Chapter Text
The life that Emily Prentiss constructs ends up crashing down like a house of cards.
It’s a slow undoing, and she is terrified as every second of it passes, that slow trickle of sand slipping through the cracks in her fingertips while the glass lies broken. That night at the park, cold and deserted, the chill hadn’t been merely from the air but somewhere inside of her bones. In that moment, she was Lauren once again, playing a dangerous gamble, staring into the void of Ian Doyle’s eyes while he promised to take her family away from her. The exact same way she had done to him long ago.
So, it’s simple really.
All she has to do is take herself out of the equation.
It’s bittersweet, stepping into the BAU for one last time. She drank in the sight - Hotch’s voice, calm and collected, delivering the profile, then Morgan, Rossi, Garcia. She doesn't see Reid at first. Just the flash of his shirt. The world seemed distant through that shroud of grief that choked her throat. The guilt, the fear that paralyzed her.
She wondered what Morgan would have seen in her face, because he turned, the concerned frown creasing his forehead, and asked, “You good?”
She nodded distractedly, her voice small even to her own ears. “I’m good.”
It had to be this way.
I’m sorry, she thinks mournfully, as she slips away, barely more than the ghost of a memory. I’m so sorry.
If there’s one thing that Emily Prentiss was good at, it was running.
She’s down in the parking basement in Quantico, turning the corner to where her car was parked, before she stopped dead in her tracks.
Reid was waiting there, uncharacteristically still in the dark cardigan that hugged his frame, his fingers twitching minutely by his side. Her heart started to pound. The panicked part of her brain kicked in too late. Before she had any time to duck out of sight, he had already seen her.
She started, “Reid, I-”
He crossed the distance in three large strides, and then wrapped his arms around her. She was too stunned to do anything else, as he burrowed his head against the crook of her neck and held her tight, the warmth from his body emanating bright hot like a fever.
The miniscule tremor wracked through both of them. For a split second, she tasted ash and blood in her mouth, her body twinging with pain, like the phantom sensation of being transported back in Colorado as she’d watched Morgan and Reid stumble out of the ruins of the church.
Yet she also knew if she returned that embrace, she would never be able to bring herself to let go.
She would not have been able to bear to say goodbye to any of them, not if they’d known what it really meant. Reid could be scarily perceptive at times. So maybe he had seen something in her, some emotion she hadn’t been meaning to give away, or it could be that he was just painfully familiar with the signs of people leaving him before. She had never wanted to hurt him this way. She loved him. She loved all of them so much.
But if she stayed… if they got too close, they would die. She’d already damned her family either way.
It was Reid that brought her back to the present. His voice was barely more than the silhouette of a whisper as he finally confided, “Emily, I knew the second that tattoo was reconstructed.”
She felt her breath catch, a hitch of air. “Reid?”
When he finally pulled back and she saw his face, there was a curious calm on his expression. The sort that resembled ice out on a lake, hiding the cracks, keeping away the current that swirled tumultuously beneath. His eyes were too bright in the lighting when he said deliberately, “Because Lauren Reynolds isn’t dead. No more than Lucas Ray is.”
What he was telling her was a revelation that was impossible to sink in.
It’s jarring - the sudden collision of her memories of then and now, of memories that she had kept tightly sealed away for years and a name that was no longer hers.
The initials L.R. on every entry on the list of names she had helped to print out herself, carefully removing her own because Reid had heard her say it over two weeks ago. Her thoughts hazy, skimming that list, as she wondered about the person on the other end, scrubbed of a face and identity. Too agonised over Tsia’s death to recognize the same signs staring at her in the face.
That there had been other undercover operatives, outside of the taskforce.
Her lips part, but no words escape her drying throat. She stared at him as if for the first time, her mind automatically rewiring to fit this new reality into what she knew. The quiet sense of betrayal that strikes her was utterly hypocritical, she knew that. Even worse was the traitorous relief in her heart, turning her legs weak, as she finally hears what he’s trying to say.
“You’re not doing this alone, Emily.” He promised, and how had he aged so much in a night, his posture weary, eyes resolute, a stranger fit sharply in his own clothes.
It’s mirrored in his eyes - the shared remembrance of things long since passed. She wondered if he was seeing Lucas in himself, Lauren in her, or maybe none of that mattered because it was simply Emily and Spencer that stood in that basement, bared painfully vulnerable in that breathless moment of time.
“Okay.” Emily said, blinking back tears. She repeated, “Okay.”
The questions would come later. The mess of emotions, later.
Nothing else mattered, except taking down Doyle.
“I’ve got four names on the bottom of the list Prentiss gave us.” Morgan said. He compared it to the names on the board that had been set up, “Luke Renault, Lawrence Riley, Lila Rafferty, Lyle Rogers.” He stood again, and turned to regard the rest of his team.
“All with the initials L.R.” Seaver said.
“The CIA uses cryptograms like that,” Hotch answered, his mind working quickly, “to assign the non-official cover agents working the same case.”
“So do other foreign countries.” Morgan agreed. He pointed to the list in his hand with the tip of a pen. “These last four names are covers, spies.”
Garcia interrupted, “Wait.” She took the list from Morgan and stared at it intently. “No, this isn’t right. Do you see this space? That shouldn’t be here.”
Rossi hazarded a guess, frowning. “Formatting error?”
“No, this is a spreadsheet template.” She answered emphatically. “Formatting doesn’t allow for this. There’s a missing name on here.”
“Another spy whose cover is L.R.” Hotch said.
In that brief silence that punctuated the revelation, the other thing that was wrong became increasingly apparent. It was too quiet.
The unease followed hot on the heels of the same sense of concern that he’d kept to himself as Emily’s actions grew increasingly erratic. It took him an unforgivable ten more seconds too late to pinpoint exactly what it was.
Morgan asked, “Guys, where’s Emily and Reid?”
Rossi’s frown became more pronounced. Yet the cursory sweep he allowed around the bullpen did nothing to produce their two missing members.
Without another word, Hotch set off towards Emily’s desk. It registered that he had been frowning in that direction a while now. Morgan wondered what Hotch had seen amidst the clutter, because he sure as hell hadn’t pinpointed anything out of the usual. The rest of the team had fanned out around by now, so Morgan was close enough to see what was inside the top drawer the second that Hotch pulled it free.
Inside was Emily’s badge and gun. Her phone, switched off.
Then, Reid’s desk.
All of a sudden, Morgan’s feet were frozen to the ground.
“Hotch?” Rossi prompted, as gently as the situation would allow.
“Emily left her badge and gun.” Hotch reported blankly. “Reid left his badge. Both their phones are here.”
Garcia’s voice was strung tightly enough to quiver and break, “But why would they do that?”
“If Emily was that last name on the list…” Rossi trailed off. “It would explain her behavior for the last month. The secrets, the evasion. Not to mention, she also started biting her fingernails again.”
“Reid knew.” The anger that buzzed in Morgan’s head nearly drowned everything out. It didn’t. At least that would have been kinder than the sickening lurch of fear inside of his gut. The brutality of the case clung to him, never letting him forget for one minute just precisely how badly the situation had devolved.
He stood at Reid’s desk, motionless, just staring at the discarded badge lying innocuously at the bottom of the drawer.
Morgan found himself picking it up, detachedly pulling it open.
“Emily ran.” Hotch said slowly. His face was unreadable and fathomless like the shadows that existed hauntingly behind his eyes. “Because Doyle’s killing families. She wasn’t married, not close to relatives. The next thing he would have gone after was this team. And if she felt he was ready to wipe us out, she would have run to protect us.”
“In that case, she wouldn’t have brought Reid.” Rossi pointed out without an ounce of uncertainty. “Not even if he’d somehow figured it out before the rest of us. Hotch, that doesn't track at all, you know that.”
“He didn’t have the list.” The monotone words were out of Morgan’s mouth even before he knew it.
Hotch paused. “What?”
Morgan turned the badge to him. A small note was stuck to the inside, Reid’s familiar handwriting recognizable. There was a single name on it that was underlined twice. It was a name exactly the same as that on the list, not in that empty space but printed amidst the rest of the blacked-out identities. It read simply, Lucas Ray.
L.R.
There was a small part of Emily that had always known where it would end - in Boston. The drive was quiet, with both of them steadfastly not looking at the crate of weapons loaded up beneath the front seats. Reid had estimated the time that it would take for the team to realize what they had done, but by then, she and Reid were already long gone.
She wondered if his headache was back. He’d been staring out of the passenger side window, face upturned to the droplets of light rain that slid against the glass, nearly molten with the reflection of the street lamps.
“Gideon used to say he picked me out of a lecture hall.” Reid said, abruptly. “It wasn’t a lie, but… it wasn’t the truth either. Not all of it.”
Jason Gideon was a ghost between the two of them. She had seen firsthand what his departure had done to Reid, when he confided in her in the same breath that he put distance. He’d reminded her of Matthew, at first. And she’d known. Back when he was… struggling after the Hankel case.
“It was like that with him sometimes.” She said, gently. His expression twisted into a fragmented smile at that.
“It was easier for everyone to assume that I’d been working as his assistant.” He murmured. “No one knew it was because he used to conduct my psych evaluation while I was working with the CIA. By the time he pulled enough strings to get me into the BAU, there was already that assignment to dismantle Valhalla. That was the last one.”
She glanced at him in the rearview mirror. She pointed out, “You would have been around twenty-two at that time.”
He shrugged. “For the most part, it was desk work. Coming up with the preliminary geographical profiles of the small-time dealers connected to Doyle and tracking movement of the shipments. Technically, I was only out in the field as an operative for around two weeks. A few of the men he hired turned out to be fond of casinos, so…” He made a vague gesture. “I don’t think Doyle ever actually saw me.”
Emily could see it. Reid, perfectly at home and a downright menace amidst the slot machines and poker tables. No one would have suspected him because of his age. It would have been a breeze for him to slip beneath peoples’ defences, much like the ease she had slipped into the skin of Lauren Reynolds.
She realized this about him too - that he always knew far more than people sometimes gave him credit for.
“It’s a good thing.” She confessed. “Doyle had surveillance on every member of the team that he used to effectively pose a threat.”
He stared out over the horizon. The beginning rays of light were beginning to dawn, bleeding pink and red, smeared against the fading night sky. His breath lodged in his chest. “Logically, there’s only two ways this could end. Either with Doyle dead or apprehended, or…”
He didn’t have to finish.
Emily started to say something, but he continued before she could even get a word out. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t have to be here.” He said, surprisingly fierce. “I’m not leaving you to take on Doyle by yourself. I’m already involved. So we do this together.”
She surrendered.
“Okay, alright.” Emily said, eyes watering. “I mean, I wasn't even planning to kick you out at the side of the road or anything. Scout’s honor.”
“Emily, you were never a scout.”
“Figure of speech, Reid.”
“The sentiment holds.”
Back in Boston, Jack Lahey remained unchanged. Time had done nothing for that man. Skulking around his usual haunts, he’d made the same stops. His routine made it effortless to track him down. By the time night had fallen once more, Emily and Reid already had him cornered at a quiet intersection. They pulled the car around the curb, just out of view but near enough to make a quick escape.
Before she left, Reid told her quietly, “Gideon believed in happy endings. So maybe everything works out all alright.”
She squeezed his hand on the way out, and echoed, “Maybe it will.”
Emily does move then.
She slipped inside and waited for Fahey in the backseat of the car. The metal of the gun was cold as it fit into her palm, while she sat motionless in the shroud of the dark that concealed her presence. It didn’t take the target long to return. As arrogant and self-assured as ever, he didn’t as much as spare a cursory glance at his surroundings before he made himself comfortable, settling into the driver’s seat.
He tried to start the engine. It spluttered.
That was when she struck.
Her hands were steady as she brought the gun to the back of his skull. “Battery’s dead, Fahey.”
Fahey startled, and she was vindictive to see the small flash of fear in his eyes through the rearview. “Geez, Lauren.”
There was only one thing that she was here for. “How many men does Doyle have, Jack?”
“Doyle? I haven’t seen that guy in…” He made the wrong choice when he tried to lie to her. Lauren had already brutally stripped apart of his tells years ago.
Her reply was to switch off the safety. The mechanical click echoed in that chamber.
“Fifteen.” Fahey spilled immediately. “Maybe twenty guys.”
“Any surprises?”
“Just automatic weapons. It’s mostly local mob guys. There’s a little bit of IRA and…” The false smile on his face, that desperate farce of camaraderie made her skin crawl with revulsion. He tried again, “Lauren, how ‘bout you do me a favor, huh? You ease up on that gun, okay?” A nervous chuckle punctuated his voice. “I helped you and Clyde back in the day. I can help you now. Do you wanna know where Doyle is?”
Lauren was bored. “I already do.”
“Yeah, but what are you gonna do, take him out on your own?”
Not alone, that small part of her brain that belonged to Emily Prentiss corrected. The smile that twitches her lips became slightly more genuine. Fahey didn’t know her well enough to read her passivity for anything other than coldness. That suited her just fine.
She said, “What are you gonna do, tell him?”
His smile faded. “Wait, wait, wait-”
She pulled the trigger and the world flashed once, the residue of gunpowder filling her lungs.
It wasn’t exactly the circumstances that Morgan had envisioned for JJ to return.
There was a guardedness to her presence that was new, alongside that weight in her eyes. With the help of a contact, she’d managed to pull certain parts of Prentiss’s and Reid’s file. When JJ had spoken of Prentiss’s involvement with Doyle, the pieces fell together to paint a very ugly picture. He stared at the images then, unable to reconcile that woman on screen with the Emily that he knew.
Something had to give - and in the end, that was the lie exposing itself, laid bare and ugly.
And Reid-
That image of him, hair long and pulled high to a ponytail, glasses clipped to the opened dip of his shirt. And, okay, Morgan would have mercilessly ribbed him about it in any other situation, but all this new perspective did was hammer in the extent of the betrayal that had come from two of the people he had entrusted with his life.
He didn’t even want to think about Reid or Prentiss. End of story.
He fell back on old habits. The anger, the scathing criticism was easier. It had always been, because otherwise, Morgan didn’t know what he would have left. He needed to keep moving. Compartmentalization only lasted for so long, but hell, it worked.
Like Hotch had said - Doyle was the unsub, and Prentiss and Reid the victims. Morgan was fine with that. It created distance between him and the churn of emotions he defiantly had no time to untangle.
Later, Hotch returned from his office. “Clyde Easter was just brought into custody.”
And with that, it was the beginning of the end.
Reid felt the shiver that ran through Emily before she caught herself. He understood. Doyle was barely as few feet away, giving orders to his men around the procession of dark SUVs. The daylight made him seem less imposing, but Reid would never forget that this was the man who had hurt Emily and killed so many others.
Somewhere along the line, the profile had changed from terrorist to family annihilator.
He occupied himself with scanning the surroundings, storing away the faces of Doyle's men inside his memory for future reference.
Reid kept his voice low, “Emily, you know him better than anyone. If it’s going to be tonight, how would you win?”
She answered without hesitation, “Play on his level. Nothing short of ruthlessness.”
There was a peculiar grief in her expression as they trailed him and the destination became clear - an Irish bar downtown. Shamrock. Yellow, fading gold, letters against green. The bustle of movement inside was only visible through the silhouettes past the translucent glass.
The hours ticked down. Emily strapped on a bulletproof vest beneath her clothes and then gave no inch for argument as she fastened the straps for him as well, somewhat concealed by the cardigan buttoned to the top.
“I’ll need cover fire, if things go wrong.” She said.
“I’ll be right here.” He promised, the sinewy tips of his fingers brushing against his revolver in the holster in reassurance.
She took a breath. “Reid, no matter what happens, I-”
When it became apparent she could not bring herself to finish that sentence, he said, “I know.” Then he repeated like a promise, an oath, the echo of every syllable that was stuck in her throat, “No matter what happens.”
Later, the final push would be the voice message that Garcia leaves on Emily’s phone.
It will give her enough strength for Emily Prentiss to close her eyes, and Lauren Reynold to open them, to exist in a much unkinder world. She will pick up the automatic and step out into the cold, night air. He will slip out the back seat and crouch around the corner of the vehicle to have an open line of fire.
Glass shatters, smoke fills the air, and Ian Doyle and Lauren Reynolds will be back exactly where they started - playing that dangerous game that could only ever end in one way. The price, a farewell paid in blood.
Garcia screamed.
Morgan bolted from the bullpen and was there in an instant, his heart seizing, as he crashed into her office. He could hear the pounding of footsteps behind him, Rossi, Hotch, the rest of them hot on his heels, narrowly behind him. Penelope was physically unhurt, but there was an expression on her face that made the temperature of his blood drop.
She was staring, skin chalky-white with tears gathering at the corner of her eyes, at the screen of her monitor.
“Boston P.D. sent-” She heaved, then stumbled out of her chair as if it had burnt her. “They sent that footage over, oh my god, Derek, I can’t breathe, I can’t-” He caught her in his arms, taking the brunt of her weight and pulling her close to his chest.
“Hey, hey, Garcia.” He made his voice soft, slipping back into that tone that he usually used when talking to a victims’ loved ones. “You have to tell me what’s wrong, babygirl, alright?”
"Morgan." Rossi said.
He made himself look at the computer monitor. It was pulled up to a frozen dark screen. A video that had just reached the end of replay.
He half-expected Hotch to take charge. He was wrong. It was surprising to witness Hotch falter midway, a flash of apprehension bleeding through the stoic demeanor he was normally defined by. Rossi stepped in smoothly without missing a beat, and Morgan was silent as he bent, then clicked to restart the video loop of the footage.
The lighting on screen immediately made it clear that whatever had occurred had done so at the late hours of night.
Three SUVs parked by the side of the curb. Pulling away gradually, until there was only one left. The unmistakable figure of Ian Doyle on frame in black and white, as he walked to the passenger door as if to get in.
It turned out to be a trap.
The windows shattered in a burst of automatic gunfire. Morgan watched numbly as Prentiss stalked from across the street, her gait dangerously uncaring, before she threw a grenade inside. He knew it was a flash-bang from the way the light flashed and smoke began steaming out in a violent burst. One of Doyle’s men came out coughing, keeled against the tarmac.
She must have been looking for Doyle.
But Morgan saw from the angle of the surveillance that Doyle had been expecting her. He was out of view. He had his gun trained neatly at her center of mass as he rose up from behind. And he wouldn't miss.
Then at the last possible second, he switched the target away from her, pivoting around to fire a shot out of view.
Prentiss spun. She wasn’t quick enough.
One of Doyle’s men rushed the corner and then pulled the trigger first. Prentiss took both shots bodily. She hit the ground. An unexpected beat later, so did her shooter. The man bled out in a matter of seconds. Emily did not.
With a rush of dizzying relief, Morgan realized that she had to have been wearing a vest.
Doyle ducked behind the blown-out vehicle, as the enemy shots ricocheted against the metal. His mouth moved, the words lost without the audio. The opposing gunfire suddenly ceased for too long.
The next thing that was clear was two more of Doyle’s men dragging someone between them, dragging- no . Morgan stopped breathing entirely, while Garcia continued to sob noiselessly into his chest.
Doyle emerged. Reid was down on his knees, his devastated gaze skittering to Prentiss, and then back up after the barrel of the gun was forced beneath his chin. There was blood against the side of his head, sluggishly trickling from a blow to the scalp. He didn’t react as the muzzle dug hard into his neck.
Prentiss twitched on the pavement, like she was straining towards them, or maybe it was the shape of a plea passing through her winded lungs either 'no' or 'don't'. Doyle’s head tilted subtly, and there was a miniscule shift in body language.
And then he lowered and fired once, directly over Reid’s heart.