenty minutes to walk from that house to campus, fifteen if you took the shortcut, and ten if you ran. Every turn, every shortcut—she knew them all, and had tried them all.

Emily slowly walked alongside the border of her old boarding school, the old stone walls stretching on ahead of her, fingers tracing the cement between the bricks. The heels of her boots scratching on the gravel as if she was pushing herself towards those gates—every step bringing her closer to that entrance she thought she’d never pass again. 

But when she finally got there, she didn’t enter. She just stood there, arms intertwining with the iron bars of the gates, looking at the campus. It looked exactly like it had when she had attended. Almost as if time had just ceased to exist between those walls. 

The grass was still neatly trimmed, not a pebble out of place, even the students still wore the same uniforms as they had almost two decades ago.

And it was dead silent. Not a single person in sight. Not a single soul that had bothered to check in on those kids after the news had spread. At least, that was until somebody exited the front entrance. 

And when that person neared her, she recognized who she was looking at on instant. She would remember that face, and that posture for the rest of her life. 

He’d blocked the sun from his face with his hands, eyes narrowing at the woman behind the gates. Then stopped about ten meters in front of her, opened his mouth and came dashing towards her. “Emily fucking Prentiss.” He opened his arms, encapsulating her in a hug—whether she wanted to or not.

Emily smiled widely, a laugh escaping her throat, “Clyde—,”

“In the flesh,” he smiled widely, pulling back from her whilst squeezing her upper arms, “let me look at you.”

She tilted her head, rolling her eyes.

“You were the last person I thought I’d run into today,” he shook his head, amazed at her presence, “I haven’t seen you since… you know.”

“Yeah, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”

He grabbed her arm, turning her body parallel to his to make her walk with him, “What the hell are you doing on this side of the world?” He then slowed his pace, eying the area around them. “I thought your team didn’t take on international cases?”

“Oh we don’t,” Emily smiled coyly, “It’s just me.” She amped up the gears in her mind, trying to come up with an excuse as to why she was here in the first place which didn’t include telling the truth. “Just visiting a friend.”

Clyde nodded, his greying eyebrows furrowing, “Someone from in there?” He nodded towards the school.

“No,” Emily shook her head, “I was in the neighborhood—,” she shrugged, “I spend a couple of semesters at that school, was wondering if anything had changed since then.”

Clyde had stopped walking now, studying her with caution. And Emily tried her hardest to control her micro-expressions. And she might not have been the best liar in the world, but she knew how to lie to him. “When was this?”

Emily nodded slowly, “A long time ago.”

“Have you seen what has been going around about that place?”

“I have.”

He just looked at her, not asking any more questions. But he knew that the longer he stayed quiet, the more likely Emily would be to talk more. 

These were the moments where she hated how well he knew her. So she just sighed, “I didn’t know the teacher, if that’s what you’re fishing at.”

“I’m not fishing.”

“You are though—,”

“Good.” He interrupted her, “I’m glad you didn’t have to experience that.”

Emily bit the inside her her lip, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” she peeled her eyes away from his scanning blue’s, trying to focus on anything else really, because she was not sure how long she was able to keep that mask of her intact. “Me too.”

She could feel his eyes on her a little longer, but he never continued his questions. After a while he just grabbed her arm again, and made her cross the road with him towards the parking lot. 

“What about you?” She eventually asked, her mind coming to terms with the fact that she’d seen him walk out of that building. She was the one who was supposed to be amping up the skepticism, not him. “Since when does Interpol care about sex crimes.”

“Well,” he started, “we care, we just don’t work on those cases.” Emily rolled her eyes, that was not what she meant. “But we have been working on launching a project aimed at cracking down on perpetrators of sexual exploitation, harassment, and abuse.”

Emily nodded, “Interesting.”

“You think so?” He nodded thoughtfully, then fully put his focus back on Emily, “Hey, I never got to formally congratulate you on wrapping the Doyle case.”

Emily pursed her lips, thinking about it, “Neither did I.”

“How does it feel to officially be able to leave Lauren behind you?”

“I’m not sure,” she spoke truthfully, and she thought on this for a second. Her life as Lauren and her life as Emily had gotten quite intertwined over the last couple of years, and even though she was now able to officially retire Lauren, it also felt like she was retiring a piece of her along with it. “But everything has an ending, right?”

Clyde nodded, “And a beginning.” He narrowed his eyes, he was thinking about something, and not knowing what it was that he was thinking about made Emily uneasy.

“Hey,” he finally started, guiding her as they sifted through the cars, “are you busy right now, or—,”

Emily slowly shook her head, her eyes narrowing at the man, “Why?”

“There’s something I’d like to propose to you.”

She tilted her head, watching the man open the door of his SUV and enter it, then opening the passenger door from the inside. She bent down, hand resting on the roof of the vehicle, “What is it?” 

He waved her inside, “Sit.” And it was only when she was fully sat, and had closed the door, that he started talking again. “The BAU was supposed to be a temporary settlement, right?”

That statement had taken Emily by surprise. Because yes, it was supposed to be a temporary settlement—a way to get her out of Europe, as long as Doyle was out on the loose. She’d never officially cut ties with Interpol. But she hadn’t really thought about that, in what felt like forever. To be honest, she’d actually almost forgotten it completely.

He glanced over at her, waiting for a response that never came. “If you still feel like that, there’s something that Interpol is more than happy to offer you.”

Emily leaned back in her seat, deflating her lungs. “I—,” she rolled her head against the seat, eyes focussing on the man next to her. Then let out a breathy chuckle, “I just got out.”

Clyde nodded understandingly. “We really could use someone of your experience on the team.”

Emily licked her lips, then nodded, “What’s the case?” She turned her full body, facing Clyde, “before I elope on something I might regret later.”

He reached forward, crossing Emily’s lap and unlocking the glovebox. “It has nothing to do with that project I just told you about, but—,”

“Good,” Emily interrupted. A weight falling off of her shoulder, not that she was expecting there to be a major investigation being launched about that, but if there had been—it would have been a major conflict of interest. “Sex crimes are not my speciality.”

Clyde eyed her cautiously, “I know,” then narrowed his eyes at her, “did you forget who trained you?”

Emily scoffed, “Fine,” then nodded at the file in his lap, “elaborate.”

“So,” He straightened his back, “how does a paradoxical, charismatic, manipulative, money- and power-hungry head of an organized crime ring sound to you?”

Emily pursed her lips together, nodding slowly. “You have my attention.”

Clyde grinned, “Thought so,” he cleared his throat, and then started telling her about the operation they had been preparing themselves for. 

He told her about the man they were supposedly going to be wanting to put back behind bars. That he had gained national familiarity because of the kidnapping of a celebrity in his home country, which he had done time for. Yet never being able to connect him to the deaths he left behind everywhere he went.

He told her that, despite him being treated like a celebrity figure, people feared him because of his controlling personality, mood swings and hotheadedness. 

And he told her that he had two younger sisters. “The eldest sister wants to sing.”

“Why?” Emily frowned, “why would she do that, if he’s so intimidating, why betray him. Isn’t she safest being under his wing?”

Which Clyde had disagreed with, and Emily understood why after he had told her that he was responsible for the hit on his brother in law, which occurred with both his youngest sister and nephew in the same car.

Emily remained quiet, pending on the case she’d just been laid out. “Okay,” she nodded, still not agreeing or disagreeing to jumping on-board. “What is your plan? Where is this?”

“Amsterdam,” Clyde started, “but—,”

“Clyde, I don’t speak Dutch.” Emily interrupted him before he was even able to finish his sentence.

He moved his hands in the air, signaling for her to zip it. “I wasn’t done yet.” He shook his head, “Impatient as always, I see.”

Emily gave him a death stare.

“They speak English just fine, and besides, I kind of want you with me.”

Emily tilted her head, “Which is—,”

“I want you to help me run the informant.” 

Emily nodded slowly, her tongue outlining her teeth. She’d never actually done that before—run an informant. Getting to do that with Clyde sounded very tempting. “The eldest sister?”

Clyde pulled out a picture, placing it in her lap. “I feel like you two would get along.”

The woman was about the same age as Emily was—strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a prominent nose. “She’s pretty.” 

Clyde nodded, and Emily eyed the blonde waves on the picture. Then she looked to her side, meeting Clyde’s eyes. “’S gonna be difficult to try and keep her invisible.”

He nodded, taking the picture out of her hands. “She’s a lawyer, she knows what she’s getting into.”

He folded the file back together, neatly packing it up, and then held it out for Emily to grab. “She’s yours if you want it.”

Emily eyed the case, tentatively taking the file in her hands. But before she was even able to say yes or no, her phone buzzed awake.

She’d gotten so wrapped up into these old versions of her life, that she’d forgotten that she actually did still have a life in the present tense. And it wasn’t until she’d read the message, which required her presence at the bureau for a briefing, that she realized she was 3700miles away, and hadn’t actually informed anybody about her whereabouts.

She grunted, pocketed her phone, and stuffed the file in her bag. She checked her watch, grabbed hold of the door-handle, but then stopped, turning towards Clyde. “Could you drive me to the airport?”

“Absolutely,” he didn’t even hesitate, just sparked the car to life and started to drive out of the parking lot. “Do you have luggage to pick up somewhere?”

Emily shook her head, putting on her seatbelt. “I travel light.”

He pulled up one eyebrow, eying the very much empty bag she had been carrying alongside her. “That’s not light, that’s—,” he shook his head. Then turned onto the highway. “So,” he started again after a while, “Are you in?”

Emily bit her lip, “I’ll think about it.”

He nodded, a playful grin forming on his lips.

“What?”

He just shrugged, not taking his eyes off of the road. “You’ve changed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” he shook his head, “just an observation. The Emily I knew would jump on a case like this without even letting me talk you through the entire case first.” He glanced over his shoulder, smiling, “Are we settling down, Emily?”

She scoffed, crossing her arms, “Never.” But his question had lingered in her mind, and she was not entirely sure whether she had answered that question truthfully. 

Chapter Text

IV

PAST

October had started to color the skies gray and the leafs red, when Emily was sat in the exam-room writing her exam alongside all of her other classmates from the same cohort—twilight already casting a heavy shade over them.

Mr. Greene had been one of the teachers to surveil today’s exam, together with a couple of other teachers Emily didn’t recognize.

It was the last exam of the term, social studies. And the answers seemed to come to her as easily as it was to breathe. Topics as such had been instilled into her since birth after all, her mother may have not taught her how to regulate her emotions, but she sure as hell did teach her how to distinguish between conservatism and liberalism, and between republicans and democrats.

And it was because of that, that she was one of the first ones to have finished the exam. But she didn’t leave the exam-room just yet, she never did when Mr. Greene was on surveillance duty. She’d just watch him. She wasn’t exactly sure why, but something about watching people when they weren’t aware of her doing so intrigued her. It was like getting a peek into someone’s life and behaviors without giving them the chance to adapt or pretend—it felt raw and honest.

And so, she watched him as he walked all the way alongside the front row, glancing over the shoulders of other students, reading along with their answers. And he would either slowly nod—impressed, or shake his head—disappointed. 

But he’d avoided her row so far.

The seating was alphabetically organized, based on last names. So she was sat somewhere in the middle. And he would zigzag between the first couple of rows, then walk all the way back towards the back—and that’s were she’d lose sight of him.

And as there was no logical reasoning as to why a student would be turning their body 180 degrees whilst taking an exam, she’d refrained from doing so.

It kind of annoyed her that he wasn’t giving her the attention she was craving. She wanted him to watch over her shoulder and see whether he agreed or disagreed with what she had written too.

She sighed as he disappeared behind her again. Her eyes scanning over the rest of her cohort in boredom. She didn’t really know a lot of them, she’d only ever attempted to make conversation in the first couple of weeks. Then realized the girls were interested in boys, the boys were interested in sports, and she was interested in neither.

“Eyes on your own paper, Miss Prentiss.” Mr. Greene walked past her, two fingers tapping on the corner of her desk as he went—a sign. He’d started using signs to let her know he wanted her to stay after class. He would either tap his fingers on her desk, or stand behind her as he dismissed the entire class—all of them too busy with leaving as quickly as possible to notice his hands on her shoulders. 

It had made the entire thing feel like a secret between the two of them—a language only they spoke.

When she looked up at him, he’d winked at her, and then continued on with his route between the individual desks. So he was watching her.

She’d been sat on one of the desks in his classroom, gazing out of the window and letting the light of the lampposts turn into streaks before her eyes, when she’d heard the door being opened, and the lights being cut. The classroom now coated in a dark shade with small streaks of gold from the lampposts cascading through the windows. 

“Eyes closed.” 

Emily turned towards the man, who was still stood in the doorframe, head tilted and an amused yet ordering look on his face. “What?”

“Eyes. Closed.” He repeated.

And Emily sighed, closing her eyes against better judgement. It was only then, that she’d hear him close and lock the door, his footsteps approaching her. 

He’d put something down on his desk, a zipper being opened. “Can you hold your hands out for me?”

Emily frowned, awkwardly raising her arms straight out in front of her. She felt his hands covering hers, turning them upside down, her palms now reaching towards the sky. He walked behind her, his hand sliding across her body from the tips of her fingers to her shoulder, one of his hands big enough to cover both of her eyes.

Then placed something on top of her hands. It wasn’t big, nor small. And it wasn’t heavy, nor light. But a little bit squishy and greasy. And the scent of sugar was enough to make her stomach grumble. 

She heard, and felt, him reach into his pocket, then the familiar sound of the gears in his lighter scratching against each other and a flame being ignited. 

He’d removed his hand now, his face hovering over one of her shoulders, his mouth so close to her she could practically taste the coffee and nicotine off of his breath. “Open up.”

Emily obeyed, her eyes adjusting to the light source that was coming from the palm of her hands. It was a small cupcake, vanilla, white frosted with golden specks over it, and a twisted white candle pushed right into the center.

“Happy Birthday,” he whispered, still so close to her—he was practically resting his chin on top of her shoulder, and he might have actually been.

Emily remained silent, her breath catching in her throat. She’d never actually told him when her birthday was, she never told anyone. Not intentionally so, but birthdays were just not something she’d been taught were worth celebrating. She never quite found that day to be considered an important event that should be acknowledged, let alone celebrated. 

“This is the part where you make a wish, and blow out the candle.” He instructed her, his fingertips grazing over her hips.

“What do I wish for?” She whispered back, so entranced by the rhythmic movement of the flame, she barely registered anything that was happening around her.

“Whatever you want.”

She didn’t know what that meant—what it was supposed to mean. Her mother had always given her anything she’d asked for. Money was not something their family was in lacking of. But gifts tended to lose their value when there’s no sentiment behind them, they just become another object.

She was taught that wanting was for people who would never be able to get it. It was for dreamers—they were no dreamers. 

So she closed her eyes, and wished for a future in which she had a place she could call home, and somewhere where she’d feel like she belonged, and blew.

He had grabbed hold of her hips then, turning her body around to face him. “What’d you wish for?”

She watched the lines around his mouth etch deeper as his smile increased, their bodies so close to each other she could feel her hipbones pushing into his thighs. “Aren’t you supposed to not tell?”

His smile widened, “So you have done this before." He patted her hips, "Fifteen."

Emily looked up, nodding, then tilted her head. “How did you know?”

“Ah,” he shrugged, “I know all my student’s birthdays.”

And just like that her sense of specialty vanished into thin air. Her stomach giving a small jolt at the confirmation that there was nothing significantly special about this day. She was aware it was a childish way of thinking, but she couldn’t help it. “You do this for all your students, then?”

Mr. Greene gave a lopsided smile, then lifted her chin with his fingers, seeking out her eyes. “I do not.”

She watched as his eyes darted all over her facial features. Up, then to the side, then down, and back up again—like he was playing connect the dots on her face, trying to draw out a triangle with his eyes.

“You’re special, Emily.” He whispered, a whisper so timid it was barely audible. “You have no idea what kind of an enigma you are to me.”

She swallowed, suddenly overcome with an overly aware sensation of her physical form. With the rhythm of her beating heart. With her lungs expanding and contracting—pulling oxygen in and pushing carbon monoxide out. With her diaphragm moving up and down. With her glands producing saliva inside of her mouth, then swallowing it down. She was aware of everything.

He’d dropped his head then, slowly lowering his hands to his sides, and stepped away from her. 

The distance felt so cold, it had made her feel like she’d done something wrong. Like she was supposed to have done something of which she wasn’t aware of.

He took another step backwards, pushing himself onto the desk opposite to her. And it was only when he was fully sat, that he was able to look at her again. “You scare me, Emily.” He said eventually as he took notice of the confused frown on Emily’s face.

She looked up at this, “What do you mean?” She put the cupcake down next to her, using her arms to wrap around her torso instead. “Did I do something wrong?”

He’d smiled at that, one of those caring parental smiles she’d started to grow fond of. Then slowly shook his head. “No you didn’t do anything wrong.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. Just looking at her, observing her. Then whispered; “You’re so beautiful.” He swallowed audibly, “You make me feel things I am not supposed to be feeling.”

Emily bit the inside of her cheek, confused.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The word ‘beautiful’ alone had made Emily’s mind stagnate. The word felt foreign to her. It was something she would use to describe other things, or other people. But it was not something she, or anyone else, had ever used to describe her.

“Do I make you feel things too?” He eventually continued his questions as Emily remained quiet.

Emily’s frown deepened, letting the questions stew in her mind. Did she feel things? She felt an aching in her stomach whenever he came close to her, like a fist was pushing up her entire stomach content, making her feel like she was going to hurl if she didn’t create more distance. She felt like her body was squashed into a catapult, where she was trying her hardest to fight against the force that was ready to shoot her off into the distance, far away from this situation.

Was that what he had meant when he talked about feeling things?

She slowly nodded her head, and he released a breath, then slowly returned her nod—relieved. “That’s love, Emily.”

Love?

Emily had read of fluttering butterflies, of a warmth rushing through the body, of nervous anticipation, of experiencing a dizzying mix of excitement, awe and fragility. But that was not what this felt like. This felt like her stomach was caving in on itself. Like bugs were crawling through the marrow of her spine, trying to claw their way out.

Was that what love felt like to her? Had she been lied to all this time?

He’d jumped off of his desk at this moment, Emily so deep in her thoughts she barely registered him approaching her until he reached forward, his dry hands brushing the hair out of her face, tucking the strands behind her ear. 

He lifted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. She just stood there, frozen, as his face slowly edged closer towards her.

You’d expect your mind to be screaming at this point. For it to be yelling at you to retract, to duck, willing you to spit in his face and ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. But her mind was quiet—it had never been more quiet then it had been at that exact moment.

He’d kissed her then, his lips roughly pressing against hers. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. She was counting, keeping her mind occupied. Even after he had pulled back, she could still feel the ghost of his unkept stubble scratching her skin. She could still feel her lips being squashed between his lips and her teeth.

He covered his mouth with his hands, then started pacing. “I’m sorry—,” he mumbled, continuing his pace around the room. He hadn’t even dared to look at her again.

And Emily just stood there, arms lifelessly hanging by her side. She’d never been kissed before. This was her first kiss, and she didn’t feel anything. It didn’t feel like fireworks or longing, or whatever else she’d heard the girls from her class swoon about. Was this really what they were so obsessed about? They actually voluntarily did that?

“Emily?”

She turned at her name, eying the man who was now stood cowardly behind his desk, his hands in his neck. “I shouldn’t have done that, I apologize.”

“Why?” She asked, it was the only thing her brain could come up with at that moment. She wasn’t even sure if she was asking him why he had kissed her, or why he was apologizing for it.

“I—,” he furrowed his eyebrows, apparently not knowing the answer to that question either. “I need to think.” He then reached for his coat pocket, grabbed his packet of cigarettes and darted out of the backdoor of the classroom that led to the small patio behind the building. 

And Emily followed him, part of her knew she should’ve just left. This had been the perfect, and probably also the last, moment she would’ve been able to just leave. To just leave and pretend none of this had ever happened. She could’ve just returned back to class the next week and sit there, do what was asked of her, and have moved on with her life.

But for whatever reason, she couldn’t. She didn’t want whatever they had to be ruined. He was all she had.

He was sat on the edge of the tiled patio when she’d entered. His legs extending far into the grass, crossed at the ankles. A smoke in one hand, and the other behind his back—keeping himself upright. He’d looked so relaxed, and Emily’d found it contradictory to how he’d just acted inside.

She sat down next to him, her arms wrapping around her knees. “I’m not mad.” Her voice shrill, her throat dry. She lowered her head, resting her chin on top of her knees.

Mr. Greene glanced over his shoulder, observing her. He blew smoke over the top of her head, “Have you ever been in love, Emily?”

She rocked her head from side to side. Boys had never interested her—and deep down she knew they probably never would. Then tilted her head, one ear resting on her knees, looking into the eyes of the man next to her. “Have you?”

He narrowed his eyes in thought, nodding hesitantly, then deciding against it and shaking his head instead. “I thought I did.”

“What happened?”

“She left.” He put his cigarette back between his lips, taking a long drag before continuing with his story. “She was in love with someone else.”

Emily bit the inside of her cheek, watching how Mr. Greene’s brows furrowed, and his eyes refused to meet hers. It had made her feel sad for him, made her feel bad for reacting to his kiss the way that she had. He was just letting himself love someone again, and that someone being her.

She eyed his arm, watched the muscles in dance around under his skin as he fiddled with the cigarette in his hand. Then reached out, and hesitantly wrapped her fingers around his lower arm—squeezing lightly. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled, looking down. Then threw his cigarette into the distance, and grabbed hold of Emily’s hand, intertwining his fingers with hers—tugging lightly, pulling her closer to him.

She could feel him swallow, like he was swallowing down his own feelings, or thoughts, or pushing down whatever he was withholding himself from doing. He pushed her chin up with his fingers, turning her face towards him, then slid his other hand up her bare thigh.

There was no hesitation behind those eyes this time, just lust, and greed—a certain combination of domination she’d never seen before, on anyone.

His body turned towards her, and he pushed his lips onto hers once more. His body towering over hers like a boar hogging its prey.

She didn’t pull back—there was nowhere to go back to. Her body was like a statue. She’d quickly gotten desensitized to the kissing, to the scratches and the way his tongue would line over her lips, asking for permission—yet taking it without it being granted anyways.

The feeling of his slimy muscular tongue forcing its way into her mouth had made her gag at first—she’d compared it to a snail slithering into crevices it didn’t belong. She hated it. But pushed that thought aside, writing it off as just another new experience that people tended to like after getting used to it—like eating olives. You had to learn to appreciate the acquired taste.

His hand had slid its way under her skirt, fingers playing with the hem of her underwear, the other one groping her neck, her head lolling backwards as he took over her entire being. It was almost as if she wasn’t even in control of her bodily autonomy anymore—she was just submitting to whatever his needs were. 

His thumb scratched its way over her neck, before pushing her away. His absence feeling like a heavy blanket forcefully being ripped away from her—instantly sending shivers up her spine. 

He was looking down at her now, his black eyes darting over her entire being as if he were undressing her with his eyes alone. Then shook his head, and peeled his eyes away. His fingers drawing circles on his temples, and rubbing his eyes—as if he realized whatever he had just done was wrong. It almost looked…theatrical.

Emily recoiled, feeling naked and exposed. She wiped his saliva from her mouth, and looked down at her knocking knees—at the goosebumps covering the places on her skin where his hands had roamed.

Her heart was pounding against her chest, irregular beats pounding with such force it was starting to make her feel nauseous. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he mumbled, not looking at her.

We shouldn’t have—there was no we involved. But that’s not what he was making her believe.

She nodded slowly, agreeing with him. “I’m sorry.” She felt guilty. She knew just as well as he did that whatever they had just done was not allowed. He was her teacher. He was risking his entire career, his entire life, all because he had fallen in love with her.

The first snow started falling from the sky at the end of November, it had been the earliest snowfall the UK had seen in years. She’d ran outside as soon as it happened, letting the individual snowflakes tickle her skin. 

It had been years since she’d seen snow, the last couple of years she’d spend in countries where the temperature never dropped low enough for snowfall to even be a possibility.

Mr. Greene had leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, as he looked at Emily twirling around against the white of the snow—her young age tangible from the way her body moved.

“Come home with me.”

“What?” Emily yelled back, not hearing the words properly as the wind soared against her ears. She stopped turning, and wrapped her arms around her torso to try and warm herself back up. Then made her way back into the classroom, where Mr. Greene had scooped her up in his thick winter coat, rubbing her arms until they were warm again.

“Come home with me,” he repeated again, the words a soft murmur in her ear. “I want you to help me decorate the Christmas tree.”

Emily turned on her heels, pursing her lips. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had decorated a Christmas tree—she’s not even sure if she ever had.

The Christmas trees back home, when she was a child, would just mysteriously appear one week before Christmas, and then disappear the first day after. Back then she’d told herself it was Santa, but little did she know her mother would just hire someone to decorate the entire living room so she wouldn’t have to deal with a whiney toddler throwing a tantrum about Santa not being able to find their house if it were undecorated.

“So?” He watched her, eyes playful but Emily was able to identify a tiny whisper of insecurity I them.

She’d observed those eyes up close so often now, she was able to tell when his emotions were reflected in them or not. Whether he had meant what he had said, or if he wanted her to do something. “Are you going to help me?”

She smiled, a smile so wide it had started to hurt her cheeks, “Yes.”

“Yea?”

“Yes!” She squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

The first time he’d ever brought her to his home he’d courted her around like a proper gentleman. He’d showed her around the first floor—the living room, the kitchen, and the backyard. It wasn’t big, but the contrast of the night sky against the warm light inside had made it feel homely and appealing.

He’d let her look around for herself, so he’d leaned against the doorframe as he watched her eye the picture frames on the walls, watch her fingers tracing the spines of the books in his bookcase, and over the keys of the Yamaha in the corner.

“Do you play?” He asked her once he noticed her being drawn to it.

Emily pushed one of the white keys, letting the sound fill the room. Then slowly shook her head. She’d always wanted to, back when she was younger one of her nanny’s had practically shoved her in front of the piano in their foyer one time after having gotten a good look at her hands—trying to communicate to her to play through a mix of broken English and Italian. 

The sound alone had caused her mother to anger, resulting in the keys being immobilized the following day, as if the mere fact of it being considered a statement piece should’ve instantly retired its function as an instrument.

But not this one—this one played.

He’d come up next to her then, taking her hands in his, and turning it. “Your hands are wasted on you if you don’t.”

She looked down at her own hand, trying to understand what he had meant with that. But before she was actually able to ask him for an explanation, he had guided her onto the felt-lined bench in front of it. And he’d come up behind her, his hands sliding down from her shoulders to her fingertips—moving them up and onto the keys, assisting her in pushing certain keys in a specific order. She didn’t recognize what it was supposed to sound like.

“I can teach you if you want?”

She looked up over her shoulder, eyes wide—nodding. “Would you?”

He sat down beside her, tilting his head as he eyed the keys in front of him. Then played the most amazing and complicated-looking piece she’d ever heard and seen. It was sensual and dark, yet also playful. And it intrigued her, she wanted to be able to do that too.

And so he had kept his promise, and had started teaching her. All throughout the month Emily would come over, and he would teach her to read notes, and then play them accordingly. 

He hadn’t touched her as intimately as he had done back in that classroom again. The touches that did happen were delicate; his hands covering hers while playing, his hands roaming over her waist and stomach as she was browsing his collection of books.

She’d started to feel safe there—in that home. It had started to feel like her home. Or at least, the closest thing to a home she’d ever had. 

Every night when she had to leave, and had to sneak her way back onto campus, she’d fall asleep thinking about the next time she’d be able to go there. It was secretive—dangerous, and it excited her.

“Are you going home over Christmas break?” He’d asked her, wiping down the chalk residue from the chalkboard.

Emily looked up from her book, she’d been sitting on his desk chair, a blanket draped over her shoulder he had his back turned towards her, his shirt having become untucked from the hectic last-day-before-break they’d just had.

“Mhm,” she nodded, “Mother will be picking me up on Christmas Day.”

It was their Christmas routine. Where most people would have these big family get togethers, the Prentiss family would either host, or in Emily’s case, partake in a fundraiser gala—trying to swindle the rich men in tuxedos from their massive bank accounts.

“Got anything fun planned?”

Emily shook her head, “Not really.” She pulled her knees up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around them.

“What about your dad?” He’d turned his body towards her now, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving white streaks of chalk wherever his hands had met the fabric. 

Emily pursed her lips, “I don’t have one.” She shrugged, “I mean, of course biologically I do. But—,” she puffed up her cheeks, “don’t know who it is.”

He tilted his head, pushing himself onto the corner of his desk. And he just looked at her, searching her features. “Aren’t you curious?”

She slowly shook her head. She used to be curious, but every time she’d brought it up, her mother shook her off. And eventually she’d just stopped asking after realizing that he wasn’t looking for her either, so why would she?

He smiled, reached out and held her head in his hands, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “What about Christmas Eve? Are you going to Mass?”

She’d told him about her religious upbringing before, but what he didn’t know is that she was still routinely making her way towards the church every Sunday morning. And still, after all these months, she’d never actually made it inside.

Emily shook her head, “I’m not sure yet.”

He nodded, then grabbed hold of her hand, and pulled her up on her feet. Then yanked on her arm, pulling her between his legs. And Emily let him, her head tilting backwards as she looked up at him.

He was smiling down at her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, “Why don’t you spend Christmas Eve at my home?” He pinched her chin, tapping her nose, “get you back on campus on Christmas Day before your mum comes to pick you up?”

Emily swallowed, the question wasn’t difficult per se, but she knew the weight that was dragging behind it. She knew what that meant, or at least she could figure out what his intent was going to be. She’d been to his house, there was only one bedroom. Which meant—. 

“Not a good idea?” He narrowed his eyes at her silence, disrupting her train of thought.

And there was something in his eyes that Emily wasn’t able to describe. She didn’t really know what it meant. She’d not seen it before. But she didn’t want to disappoint him, so she pushed that guttural feeling aside, and smiled like she’d been taught, “Okay.”

Snow had started to pour down and pile up between the twenty-third and the twenty-fourth day of December. And it was already dark out at 4 PM, when Emily was walking towards Mr. Greene’s house.

The streets were empty, there was nothing but the crunching of snow under her boots, and the lanterns making the snow glitter, to keep her company. 

When she’d finally appeared in front of his house, she carefully walked up the stairs, trying her best not to slip on the iced-over stones. Then knocked on the door, and walked inside without waiting for him to open the door.

She’d started to feel comfortable enough around him, and around the house to just walk in without him granting her access. The first couple of times she’d been over she’d just knock, and waited by the door for a couple of minutes before his head would pop up around the corner. But after a while he’d started scolding her for it, telling her to just come in—he wanted it to feel like it was her house just as much as it was his.

It was the same with his name, he’d started to scold her for calling him Mr. Greene or sir, when they were off campus. “I have a first name, you know.” He would say, making Emily blush. It wasn’t a big deal, but it had felt like it for her—like a seal on their relationship that confirmed that they were more than just teacher and student.

She kicked off her boots and took off her coat, disposing them around the corner by all of his other coats and shoes. 

She’d walked in on him busying himself in the kitchen, a messy apron tied around his waist, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and a cigarette balancing between his lips. He didn’t see her at first, so entranced by his occupation, but when he did, he’d smiled at her, beckoning her over.

She’d walked into him, and he’d hugged her, and kissed the top of her head.

The rest of the evening had progressed fairly peacefully—easy. Almost too easy. There was still this undeniable guttural feeling of discomfort, warning her for what was to come.

But he’d been so gentle with her; cooking for her, plating her food, listening to her playing the songs on the piano that he’d taught her and was now able to play off of the top of her head. And he’d covered her in blankets when she was starting to get cold, had made her hot cocoa.

It wasn’t until the two of them were on his sofa watching TV, that he’d started to get more handsy with her. The alcohol pro-milage in his blood high enough to make him more confident and ballsy. She didn’t really think much of his alcohol consumption at first. The adults she’d been around for all her life had always consumed copious amounts of alcohol—they’d smoke and drink and after a while they’d start to look at her funny. It was something she was used to.

He’d scooted over on the sofa, his body now flush against hers. His hands caressing the bare skin of her thighs—every now and then moving slightly higher as he dipped under the folds of her dress.

Emily had been trying to focus her mind on the TV program they were watching. At the comedian making stupid jokes about the economy and politics and sneaking misogynistic jokes between the lines. 

She tried to focus on the rich laughter of the businessmen in the audience, pretending not to notice Mr. Greene’s eyes burning holes through the side of her face, through her chest, through her hips, through her thighs. 

She swallowed, straightening her back and hardening her facial features—like she was putting on a mask, a sheet of protection. Attempting to trick her mind into being more confident than she actually was.

Whatever what was going to happen tonight wasn’t going to affect her as much if she just managed to get out of her head. If she just went along with it.

His hands moved up her chest, over her neck, the side of her face, digging his fingers into her cheeks—forcing her to face him. He’d kissed her then. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts, just his lips on hers, and his tongue instantly finding its way inside of her mouth.

All she could think of was that there was so much tongue. It was like his entire being had transformed into that tongue. 

He’d grabbed her hand then, moving it towards his crotch. Her hand instantly balling up into a fist on reflex, the material of his jeans scratching her knuckles as he continued to press her into him. “This is what you do to me.” He breathed into her ear, the scent of his liquor making her nauseous. 

She could feel him. And she hated that she could. She had no idea what she was supposed to be doing there. So she tried to pull back, but he just kept on tugging and forcing her hand open with his, massaging her hand into him—the sheer knowledge of her hand there was enough for him to groan and every time he did, Emily’s face scrunched up. 

She didn’t get it, she felt like she was supposed to be feeling the same things he would be feeling right now. She was supposed to like this too. She was supposed to want this too. But all she could think about right now was how badly she wanted to get out of this situation, away from this man.

He’d let go of her hand eventually, removing himself from her and the couch. He was on his feet now, grabbing hold of her wrist and tugging her upwards alongside with him as he made his way out of the living room, through the hallways, up the stairs, and into his bedroom.

He’d guided her towards the bed, and laid her down. The room was dark as he’d never bothered to turn the light on, and all Emily could see was his silhouette in front of her getting undressed, and the lampposts’ reflection in his eyes.

And the time was moving so slowly. Everything around her was moving in slow-motion, like the entire globe had reduced the speed of its orbiting by fifty percent—her body feeling heavy as though she was crawling through a bath of honey. 

It felt almost as if this was the world’s cruel way of making her having to experience every single thing he was going to do to her. Like it was being pushed into her face. The world screaming at her to face the consequences of her own actions. 

Every time he touched her. Every breath coming out of his mouth.

He’d climbed on top of her, covering the small entirety of her body with his. He wasn’t even that big or heavy, but right now, then and there, it felt as though he was about five times her size, and five times her weight. She had nowhere to go.

And he’d kissed her, her head trapped between his arms as his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of her face. Then he moved down, his beard scratching its way down over her neck, between her breasts. His hands moved down her sides, bunching up her dress between his fists, pushing it upwards and draping it over Emily’s neck and face.

It had actually been something she’d been grateful for—not being able to see him do the things he was going to her. She sought comfort in the scent of her own laundry detergent, sucking it in. Trying to drown out the sensation of him stripping her from her underwear, of his calloused hands squeezing and sanding over her thighs, pulling them apart—forcing her body to open up to him.

She’d tried to force her legs shut, she’d never stopped trying to do so. Even as his body moved between them, she didn’t stop squeezing. The ache of her muscles working against his thighs so intense she was audibly straining in her desperate attempts to force them shut.

She’d tried to push herself up, her nails clawing at the mans shoulder in an attempt to make him wince off of her. But nothing seemed to work. He’d just moved further against her, or he forcefully slammed her body down against the mattress. And with his hands against her chest, she had nowhere to go, her arms weren’t long enough to reach anything, and the fact that she had no control over the rest of her entire body—she might as well have been paralyzed.

For a moment she was just a jumble of flapping limbs, trying to extend the inevitable—because that’s what it was; inevitable.

The moment of him forcing himself into her went paired with a heavy grunt rolling from the back of his throat, and an inaudible scream from Emily as she felt like entire pelvic bone was being ripped to shreds. Like two hands were holding onto either curve of the bone and just pulling them apart. It felt as though she was being split open from the inside out.

Her body bucked upwards at first, an automatic response of your core muscles contracting when such traumatic acts are inflicted upon ones body. Then it all came crashing down and she fell backwards into the mattress, as if her spinal-cord was suddenly nothing more but a string of beads. 

Her body was sinking through the mattress, through the bed, through the floor, and eventually through the frozen soil under the house. 

He kept thrusting, and grunting, and Emily—. 

Emily didn’t feel a single thing. She wasn’t there anymore. Not on that bed. Not in that room. Not under that body—her own merely a soulless corpse.

Instead, she was in the sea, she was in the waves as they crashed into the shores. She was in the big open fields of lushes grass and in the daisy flowers that swayed along the heartbeat of the wind. She was in the sky, blinking along with the stars that surrounded Saturn just like its rings did. 

She was so far gone she didn’t even realize when he’d gotten out of her—off of her. As he left her on that bed, discarded like a used up cloth.

But she didn’t move, not when he was gone, not when he returned, and not when he crashed down into the mattress next to her.

She wasn’t even sure if she was imagining it, but she could feel his hands brushing the hair out of her face, his lips touching her cheek. But it felt so far away, it didn’t feel real. She laid there like a mannequin with senses so incredibly dulled it was as though you had to physically crash a car into her corpse for her to feel just the slightest touch.

He’d started snoring, and still, she didn’t move—afraid her entire body would shatter into a million pieces if she did. And it had taken her, what felt like, a solid hour of convincing her body to move before she actually did so.

Her body bending upwards, feeling every bone inside of her body shift and slot back into place. She pushed herself off of the mattress, bare feet touching the cold floor beneath. And slowly made her way over to the bathroom. Trying her hardest to be as quiet as possible to not wake the sleeping beast. 

And it was only after she’d locked the bathroom door behind her, and had come face to face with her own reflection—with the girl with the soulless eyes and tangled dark hair, that all of the sensations she’d managed to push down came bubbling back up.

Everything ached, everything hurt.

But it was the dripping of whatever he had left inside of her down her thigh that made her realize whatever had happened, had actually happened.

The feeling—the pure sensation of the slimy liquid mixed with her blood, tickling down her skin made her so nauseous that she’d found herself heaving over the sink before she was even fully conscious again. 

Her hands squeezed the rim of the porcelain, and she threw up until there was nothing left—her body now just as empty as she felt. Afterwards she’d cleaned herself up; washed her hands, her arms, her thighs, her face—splashing water all over the goddamn bathroom and not giving a flying fuck.

Only then she was able to look back at herself in the mirror, she squared her jaw, hardened her eyes, and swallowed. She’d gotten herself in this position, and now it was time to get herself out.

She’d unlocked the door as quietly as she could manage, then searched the floor for her underwear, put it on, and shuffled towards the door. Turning one more time to look back at the shape in the bed she was leaving behind. There was something about it that gnawed at her, how he just lied there fast asleep after what had just happened—like it was the most normal thing in the entire world, which it wasn’t…right?

She tiptoed down the stairs, slid her feet into her boots and grabbed the first coat she could get her hands on. Then unlocked the front door, and slipped out into the night sky. It was so cold—it felt as if she’d just jumped into an iced bath. The harshness of the frost instantly sending knifes into her exposed flesh. 

But she had to get away, had to get out. And so she’d ran down the stairs, slipping her way over the stones—her body falling against obstacles and tripping on loose tiles, so out of control over her own body it looked as though she was a deer who was giving its best shot at walking for the first time.

But she ran, and ran. Did not stop for anything or anyone until she had made it back onto the familiar territory of the campus, of her dorm-building, hearing the church bells chime in the far distance—Merry Christmas.

She’d quietly made it into her private dorm, and just stood there for a moment, staring into the darkness—not physically being able to turn the lights on.

The room felt foreign to her—colder. It changed, or she had. As if the life inside of it had left along with the life inside of her. She let the coat drop down her shoulders onto the ground. Stepped out of her shoes, and felt her way towards the bathroom in the dark, careful not to bump into anything as she went.

Then walked towards the toilet, not a thought or emotion behind her eyes. Like her body had a will on its own now, the connection with her brain being temporarily severed. Then bend over, and puked up what felt like entire gallons of stomach acid. 

Then carried herself into the shower. Scrubbed until her skin went red and raw, and the soap had starting stinging. Then dried herself off, put on a hoodie, binned the dress, and went to sleep.

The next morning, not even fully sure whether or not she had actually slept, she’d awoken from a sharp stinging in her stomach—her body’s desperate attempt to will her into eating something. But the thought alone, of the actual act of having to get up, make food, and shovel it inside of this body, was enough to make her hurl.

So she’d just laid there for most of the day, staring at the piles of clothes on the ground, at the flecks of dust dancing against the sun’s reflection that peeked through her curtains.

Life went on. The sun had taken the moon’s place. The world kept turning.

The driver came and picked her up at the gates just as the lanterns flickered back on again, and she’d complied, following their family tradition like a perfect little robot.

She kept to herself after she’d entered the mansion, not even looking up from the sheer size of it, nor what it must’ve cost. The entire first floor was crowded by workers trying to get the place in tip top shape for the fundraiser later that evening. She watched as decorations were being draped over the railings, as chandeliers were being strung up and candles were being lit. Everything and everybody worked like a well oiled machine—exactly how mother liked it.

“Emily,” a voice came from behind her, her mother coming into view. She’d grabbed hold of Emily’s shoulders—firm fingers gripping around her clavicles. And she gave her a strict smile, not a hug—never a hug. 

She moved her hand, placing her fingers under Emily’s chin and lifting her head up towards the sky, turning as if she was inspecting her. “You look pale,” she turned her face to the other side, before eventually pulling her hands off. “This England weather isn’t doing your skin complexion any favors.”

“My skin complexion is fine.” Emily mumbled, indifferent expression on her face.

Her mother didn’t even flinch at the flatlined reaction, just scoffed and grabbed hold of Emily’s cuff, dragging her along with her as she walked towards the back of the house. “I put out a dress for you to wear, try it on.”

Emily stopped walking, freeing herself from her mother’s grip. “I’m already dressed.”

Her mother frowned, eyeing her from top to bottom. Then rolled her eyes and grabbed her arm, continuing to drag her towards wherever they were going to. And Emily had just hobbled on behind her, letting herself being dragged. It wasn’t like whatever she had to say was really going to make much of a difference anyways.

She’d been stationed right in front of the bed, where a dainty little white dress was laid out for her, so perfectly put in shape it almost looked like a fallen angel. 

She was so focused on the thing, she barely noticed her mother grabbing hold of her hand, tugging it closer towards her face—eyes singling in on her fingers, on her butchered cuticles. “I told you to stop doing that.”

“Sorry.”

She’d dropped her hand then, and nodded towards the dress, “Put it on.”

And Emily obediently did as she was told. She shook off the clothes she had been wearing, aware of the mother’s eyes burning in her back, but not being in any mental state to do anything about it.

She’d stripped down to her underwear, eyes straight ahead of her. The words; ‘don’t look down, don’t look down, do not look down.’ Repeating in her head, like a mantra trying to keep herself sane.

Then grabbed the dress, pulled it over her head, and waited for her mother to tie the lace behind her back.

It was ten seconds of silence, then twenty, then thirty, but her mother never came. So she turned herself, watching the expression on her mother’s face. But that expression was gone just as quickly as she’d clocked it—instantly being replaced by the familiar stoical face she’d grown up looking at.

Her mother swallowed, jaw jutting outwards. Then carefully grabbed hold of Emily’s shoulders with shaky hands, and turned her back around. Not saying a word. 

There was something theatrical about fundraisers, she’d always thought so. Her mother would get up on the podium, dragging small Emily by her hand alongside her. And she’d always felt like she was there to be auctioned off, which she wasn’t, of course. She was there as one of the statement pieces that littered their many homes, as a way to make her mother appear as a mother. To make her appear as more than a career politician or a succubus. 

Not that the men in the fancy suits would actually admit as much, but Emily was invisible when she was younger. Her small seven year old frame being able to weasel through all the cracks and crevices where her mother couldn’t. She’d hear all the gossip, all the comments that were not suitable for her young years. 

But the older she’d gotten, the less invisible she’d become. It started at the age of ten or eleven, but she’d only taken notice of it when she was thirteen years old. Where the men would look through her then, as if she weren’t even there in the first place, they now looked down at her, raising their eyebrows at each other after peeling their eyes off of her body.

And now she was fifteen, her body had developed, and the shift in behavior was tangible. As her mother paraded her around the ballroom, she could feel all their eyes on her—old man’s eyes scavenging all over her body for pieces of flesh they could tear off and keep locked away in their memory box of hidden keepsakes. 

Usually she would pull down her dress, wrap her arms around her waist, pull her hair over her chest, or walk in the opposite direction. But not this time, now she just let them watch. Didn’t even fix her dress when it had started to rise up over her thighs. 

Because that’s what they wanted right? To see her? Emily didn’t have it in her to care anymore. She let them watch. Her body wasn’t hers anymore, it was an object—a trophy. It was anything but hers. They could have it.

She swayed between the people in the fancy suits, grabbing tall thin glasses from the trays of the servers. She wasn’t sure what was in it, but it went down in one go. She hated the ache of the burning down her throat the first time she did it. The second time she was prepared, and the third time it felt normal. 

She’d managed to avoid her mother so far. Ducking out of her sight, attempting to make herself invisible again. But her white dress stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of black formality.

A sudden burst of nausea hit her when she went to stand up again—realizing that alcohol on an empty stomach was not something to be taken lightly. She swallowed down her nausea, then carefully shuffled herself towards the patio outside for some fresh air.

But instead of getting that hit of oxygen, she’d stepped straight into big clouds of blue smog—the familiar scent of ash filing into her lungs. The laughter of rich drunk men sending shivers up her spine. 

She eyed them cautiously at first, watching them watching her. There were about four of them, each sat on a chair looking out at the pond in the distance, each of them a cigarette in one hand, and a half drunken glass in the other. They all looked so similar Emily had to blink a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t seeing double nor hallucinating the entire thing.

Their eyes were like vultures on her, her fifteen year old drunk self the perfect prey. She cleared her throat, and approached them. Their focus on her felt so familiar to her, that feeling of being praised—of being looked at as if she were their wildest fantasy whilst being off limits. 

She stumbled a bit, then without giving it much thought she leaned forward, bending over the man closest to her, and picked the cigarette out of his hands, putting it seductively between her own lips. And he was so entranced by her, letting it happen with a disgusting grin on his mouth.

She sucked in the nicotine, then blew out the smoke into his face, raising her eyebrows at him. Willing him to do something. 

Do. Something.

But he never did. He just leaned back, looking at her with amusement as if he were getting a lap dance. And Emily, having gotten bored from the entire thing, turned on her heels, ready to walk away.

But instead of allowing her to do so, the man had grabbed hold of her hips, pulling her back into his lap. Then leaned over, taking his cigarette back from her lips and putting it between his own. “I don’t think that belongs to you.”

He was right, of course. Nothing belonged to her. 

She leaned back, letting him cover her in smoke. Then let him put the thing back between her lips once more. And this went on for a couple of minutes, the other men around them watching it all happen—as if they were watching a B-grade porno. 

Only stopping when her mother had come crashing through the sliding doors, forcefully ripping Emily away from them and not letting go until they had turned the corner and were in a secluded area where nobody else could see them.

Her mother’s eyes so full of rage, mouth thinned out in a line—she didn’t even know what to say to her daughter.

So instead Emily stepped up, leaning against the wall, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” She blinked up at her mother with doe eyes, “Have I made you a lot of money? Investors love underage promiscuity.”

And it was so rapid, so quick, Emily didn’t even realize she’d been struck across the face until her cheek had started burning. Both of them were silent, her mother regretting her decision, and Emily slowly turning her head back to face her mother, she didn’t even blink. There was no emotion on that face, no fear or sadness, or betrayal. She was just there.

She'd curtsied then, said “You’re welcome,” and walked off.

She’d gotten the driver to drop her back off from where he’d taken her. And she’d walked the graveled path, her heels slipping on the stones towards the entrance. Then just stood there, looking at the dark building through the gates. She didn’t want to go back inside, she didn’t want to go anywhere, be anywhere.

So instead of walking through those gates, she passed them, and walked along the stone walls until she was back on that road she’d ran through less then twenty-four hours ago. And back up those steps. And she knocked. And she waited—waited until the door swung open, and she looked straight into the eyes of the man she’d escaped from.

Because this is what she wanted, right? A place to call home? Somewhere she felt like she belonged? This was that.

She could be who he wanted her to be.

Chapter Text

V

PRESENT

Emily was driving back towards the station, one hand on the wheel, other out of the window—a cigarette lodged between her fingers. Her mind still trying to process and organize the mess of whatever the last couple of days were. 

But she just pushed it all down for now, trying to focus on the task at hand—which was getting to the office as quickly as possible, and to try and see if she could still make herself somewhat useful on the new case they’d been assigned to.

So she’d turned into the parking lot, parked her car, took the elevator up to the sixth floor, and bee-lined towards Garcia’s office at the end of the hallway—barging into the small room loud enough to cause the other woman to practically jump out of her skin.

“Sweet baby Jesus—,” Penelope reached for her heart, blowing out a breath of air in consolation, “since when did knocking become a foreign concept.”

“Sorry—,” Emily pursed her lips, cautiously making her way towards the front of the room, ditching her bag on the floor and dropping herself into the chair beside the other woman, staring into nothingness. 

Penelope tilted her head, eyeballing Emily with a questioning look on her face.

“Sorry—,” she apologized again, shaking herself out of her trance, “it’s been a day.” Then swiveled herself against Penelope’s chair, and hugged her from the side. “Hey, P.”

Penelope squeezed her tight, then sniffed and released her with a foul expression on her face. “Why do you smell like that?”

“Like what?”

She tilted her head at Emily, a disappointed look on her face. “I thought you quit.”

Emily sighed, not really feeling like getting into this topic of conversation right now—or ever for that matter. 

She’d been smoking for most of her life, she quit after leaving Interpol, deciding that that would be the opportunity to turn her life around. She’d tackled it in the same way as if she was preparing herself for another undercover operation—embodying someone who she was going to be for that period of her life, that person being someone who didn’t smoke. And it had worked, for a while.

But with everything coming back to her right now, she was desperate for some sort of comfort that felt familiar to her. Something that she knew would work in relieving some of that tension.

So here she was; back to increasing the risk of developing lung cancer, yet simultaneously decreasing the risk of having an actual mental breakdown right now—it was a give and take situation.

Emily turned her chair around, facing the many monitors that lit up the entirety of Penelope’s office—also known as their own digital analysis unit. “Can you just—,” she waved her hands in the air, dismissing Penelope’s scrutinizing stare, “brief me?”

Penelope pursed her lips, a bit hurt and taken aback by Emily’s indifference towards her. Then just nodded and started opening a couple of programs on the monitors in front of her. “We got called in this morning to assist on a significant increase in suicides in the Boston area. The most recent one was a couple of hours ago.”

“How big of an increase?”

“An increase from 1.7 to about 3 a day, all relatively close to each other.” She nodded, signaling, at the screens as she pulled up more reports, tapping away on her keyboard.

“That’s a big increase, but—,” Emily agreed, yet frowning whilst doing so, “why are we being called in? Do they think they’re not actually suicides?”

“Some of the family members requested autopsies, similarities in the results was what caught the attention of the coroners and they alerted the PD—,” she shrugged, “but you know, they obviously weren’t exactly ecstatic about a potential serial killer in their city so they kind of brushed it under the rug.”

“‘D they change their minds?”

Penelope pursed her lips, “I may have some involvement in that.”

Emily tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “What did you do.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, eyebrows shooting up into the air, “I may have gotten my hands on some of the autopsy reports and did a little bit of digging and pushing.”

“Penelope—,”

“Better not ask about said kind of pushing—,” she turned around, avoiding Emily’s eyes as if her life depended on it. “Plausible deniability?”

“Alright,” Emily sucked in a tight breath, clearing her throat. “What’d you find?”

She smiled, content with her choice of action, then pulled up some of reports she’d mentioned before—the ones she definitely did not hack into the system to get a hold of. “All of these people have died from the exact same thing—,”

“Suicide.” Emily dead-panned, not even trying to be funny, she just didn’t really have the brain capacity to think ahead with the amount of sleep she was currently running on.

Penelope turned her head towards the woman next to her, giving her a death-glare. “Was that a joke?” Her voice strained as she was stifling a smile.

“What?” 

Penelope narrowed her eyes, then continued on with what she was going to say initially. “They all died from a cardiac arrest, but all their toxicology reports stated that they’d died with high levels of methemoglobin in their blood with elevated nitrite and / or azide ions.”

“All of them?”

“Well, the ones we’ve managed to check so far. Morgan and JJ have been spending the entire day trying to contact the families of the suicide-victims who have not been cremated to get them to sign off on autopsies and post-mortem toxicology testing.”

Emily winced only thinking about the shit show that entails trying to convince grieving family members to let them dig up and/or cut open their loved ones, “How’s that going?”

“Well—,” Penelope dragged out, her voice high pitched. “Let’s just say they’re not Boston’s favorites right now.”

Emily nodded, guilt rising up inside of her chest—she should’ve been there, helping them out.

“Speaking of—,” Penelope perched up, slamming down her finger on one of the keys, “Prentiss and Garcia reporting for duty.”

The camera on the screen popped on, both JJ and Morgan coming into view—JJ leaning backwards onto her chair, throwing her hands in the air as a greeting, and Morgan leaned forward on his elbows, his head resting in his hands and a very worn down expression on his face.

“Hey guys,” JJ smiled, approaching the screen, “nice to see some friendly faces for once.”

And Emily couldn’t help but smile, a comfortable feeling of familiarity washing over her.

Morgan dropped his hands onto the table, flipping through the pages in front of him, “Garcia, ‘d you narrow down the searching-field yet, I’m getting kind of tired of making these calls.”

“Okay Mr. Grumpy-pants,” She pulled down her glasses to the tip of her nose, eying the man sternly over the rim. “First of all; geographical profiling’s not my forte, and secondly; I was working on that but I got interrupted by little Miss World-traveler over here that needed to be briefed.”

“Sorry,” Emily smiled apologetically, she knew that look on her friends face. He was not having a good time, and needed to blame someone for it—and that someone being her. “I’ll be taking over the geo-profiling from now on though, so I should be getting that to you guys soon.”

“Great.”

“Um—,” Emily searched the mess that was Garcia’s desk for a pen, needing something to note down the list of names that have already been called and to note down if they’ve either complied or denied autopsies and / or post-mortem toxicology screenings. “I only need—,”

“Emily?”

She looked up, coming face to face with Penelope’s knitted eyebrows and the familiar blue hue of the FBI’s background coming from the many monitors lining the walls—they’d hung up.

“What happened?”

Penelope sucked in a tight breath, giving her a compassionate smile, “They’re probably just busy, you know how it is.”

“I do know how it is—this is just unnecessary.” She mumbled, frown etched onto her face as she grabbed her phone from her pocket, calling Morgan’s phone. Only to be immediately send towards voicemail. “What the—,”

The immediate disconnecting had her staring at her screen for a couple of seconds. He was full in his right to be upset with her for disappearing on all of them without giving any explanation whatsoever. But if he wanted to stop calling around to ask people to dig up their dead loved-ones, he was not exactly speeding up that process by ignoring her and not giving her the information she needed to continue her work.

So she turned on her phone again, this time calling the one person she knew for sure wouldn’t hang up on her like that. And as the phone rang, she looked around herself, eyes falling to the emptiness on the back wall. “What happened to our whiteboard?”

Penelope turned her chair around, facing the same wall as Emily,  her pencil tapping against her chin, “Oh, I left it in the previous century. Cleans up nicely, doesn’t it?”

“Penelope—,”

“Calm down, it’s in the archivageddon.”

Emily narrowed her eyes, cocking one eyebrow, barely noticing the phone being picked up at the other side of the line. “What the hell is an archivageddon?”

“Oh, I think that’s my old office?” JJ’s voice came from her phone, “Hello to you too, by the way.”

“JJ, hey—.” Emily jumped up from her chair, making her way towards the hallway, giving Penelope a disapproving glare all whilst doing so, and made her way towards JJ’s old office down the hall. “What the hell was that back there? Who hung up on me?”

“Emily, I don’t really have time—.” 

“JJ,” Emily pleaded, “come on.”

She heard JJ take a deep breath, “Okay,” then exhaled, “Give me one second.” Followed up by a bunch of rustling, a door opening and closing, and then complete silence. “Look,” she started again, “it’s just—, the last time you didn’t show up for a briefing without giving notice...you kind of died.”

Emily opened her mouth, slowly shaking her head. “That’s hardly fair, I was fully sedated and had surgeons poking around inside of my body. I didn’t have a say in any of that.”

“Before that, Emily.” And Emily didn’t even needed to see her to know that JJ was rolling her eyes at her. “You left to go and hunt down someone from your past by yourself.”

Emily remained quiet, biting the inside of her bottom lip. She’d done that to protect them all—it had been her way of keeping them safe. She never really wanted any of them to follow her, she hadn’t even anticipated it. 

“Just give him some time.”

Emily nodded, despite knowing that gestures like those didn’t translate through a phone call. Then entered the office, closing the door behind her, and leaned her back against it. “You don’t seem to be as affected by it.” She pointed out, her voice catching in her throat.

“Because I knew you weren’t dead.”

Emily nodded again, fingernails digging into her cuticles. The line stayed silent for a little while, neither of them really knowing what to say. She was staring at the floor, mind going over everything that had happened these last couple of days, and somehow trying to mentally prepare a summary that she would be able to tell the rest of the team whenever they’d ask.

“Emily?”

“Mh?”

“You’re not doing the same thing as back then—,” She paused for a brief second before continuing, “right?”

“Right.” Emily mimicked mindlessly.

“Emily.”

“No, it’s—,” Emily stuttered out, JJ’s stern name-calling shaking her out of her thoughts. “I’m not. I wasn’t. I—,” she swallowed, balling up her hand into a fist and tapping it against her forehead in stupidity. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Right,” JJ responded flatly, the skepticism seeping through the phone. “Was there anything else you needed from me?”

Emily nodded, “Yeah, I, um—,” she straightened her back, making her way towards the discarded whiteboard in the corner of the office. “I need the updated list of names so I can either remove them or keep them on the map if those autopsy reports end up matching with the other’s COD’s.”

“Of course,” JJ answered, “I’ll email you that list, okay?”

“Okay, yes.” Emily gave a small smile, “Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

Emily grabbed hold of one of the poles the whiteboard was attached onto, dragging it alongside her out of the office, whilst simultaneously trying to balance her phone between her fingers. Watching the timer on the call continue to increase, somewhat surprised at the fact she hadn’t been hung up on yet.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Emily tucked the phone between her shoulder and her ear, tugging on one of the wheels that got caught behind the doorframe, “Undoing Garcia’s renovation.”

JJ snorted, “Okay, well, I gotta go.”

“Oh JJ, wait—,” she stopped in her tracks, letting the disaster in front of her be, and squashed the phone back against the side of her face. “Thank you—,” she started, “for picking up.”

And the line stayed so quiet, Emily had to check whether or not she’d accidentally hung up in the tussle—but she hadn’t.

“You know I always will.”

The remainder of the day had consisted of; Emily haphazardly pushing the whiteboard back into Garcia’s office—to her great distain, and Emily making a map with an according legend—pinpointing the victims that already fit into their COD profile alongside the ones that were still in the process of undergoing toxicological testing whilst simultaneously trying to blend the ones that were rejected into the background. 

She stepped away, looking at the entire thing from a little distance. It looked more like a sea of unorganized colored pins then anything that she’d be able to identify any kind of pattern from. The only pattern there—was the fact that there was no pattern.

Penelope turned away from her computer as well, head tilting as she eyeballed the same disaster Emily had been looking at. Then blew out a whistle through her teeth. “Thank God that’s not my job anymore.”

Emily turned, glaring down at her, then slapped her arm and plopped herself down into the chair defeatedly. 

“Abuse.”

“I wish my plane’d crashed.”

“Okay—,” Penelope raised her eyebrows as she tilted her head so far it almost looked like she was about to snap it. “Dark, much.” 

Emily groaned, flipping through the list JJ had send her, which held a combined table with all the suicides in the Boston area over the last couple of months, with any method other than ‘suspected overdose’ crossed off.

“It’s a lot of people.” Penelope mumbled.

Emily looked up at the woman next to her, who was still blankly staring at the map on the wall. Then nodded slowly, following her eyes. “It’s an epidemic.” 

She turned to face Emily then, eyes sad and a shrill smile on her face. And Emily reached forward, squeezing her arm in a comforting manner before pushing herself back up with a grunt, and forcing herself back towards the drawing table. 

Emily’d slept horribly that night. Going from tossing and turning to waking up drenched in her own sweat as the sheets wrapped around her—mimicking the same sensation as hands pushing up against her, suffocating her. 

So after the second time she’d woken up with her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was breaking some of her ribs, she’d given up. And had just laid there on her back, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned in lazy circles. 

“Well don’t you look dazzling this morning.” Penelope had joked as she’d slumped her way inside of the office, hair drenched from the small gap she had to walk, through the rain, between the parking lot and the entrance of their compound. 

She eyed the ever-perky blonde, taking a long and deep breath to try and compose herself. Then bend forward, bunched her wet hair together and put it up in a ponytail. “How are you so dry?”

“Oh the universe only rains down sunshine on me, darling.” She smirked, taking pleasure in the daggers that Emily was shooting out of her eyes. “Plus I have a great weather forecast app. Maybe you should get on that.” She looked Emily up and down, “Not that this isn’t a fantastic look on you, by the way—you really can pull off anything.”

“One more word—,” Emily opened her arms wide in threat, droplets of water racing down her coat and onto the floor, “and you can say goodbye to those dry clothes of yours.”

“Absolutely not,” She made a cross with her arms in front of her, as if Emily was the devil itself. “But you kind of are a walking electrical hazard right now so please dry up a bit before coming in my direction, thankyouverymuch.” 

Emily snorted, hanging her coat on the door and then continued on her way towards the front of the office, retrieving her pile of files to continue her work. “The rest of the team up yet?”

“They should be,” Penelope checked her watch, “morning briefing is in fifteen.”

Emily nodded, then eyed the woman next to her, “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

The morning briefings were usually just a short update about what they’d achieved the day prior—all the information they’d gathered and needed to be shared and discussed amongst the rest of the team-members to get multiple perspectives. Most of the time it was just the rest of the team cooped together in an office at the precinct, with Penelope snoozing her way through it all—shooting into action whenever she’d get a task assigned.

Yet this time was a little bit different, because Emily was in DC instead of with them, but also because this case wasn’t exactly a cookie-cutter situation where they’d build on an already partially existing unsub profile. 

Emily’s frown had continued to increase as she continued to work on that geo-profile of her, having to apologize because it was taking her forever and only continued to come back inconclusive. 

Results from the Medical Examiner were coming in slowly but steadily, so she’d been able to scrap a lot of pinpoints from the map as they came back with positive drug screenings for common controlled substances like Heroin and Methadone. So she’d managed to narrow it down to only the people that had died from none of the drugs on that controlled substance list, which matched the physiological COD they were targeting.

Emily tapped the board with her pen, eyes singling in on the screen, “Even with the demographic narrowed down like this, there’s still not really a pattern. It’s haphazardly divided throughout the entire city and there’s not really a pattern in time of deaths, or victimology. The ages vary from nineteen to ninety; no consistency in age, sex, ethnicity, religion—,” she shrugged, sitting herself down next to Penelope again. “I got nothing.”

The rest of the team remained quiet, all of them thinking about their next course of action. JJ tapping a pen against her lips, Morgan frustratedly flipping through his files, and Reid scratching in his notebook.

Hotch turned around, facing the laptop, “We still don’t know what killed them. We know how it works, but not what it is, and how they got it.”

“You want to hunt down the distributor?” Morgan furrowed his brows, “you’re sayin’ the unsub’s a drug dealer?”

JJ leaned forward, pen tapping the toxicology reports, “Is it considered illegal if the substance isn’t on the controlled substance list?”

“Depends on the intent.” Hotch answered.

“Okay,” JJ eyed the man opposite to her, “how do you prove intent.”

Penelope, who’d been keeping to herself all throughout this ordeal, just silently tapping away on her keyboard, lifted her finger, interrupting their discussion. “Hey guys—,” she was silent for a little bit, entire focus still on the screen in front of her. “I did some digging, and threw the toxicology report results through some of my databases, and I found something interesting—,”

“Are you allowed to do that?” Emily raised her eyebrows at the woman next to her. Questioning the legality of rummaging through private post-mortem reports. “Isn’t that a HIPAA violation?”

Penelope gave a blank smile, turning her chair to face Emily, “Are you being paid to question my methods?”

Emily pursed her lips, holding her hands in surrender. “Continue.”

“So,” Penelope started up her monologue again, ignoring her latest disturbance, “our COD profile gives a presence of methemoglobin and elevated levels of nitrite and azide ions. This isn’t generally something that’s run through the panel when somebody’s undergoing an autopsy. Yet, The Netherlands had a lawsuit a couple of years ago about the use of a suicide aid under the name of ‘Substance X’, which lead their toxicology centers to include nitrite and azide screening in unexplained death panels.”

“X?” Morgan repeated, “Are we talking about ecstasy right now?”

“Ecstasy is a stimulant and psychedelic,” Reid intervened, “it wouldn’t cause methemoglobinemia nor increased nitrite or azide ions.”

“No,” Penelope shook her head, “They call it Substance X, or Agent X, because it’s made up of common preservatives used in most chemical industries, and they don’t want to make it public. Possession of these substances, or even distributing these substances, is not illegal per se—they’re not controlled substances.”

“So if you distribute this substance,” Emily relativized, “with the intent and knowledge of the recipient using it to commit suicide—,”

“Illegal,” Hotch declared.

“But if the seller claims ignorance, saying they sold it as a chemical reagent—,”

“Legal.”

“That’s—,” Emily opened her mouth, nodding in disbelief, “diabolical.”

Penelope nodded, “That’s what the lawsuit was about.”

“What was the verdict?”

She held up a finger in the air, fingers dancing over the keyboard. “Guilty of aiding in suicide, 3.5 years of imprisonment.”

Morgan nodded slowly, then turned his focus on Rossi, Hotch and Reid, “You guys joined the house-searches of the victims we knew of when we started this case, did you find anything that resembled this so called ‘Substance X’?”

Rossi shook his head, then shrugged, “It’s difficult to look for something when you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“The drugs we did find should already be at the lab.” Hotch added. “It could be any one of those.”

“Morgan and I could drop by the lab again,” JJ suggested, “put some pressure on it to speed up the process?”

Hotch nodded, then eyed the remaining members of the team, “We’ll go by the other houses to see if we can find anything. Do we know what it looks like?”

Penelope gave sly smile, putting a picture on the screen in front of them, knowing damn well that it was not going to make a difference. “White powdery substance, you dilute it in water.”

Rossi nodded, raising his eyebrows, “Ah yes, that definitely narrows it down.” The sarcasm tangible. 

“You dilute it in water?” Morgan leaned forward on his elbows, approaching the screen, “Is it visible when diluted?”

“You’re thinking people have been involuntarily drugged?” JJ frowned, “Is there an antidote?”

Penelope shook her head, then raised her eyebrows, “Well, that just took a turn.”

“Not necessarily—,” Hotch intervened, “All the relatives we’ve talked to said that the victims all wanted to end their lives, or when they didn’t we found suspected reason to believe they did.”

“Alright,” Rossi stood, slamming both palms on the table as he did, then gestured towards the door, “off we go.”

They’d continued to work on the minimal amount of leads they’d come up with. Emily continuing her work on the victimology profiles, Penelope her research on the chemical substance they were looking for, Morgan and JJ getting ignored by the medical technicians because they couldn’t exactly ‘make the machines run faster just because they wanted to’, and the rest of the team continued on their house searches—every now and then aiding Emily with updates on the victimology and adding extra workload to the laboratory technicians. Eventually they’d just called it a day, and hoped the results would be rolling in overnight.

Emily had stalled driving home after entering her car, tapping her fingers on the wheel as she thought about her next course of action. She was fine with being alone, she’d been so for most of her life. But for some reason she felt like she shouldn’t be alone right now, and one more night of restless sleep would definitely send her into some kind of mania. 

But with the rest of the team being in a different state, it left her options limited. So eventually she’d just pushed her pride aside, and grabbed her phone, finger hovering over the call button—and tapped it.

Emily pushed her spare key into the door, letting herself in. Then closed the door, discarded her coat on the hanger and stepped out of her shoes. “Hello?”

The living room was silent, just the dim lighting casting a warm yellow glow over the furniture.

She dropped her bag onto the couch and kept on walking towards the opposite side of the apartment, knocking on the bedroom door before slowly pushing it further open. Seeing Jamie sprawled out on her back on top of the bed, still in her scrubs. 

“Uh oh, what happened,” Emily laughed, her shoulder leaning against the doorframe, “did you die?”

Jamie contorted her neck, eying the woman upside down. Then moved two fingers below her jaw—pulsing her carotid. “Nope, not yet.”

“Bad day?” She crawled on top of the bed, moving the pillows to the side and laying down on her back next to her, eyes tracing the beams on the ceiling.

She felt the mattress move as Jamie shrugged, “Tough one.”

“What happened?”

“I had to pull a bullet out of the spine of a twelve year old kid today.” Jamie moved her hand to her mouth, picking at the dry skin on her lips—dissociating whilst doing so.

Emily turned on her side, eyes tracing over the side profile of Jamie’s face, over the freckles that dotted her nose and the copper-like hair that contrasted the white bedding. “Did he make it?”

She nodded, slowly, not saying anything for a couple of minutes. And Emily let her be silent. “Barely.” 

Emily watched as she continued to butcher her lips, biting down on the skin and eventually wince as it started to bleed. She reached forward, fingers wrapping over Jamie’s wrist and gently tugging her hand away.

Jamie sighed, head rolling to the side, facing Emily. “I was so focused on making sure the kid didn’t end up paralyzed, that I almost forgot the rest.” She blinked. “That’s someone’s baby—I almost killed someone’s baby.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I could have.” Jamie bit the inside of her bottom lip, brows furrowing. “Can you imagine bringing a child into this world and not being able to guarantee their safety? That’s fucking terrifying.”

Emily nodded slowly, she knew like no other how terrifying this world could be, and sometimes it felt like it was only progressively getting worse. “‘D you ever want children of your own?”

Jamie pursed her lips, lines forming between her eyebrows as she thought on that question. “I always thought I would have with my ex.” She nodded, eying Emily, “When we broke up, I kind of pushed that idea to the side.”

Emily eyed her, giving a small smile, then shrugged. “You still could.”

“Maybe,” Jamie rolled her head back, eyes darting over the ceiling, then frowned. “Toddlers kind of freak me out though.”

Emily snorted, laughing, half taken aback by the sudden change of weight this conversation had taken. But conversations with Jamie always tended to go like this.

“What about you?”

Emily blew out a breath of air between her lips, rolling back onto her back, not sure whether or not she wanted to get into all of that right now. But she could’ve expected that question. “I don’t think I can.”

Jamie knit her brows together, eyes falling back onto the woman next to her. “Do you mean because of the whole lesbian thing, or—?”

Emily chuckled, shaking her head, “Well, yeah that does complicate things, obviously. But no—,” She licked her lips, eyes darting over the ceiling, refusing to face Jamie. “I don’t think I can...anymore.”

Jamie shifted in her position, rolling onto her side, perching herself up onto her elbow—frown deepening. “In what way?”

Emily shrugged, teeth biting down into her lip, giving her mind something else to focus on. She felt Jamie’s hand covering her arm, giving a small squeeze.

Emily cleared her throat, nodding to herself—telling herself that it was okay. “I—, um,” she winced, as if having to force the actual words out of her throat was hurting her physically. “I had an abortion, when I was younger.” She pursed her lips together, head turning to face Jamie, then nodded. “It was a different time back then, you know, it wasn’t just a pill and get it over with.” 

Jamie nodded slowly, her medical educations allowing her to make a decent guess as to what she was referring to, “You had a D&C?” 

“Yeah,” Emily croaked out, returning Jamie’s nod. 

Jamie gave a compassionate smile, her hand combing through Emily’s hair. Knowing that procedure specifically had a lot of side effects attached to it—scarring of the uterine lining being one of them. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. I was—,” Emily shrugged, “I was fifteen, it shouldn’t have happened.”

“High school boyfriend, or—?” Jamie’s eyes scanned Emily’s face, instantly regretting asking that question when she saw her freeze up. “I’m sorry,” she pulled her arm back, adjusting her position. “Ignore I asked that question, it’s none of my business.”

Emily smiled, “It’s fine—,” she shrugged, “It happened, and it sucked, but—, it was a long time ago.” She nodded, trying to make clear to Jamie that she hadn’t overstepped. Then aimed her focus back on the ceiling once more, finding comfort in the repetitive patterns. 

“Fifteen,” Jamie repeated in an almost-whisper, ruminating on the concept, “you were a baby.” She watched Emily nod slowly, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth.

And it was silent for a little bit—not an uncomfortable one, just a mutual understanding of two women being physically and mentally exhausted. Then Jamie reached out and let her arm flop down onto Emily’s stomach. “Are you hungry?”

Emily turned to face her, nodding, lips forming into a smile. “Yes.”

Emily’d slept consistently that night, the conversation from the night prior having taken the last bit of mental energy she had left inside of her, knocking her out cold. 

And she’d only woken up in the morning by Jamie who pushed a freshly brewed cup of coffee into her face, before kissing the top of her head and dashing out of the apartment to the hospital to start her 7 AM shift, telling Emily to lock up behind her when she left.

So she’d showered, gotten back into her clothes and made her way towards the office. Arriving early as she’d been ahead of traffic. 

The building was still quiet, the motion sensor lights flickering on as she traversed through the hallways towards the office she’d been spending the last couple of days cooped up in. 

Penelope hadn’t arrived yet, giving her time set up everything without any disturbances. She loved the hectic-ness and chaos that surrounded that woman, but a little bit of quiet and alone time really did wonders for her psyche. 

She sat herself down, flipping through the victimology research she’d done—which really was as variable as you could get it. The only consistent thing between all of them is that they must’ve gotten the substance from somewhere, and the reasoning as to why they’ve taken it—was unclear yet.

Now, she knew that suicidal ideation wasn’t exactly bound to a specific age-range. However there was a larger increase in their victim groups consisting of young-adults and elders—telling her that the substance was most likely taken voluntarily. With depression amongst young adults having been a growing issue for years now, and as for the elderly—people want full autonomy about when they take their last breaths, finding it almost closely related to signing a DNR.

“Hello bird,” Penelope barged into the office, the sound of her heels reverberating through the small area, “caught the worm yet?”

Emily turned in her chair, rolling her eyes as she watched the woman hobble into the office, her entire presence being quite literally the opposite of Emily’s—it was almost comedic.

“Didn’t you wear that yesterday?” Penelope raised an eyebrow, eyes scanning over Emily’s outfit.

“Aren’t we observant today?”

Penelope continued staring at her, hoping to draw more out of her, but Emily not giving her the pleasure. Then she sighed, and looked down at the papers in front of Emily, noticing she’d already started working. “Found anything interesting?”

Emily slowly shook her head, biting her lip in thought, “I don’t fully understand; why?”

Penelope sat down, turning on her computer-system. “Why suicide?”

“No,” Emily slowly shook her head, “why take the substance. There’s other ways of committing suicide, no? What’s the appeal of the drug?”

Penelope turned her body so she was now fully facing the other woman, crossed her arms, and cleared her throat. “Should I be concerned about the way you just formulated that question?”

Emily opened her mouth, not sure whether to be offended or surprised at what she’d just been asked. “What?” She gave an uncomfortable chuckle.

“Well,” Penelope started, “you’re flying back and forth across the globe within record time, without answering any of our text messages, you’re smoking again, and you look like hell came down pouring on you—no offense, and—,”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there,” Emily held up her hand in front of her friends face, still not entirely sure what this entire outburst had to do with the question she’d just asked about the drug’s appeal. 

But Penelope hadn’t actually questioned her about Emily’s off behaviors yet, and she’d actually thought she’d dodged a bullet there—but she should’ve known better. 

“Do you genuinely think I—,” Emily narrowed her eyes, intentionally deciding not to complete that sentence, and instead just wave her hand in the general direction of their entire mess of case-notes. 

“You do have some suicidal, or self-sacrificing, tendencies to you.”

Emily opened her mouth, a low chuckle escaping her throat. She looked around herself, as if to identify some kind of hidden camera. “I am deciding to pretend this conversation has never taken place.” She straightened her back, flattening the papers in front of her. “And for the record—I would never,”

“Okay.”

“—without good reason, of course,” She shrugged, smirked, and then winked at the woman who was now gaping at her in disbelief—she just couldn’t help herself sometimes, it was too easy. 

“We have news,” JJ appeared on the screen, dropping a massive stack of paperwork in the middle of the table, catching the attention of everybody sitting around it, and at the other side of the camera. “Small bottles containing a white powdery substance that was consistent with our COD’s has been collected and determined from each and every single house of the victims that fit our profile.” Then retrieved a small ziplock bag with one of said bottles and put it on top of the stack of papers, “All of them having specific branding with trademarks of—,”

“Of an idealistic group of people who think everybody should be in charge of their own lives and the endings of them?” Penelope interrupted, face apologetically scrunched together.

“Uh—,” JJ leaned forward, chin defeatedly resting on top of the stack of papers in front of her. 

“Yeah—,” Penelope dragged out, “sorry doll, I found their website just a couple of minutes ago.”

“Right,” JJ groaned, “impeccable timing.”

“It had been taken offline, took me a while to recover it.” Penelope tilted her head, “But your effort is duly noted and will not go unnoticed.” 

“Right,” Emily cleared her throat, standing from her seat and started listing off the facts that they had collected so far—pacing around whilst doing so. “We know that the substance was taken by people who are considered to be dealing with ‘unbearable suffering’ due to physical or mental issues, or by elderly people who want to take full control over the last days of their lives. Also,” she continued, “we know that the substance is technically a concoction of legal laboratory media, but had been distributed under pretenses to function as a suicide aid by an idealistic movement—thus making these people liable and they could be pulled in for questioning and dragged into court—,”

“Have been,” Penelope corrected her, “they already have been dragged to court. We are dealing with the left-overs from products they have already distributed.”

Emily caught breath in her throat, holding her index finger in the air and thinking on her next plan of action, “Okay—,” she stopped pacing, frowning, then put her focus back on the screen—eying Hotch specifically. “So what are we doing here exactly, again?”

“Right,” JJ flopped her arm over the stack of papers, still leaning her entire body weight on it, “It’s kind of a lost cause, isn’t it? Once that recipe is out there—who’s to say other people won’t go around producing and distributing that same substance themselves?”

“Plus,” Emily added, “it kind of comes down to an ethics issue, doesn’t it? The question is; are people allowed to make their own decision in whether they want to continue living or not?”

“Medically assisted euthanasia is actually legal in some parts of the world.” Penelope added, “just not here.” She shrugged, rolling her eyes, “You know, alongside abortion and other re-birthed ancient beliefs.”

Morgan crossed his arms, visibly disagreeing with the entire topic of conversation. “Legally assisted euthanasia—,” he shook his head, “who’s going to make that decision? Right now there’s these idealistic movements that go around determining whether somebody is allowed to have that substance or not. These people are not psychiatrists, and even if they were—how is that ethically responsible.”

Reid cleared his throat, “That’s actually something a lot of people have pointed out during the ongoing debate whether or not assisted euthanasia under medical supervision should be legal. Next to the fear that legal euthanasia could expand from voluntary, terminal cases to include non-voluntary or vulnerable groups, or the religious and moral traditions that say that all human life has intrinsic value, regardless of circumstance, and that intentionally ending it is always wrong. Plus it goes against the physicians’ Hippocratic Oath that states ‘do no harm’. Contrary—,” he continued, “many argue that keeping somebody alive isn’t always in their best interest if the quality of that life is intolerable. And it would be considered a more humane way of somebody ending their own life without feeling the need to choose more violent options like walking in front of a train, taking an overdose or excising their own arteries.”

Emily swallowed, eyes instantly shooting towards JJ, who was sat slumped back onto her chair—silently staring into nothingness, fingers mindlessly fiddling with the ziplock bag that held the small bottle that contained the substance. But it looked like nobody else really seemed to notice. They all kept on continuing their discussion whether or not it should be legalized, and whether or not they were against or in favor of. 

She saw Hotch turn his wrist, checking his watch, then stand up—making the rest of the team shut up at his authority. Then bent over the table, holding his hand up towards JJ, nodding at the evidence-bag in her hands—making her give it up to him, which she obediently did so. “I’ll talk to the sheriff, we’re going home.”