Chapter Text
If there’s one thing Emily hates doing, it’s pretending to keep up appearances.
She’ll do it, sure, but it’s so grating and exhausting to do and wears down on her. Why should she have to worry about something so mundane and little just because it might affect her mother’s reputation?
She’s an FBI agent for crying out loud!
Why should she give a shit about other people’s opinions when her career gives her more than enough to stress about?
Emily supposes this is how her rebellious streak started, from sneaking out of her mother’s villa in Rome to drink with her friends, to dyeing her hair with bright purple streaks, even to hooking up with the ambassador of Italy’s daughter.
(She’s always wondered if she did half of those things because she wanted to get a rise from her mother, or because she actually wanted to.)
Now that she’s older, and the weight of her mother’s scrutiny has long since rolled off her shoulders, Emily’s “rebellious nature” has all but died down. It doesn’t mean she conforms to the picture perfect daughter her mother wants, or the model employee her bosses desire.
No, if anything, she does as she wants. (Within reason, of course. The director of the FBI doesn’t want to get rid of soon-to-be-section-chief Emily Prentiss anytime soon.)
She’s stopped trying to be so modest about herself when it comes to her job as both a profiler and the unit chief for the BAU. If someone were to ask her a decade ago what she thought of her ability’s, she’d significantly downplay her skills and what she’s capable of accomplishing.
Now, if someone were to ask her today? She’d tell them exactly what she thinks, how good she is. How good her team is. She’s sure she’d come off as an egotistical bitch, but so what? She’s a good leader and her team are all fantastic, capable people god dammit!
She’s finally stopped pretending to be straight. She’s long since stopped dating men in order keep up appearances, which, quite frankly, feels like new territory in itself. She’s finally starting to understand what, who, her type is when it comes to potential romantic partners and that’s terrifying but… nice.
She feels authentic to herself, at least.
She’s even stopped dyeing her hair.
When she had first started sprouting grey hairs, she nearly had a panic attack in her apartment right then and there at the mere sight of them. She had gone out to the store as soon as if opened the next morning, a hood tucked up around the offending strands as she flew through the aisles picking up whatever brands of black dye she could find.
It was the most tedious, most pain in the ass process to endure. She had to re-dye her entire head of hair every two weeks for it to look natural all while concealing the ever expanding sea of silver, charcoal and grey.
Every.
Two.
Weeks.
For nearly two whole years!
And for what reason, exactly?
It wasn’t as if her hair color had any affect whatsoever on her performance or her job. Her age certainly didn’t impact either of those factors! She had a certain air of confidence and arrogance that made even the most misogynistic man shrink a little whenever they had crossed a line with her.
(And, boy, would she let them have it!)
So, almost spontaneously, two years ago, Emily had thrown her palms up in the air and decided, “Fuck it!”, she was done dyeing her hair. She was headed off for a few weeks to take care of some things over at the Interpol office in London, anyway. The hair dye would only take up space in her luggage, and she’s so not spending anymore of her paycheck on the stuff!
Covid had forced her to stay in London a bit longer than she had anticipated. A lot longer, actually. International flights were limited and then eventually shut down in attempts to contain the virus, leaving Emily stranded back in London.
She didn’t mind it much, Interpol kept her busy enough. And, eventually when Interpol had to close the office for a while, she found ways to keep herself busy (mostly, reading a good book, or watching a sci-fi series.)
She did call her team, her family, often during quarantine as well. She’d have four way calls with the girls in lieu of girls nights, or talk with the boys one-on-one for hours about how their own quarantine was going. Once or twice, she had even gotten everyone together on a massive group call, which made her really miss everyone back home a lot.
(She never did video calls, though. zoom. pissed her off too much, and Skype was too laggy for her to even want to bother with. Hearing everyone’s voices was enough to help soothe her homesickness.)
Slowly, the black in her hair started fading and turning lighter by the day. At first, it was just her roots greying out. That part, she did mind a little. It didn’t look good, not at all.
She resisted the urge to order hair dye online, though, and left it alone.
Two years later, and Emily’s finally back in the states and fully grey, and finally ready to get back to work as Unit Chief Prentiss before she gets her promotion as Section Chief Prentiss.
She walks into the familiar building with the same swagger she always has, eyes forward, and each step precise and purposeful. She ignores the stares people give her, pressing the button up to the fifth floor.
Here, though, there is a bit of apprehension. Her team, her friends, haven’t seen her in two years. Of course, Emily knows they wouldn’t judge her, but there’s a small part of her, albeit, tiny, that wants them to like the way she looks. She wants their reassurance that the grey suits her.
That meant more than anything to her.
Slowly, she runs her fingers through the strands of varying shades of grey, self consciously tucking a piece behind her ear. She drums her fingers against her thigh, chewing on her lip as the numbers on the elevator rise higher.
3.
4.
5.
The elevator dings as it signals her arrival.
Emily inhales deeply, releasing her breath slowly. She grabs the front of her jacket with both hands and gives it a sharp tug around her frame. She locks her jaw, turning her head slowly from side to side before exhaling sharply once more.
She steps from the elevator confidently, pushing open the doors to the familiar bullpen before stepping inside.
Showtime.
The first thing she hears is a sharp, impressed whistle off to her left. Her head snaps in that direction to see Luke grinning at her from the coffee pot.
“Prentiss! W o w!” he whistles again, ruffling his own hair to demonstrate where his compliment was aimed at. He stirs in some sugar with a more relaxed, easy smile. “You look great!”
“You look fantastic!” Tara corrects him, gently touching Emily’s shoulder from behind to alert the woman to her presence. “Look at you!” She gestures to Emily’s whole frame with an impressed grin.
Emily smiles at their praise, touching her hair once more. “Thanks guys! I stopped dyeing in London.”
“It suits you,” Tara gushes, squeezing the other woman’s bicep excitedly. “Oh, have you shown Pen yet? She’ll love it!”
“She’ll definitely love it,” Luke agrees, taking a sip from his mug while pointing a finger over at Emily. “You’ll have to stop by and show her after work.”
“Wait until Rossi hears he’s not the only silver fox in the office anymore,” Tara teases, shaking Emily a little, all three agents laughing at the comment.
The sound of quick, determined footsteps draws closer to the group, a familiar voice piping up with, “Hey, Tara, I’ve got a—“
JJ’s voice stopping mid sentence causes all three agents to turn towards the blonde, who is stopped just a few feet away holding a manila folder in her hands. Her mouth is slightly open, eyes widened ever so slightly and fixated on Emily.
“Um… wow…” she breathes out, blinking slowly as she stares over at the older woman. “You’re…uhm… you’re back… And…”
“Hi, Jay,” Emily greets softly, small smile on her face. She tilts her head to the side innocently.
Tara smirks, eyes glinting mischievously as a cheshire grin spreads on her face. “What’s up, JJ?”
Looking much like a deer caught in the headlights, JJ blinks again. “Wow… you look… Hot… I mean! …” Her cheeks turn an impressive shade of red, fumbling with the folder in her hands and staring at it as if it were really interesting.
From behind Emily, Luke snickers.
Taking a deep, controlled breath, JJ finally clears her throat and looks over at Emily once more. Cheeks still pink, she says softly, “It looks really good, Em.”
Suddenly a bit cocky, Emily raises an eyebrow teasingly. “You like it?”
“You think?” Luke coughs under his breath. He lets out a small “oof!” when Tara sharply elbows his side. He glares at her offensively, holding his free hand over the same spot.
JJ holds the folder to her chest, nodding dumbly with a sharp breath. “Yeah. Yeah, it really suits you,” she squeaks out quickly, reaching out to impatiently grab Tara. “I’ve got a question!” she rushes out, whisking both herself and Tara away.
“Damn, that was just getting good.”
Emily whips her head back to give Luke a warning glare.
He raises his hand placatingly, giving her a wide grin. “Great having you back, Prentiss.”