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Emily wasn’t not a happy person. She wasn’t traditionally the bright, full-toothed smile type, but it wasn’t impossible for her to pull off, and it wasn’t a complete farce when she did. Her buzzing, blood-thrumming excitement helped the matter, made it all a little more genuine, even as she had to weirdly stoop to get the door open, leveraging the box in her hands awkwardly until it decided to work with, not against her. The momentary frustration didn’t make a dent where on a normal day it might’ve. She wasn’t pretending, exactly, she was just keenly aware of how much better received she’d be if she came in bright and non-threatening.
It worked, too. Agent Hotchner stood with a smile, with a “how do you do” that was a little too old for him - but the mismatch was charming, not awkward, and she couldn’t help but receive it in kind. If her smile faltered when he mentioned her mother, it was only for a second. The memories were fond, even if it wasn’t where she wanted to start that conversation.
The requisite back and forth came easily. Even if she wasn’t a diplomat’s daughter, trained in that kind of social dance, he was easy to talk to. It was an odd contrast to his imposing form, but she was grateful for it, at least until the conversation fell flat and it became apparent far too late that he had no idea why she was there. The pleasantries felt stale on her tongue, and if she wasn’t so well-trained she would've been all-out scrambling for the paperwork, the proof that she'd earned this. Even as it was, her movements had a nervous edge to them, and she scolded herself for it.
Before they could delve into it, before she even had a chance to make her case, there was a blonde woman nudging open the office door. She was beautiful, Emily noted, and of all the things to be focused on right now. She was apologetic, too, lips pursed at the clearly tense scene she’d walked in on. Her eyes landed on Hotchner, then Emily, then back to him, and her resolve steadied. “We’re starting.”
Whatever understanding Agent Hotchner had put together looking down at the paperwork, all dotted I’s and crossed T’s, fell to the wayside now. “I’m sorry, Agent Prentiss, but you’ve been misinformed.” He came around the desk, returned her folder to her, and Emily’s heart landed somewhere around her feet. It was a feeling she recognized: it wasn’t the first time he’d walked away from her. She’d written it off, then - they’d both been so much younger, but she’d been just 18, freshly off five years of raging against the machine and spitting in the face of authority (proverbially, never literally, for fear of starting an international incident). He’d been the very picture of everything she’d spent years pretending not to want, strong-jawed and clean-cut, a young man in his first command. Their interactions had been brief, inconsequential. Any effect had been incidental. “Excuse me. It was - very good to see you again.”
Inconsequential. Incidental.
She was swallowing back the feeling, and maybe that’s why by the time she found her voice, he was already down the hall, conferring with Agent Gideon. There was tension in his tone, and infinitely more in his eyes when they turned back to her, forlorn in the doorway.
There was a case for them to worry about, and that took precedence, but she lingered. Putting on her happy, smiling interview face was one thing - she wasn’t someone who took no for an answer, not when it mattered, and she wasn’t going to pretend to be now. She waited, feeling not unlike a child sitting outside the principal’s office, until the team filed out, several throwing her an odd, considering look. The blonde even paused for long enough to mouth good luck , though Emily doubted she even knew why she was standing there - the box in her hands was a bit of a dead giveaway, she supposed, and something turned unpleasantly in her stomach at the thought of this blatant rejection being her first introduction to the team.
Agent Hotchner’s pinched expression when he caught sight of her didn’t help matters. “It wasn’t a misunderstanding,” she insisted quickly.
“I assure you, it was. I didn’t approve this transfer.” His tone was cool, but there was an affected undertone of apology: he had better things to be doing, bigger concerns than her, but he was trying to be gentle while he told her as much.
“I don’t know how it happened, or who went around you, but I am supposed to be here, sir.”
“You don’t know who went around me.” The apologetic note had disappeared entirely. “I respect your drive, Agent, but I don’t appreciate you using your leverage to finagle your way onto my team. Profiling isn’t something you can just give a whirl.”
“My leverage?” She was so affronted by this, the latter half of his argument didn’t even register, not at first. “I respect that you’re protective over your team, sir, and I understand you have something unique here, but to assume I’d do something like that - “
She gave a sharp exhale. “My mark was nowhere near the paperwork. I made sure of it,” she set her box firmly on his desk, “and I’ve covered it my entire professional career - and then some.”
He went to speak, but she wasn’t finished. “I have never - would never - use my bond for professional advantage. You don’t have to accept me, you don’t even have to like me, but don’t doubt that.”
“Agent Prentiss.” There was a lift to his tone - and his eyebrow, she realized belatedly - that was almost amused, damn him. “I wasn’t referring to your mark.”
“I - “ She was ready for a fight, it was evident in her voice: the smiley, best-foot-forward version of Emily had officially gone home for the day. But she caught herself, mind just a moment behind her mouth. “You weren’t?”
“No.” He even had the decency to look abashed. At least somewhat. “You’re right - that’s quite the thing to assume about someone.”
“It is.” She was still bristling from the imagined slight, and maybe that’s why it took a moment to hit her. “But - if not that - “ The realization settled, and she deflated, whatever faint curl of a smile she’d managed to hold onto falling away. “My mother.”
This was almost worse than the alternative. Of the two, neither had a thing to do with her own merit, her own capability, and that stung - but at least her mark was something inextricably, undeniably hers. Her mother’s reputation?
“I shouldn’t have assumed,” he amended, though Emily would put money down it wasn’t because he thought it was an unfair assumption: it was the honest disappointment painted on her face that made her case, more than anything else.
“You shouldn’t have.” In this, at least, she didn’t waver. “But I meant what I said. I respect your team, and how much you must care for it. I understand - and this wasn’t a whirl.”
He fixed her with a look, hard and considering, and it was the best thing she’d felt all day.
“It’s not a whim,” she insisted. “Sir.” An afterthought, but she got there. “I studied. I could tell you about the BAU’s track record, past cases, any of it, better than anyone.” She lost his gaze then, if only for a second, an inside joke playing out in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders, as his attention was drawn to the bullpen. “And there are current cases, things I could help on - the I-80 killer? Co-eds, in Indiana?”
She had his attention, finally - all of it. “They weren’t blitz attacks.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“This guy’s organized. He’s a white male, early thirties - and a smooth talker, because even after 11 victims, he’s still able to get women - educated women, who know there’s a predator out there, into his car.”
He asked a follow-up question, and another. This, unlike anything else today, she was prepared for. When she answered, she was smooth, self-assured. He was impressed, she knew he was, and the only thing that stood to get in her way was the agent rapping his knuckles against the doorway, warning him - Hotch, the agent called him Hotch - they had to go.
“Go on ahead - I’ll be right behind you.” Hotch assured, and when he stepped toward the doorway she’d been not-so-coincidentally blocking off, Emily reluctantly relented, stepping aside. He wasn’t looking at her when he spoke again, and it was jarring: she pulled herself back from the edge of disappointment so quickly she almost got whiplash. “Agent Prentiss?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You assumed I meant your mark.”
She pinked - as much as she was capable of, anyway. “It’s an open secret that half your unit is part of a multi-faceted bond.” He didn’t ask: he didn’t have to. “I didn’t come here assuming that’s what I’d find,” she rushed to add on, “the odds must have been astronomical - it’s good work. That’s all.”
He stopped her. “It’s not an accusation, Agent - and it’s more than half.” There weren’t many things left which could reliably get a smile out of him: clearly this was one of them.
She cast a glance back to the bullpen - she was doing the math. A bond of three was rare enough. What they had here...
“You’ll ride with me to the airfield.”
It wasn’t a far drive, but it was long enough for Emily to catch up, flipping through the file and getting Hotch to fill in any pieces that would have been covered during the briefing: of all the cases for her to start on, two competing serial killers wasn’t exactly gentle, and it took most of the drive before she turned her focus to the window.
The quiet was odd, without work to fill it, and she felt not unlike a jittery child, about this close to asking are we there yet ? They weren’t, she could see as much, and it wasn’t even that she minded, exactly. She wanted to be right where she was - she just wanted to be there with her questions answered.
Hotch wasn’t doing much better. She could almost piece together his aborted words herself, just watching them play over his face, until he inevitably hit some snag that sent him rewinding. She didn’t remember this from when they first met: he’d been so assured, so steady. Even today, their first meeting, he hadn’t hesitated - not even when he was outright dismissing her.
There wasn’t time to ponder the change. “You’re part of a multi-faceted bond yourself, then?” He asked, not bothering to ease in or pretend it wasn’t all either of them had thought about since sitting down.
“Well. ‘Part of’ might be being generous,” she admitted, “I haven’t found any of them yet.”
Any , not either. The allusion was subtle, but he caught it with a hum.
“How many? If you don’t mind my asking.”
She almost cracked a joke - it was illegal to ask that sort of question in a job interview. Did that mean the job was hers? Here she’d thought this was all part of some sort of terrifying field test. “Six,” she answered instead, “seven, including me.”
He didn’t look away from the road. Emily could almost believe he didn’t hear her - was too focused on catching the turn, maybe, but then they were stalled at a red light and her heart was deafening in her chest. Could he hear that? It seemed impossible he wouldn’t. She didn’t move. She barely breathed.
“It’s a lucky number,” he said eventually, diffusing precisely none of the tension. “Chinese origins, or so I’ve been told.” Emily couldn’t care less, not right now, but she didn’t say as much: Hotch’s lips had curled into a wry smile, and it did the same thing to her stomach now as it did fifteen years ago. “We have five, so far - seven, total.”
’
Her lips parted. Oh . It was one thing to imagine - even now, still, it wasn’t confirmed, not exactly, but… oh. “If I had a nickel…” she laughed, humorless and dry.
“You’d have two nickels?” He filled in, and there was actual mirth there. It still felt a little like an inside joke she wasn’t quite getting, but their eyes met in the rearview and it felt like an invitation either way. This time, when she laughed, it was bright and real.
“Yeah, something like that.”
It was easier, then, in a way that didn’t totally make sense: the big question was still unasked and unanswered, but the tension had seeped away nonetheless. They spent the last few minutes of the drive in companionable silence. It wasn’t until they’d parked and Hotch was twisting in his seat to look at her that it fully sank in, and she spared a moment of gratitude that she’d long ago mastered the nervous shake of her hands. The laces on the cover she wore were fiddly, even worse because they by-nature had to be done one-handed - but before she could start, he held up a hand.
“I’d like to be clear - this has not, and will not, affect your chances with my team.” He was stern. There was no room for misinterpretation, not in something as important as this. “What we handle here is so much more than any one person - the BAU is more than the sum of its parts, and that includes the bond.”
“I understand,” Emily nodded, and there was gravity in her voice. She hadn’t come here seeking out a bond. She respected, she believed in, the mission. If it was the thing which brought her to her soulmates… wasn’t that a testament to its importance, above all else? Maybe that explained the reverence with which Hotch spoke about a job famous for destroying the people who worked it: or maybe it was something more, something Emily could only begin to understand from her point on the precipice. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“In that case - “
It was oddly intimate, the baring of a wrist. People walked around with their wrists out everyday. It wasn’t exceptional, or taboo, or even odd, but Hotch lifted his suit sleeve, and Emily felt it in her stomach, her knees, her chest.
She’d never seen her mark from this angle, and it was all she could do to snatch her hand back from the unthinking outreach - she wanted to brush her fingers over the curves of it. She’d spent years learning her own like that, when it was hers, and not theirs. Fancifully, she almost wanted to undo her cuff and check that it was unchanged. The colors wouldn’t have shifted, not until it was his hand on her skin, but it was different now: in every way that mattered. Theirs , she thought again, and then, belatedly, five, so far .
She wanted to ask - wanted them - but he was waiting for an answer. She probably should’ve noticed that sooner, too, and how long had they been sitting in a parked car, come to think of it? “It’s - yeah.” Eloquent, Prentiss. “It’s mine.” She was bordering on breathless: she’d gone from alone to almost complete in a matter of minutes, how could she be anything less? “Can I…?” She asked, hesitant and hopeful, and blanched when she realized how rude that probably was. “I can show you mine, of course - I think I’m getting ahead of myself, it’s just - “
“Just,” Hotch agreed. “I’ve been the first person for almost everyone in the set, there isn’t a reaction I haven’t seen.” She wondered at that. It wasn’t as if everyone had bared their mark in an interview - how had it come out? How did it happen that Hotch had always been the first? It made sense for reasons she couldn’t quite articulate, but likely had something to do with the even keel of his voice, and the way he knew, without being asked, to show his wrist, rather than making her bare her own. “You wanted to touch it?” He prompted, though he never technically said yes, and Emily beamed; not the exaggerated, nervous smile of that morning, but something raw and honest.
“Please,” she affirmed, and then there was a gentle, sunset orange bleeding over a twisting black line, and raw couldn’t do that justice. His skin was soft. There was hair there, a shade coarser than her own, brushing against the pads of her fingers as she took his wrist in hand, thumb trailing the warm, fragile underside. His pulse thudded under her touch, the closest she’d ever felt it come to skipping a beat. It was music: it was the only proof she’d ever needed for the existence of God. “Oh.” It was a breath, an exhalation more than anything else, and for what felt like the tenth time that day she was dumbfounded.
The curves looked so different in color. His wrist was strong, as much as a wrist could be - where on her own there was a thin jut of bone distorting the shape, it was instead wiry muscle and smooth lines.
“Orange.” She’d almost believe he was unaffected, if not for the new, rough edge of his voice.
“You have a proper rainbow started, there,” Emily smiled, still not pulling her hand away.
“We do.” He cleared his throat, swallowed. “As much as I’d like to stay - and I really would like to stay - there’s work to do.”
She dropped his wrist, almost startled by the reminder. The real world, right. The job she was here to do - the job they’d just established took precedence over this. Of course. “Right. Of course, we should do that. Go, I mean. Work.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Honestly, I’m not normally so -” Emily gestured wordlessly before shaking her head and rolling out her shoulders. She could do this. “Let’s catch a creep.”
Her resolve was dinged by the time her feet were on the ground. “Hotch?” She called, crossing to the front of the car. “I didn’t show you mine, you didn’t get the chance to…”
Another wry smile - she was starting to think it was his trademark. “I did tell you I’d rather stay.” But they turned to the jet regardless. Everyone else had long beaten them to it, they were the only hold up. “It’s for the best. I’m not sure I could resist touching it, and I’m under very strict orders not to.”
“Orders?” Her disbelief was palpable.
“I mentioned being the first for almost everyone on the team, didn’t I?” He glanced her way for confirmation. “Apparently, it’s a grand injustice. I thought I’d put the whole thing to bed with a bet - I lost.”
Emily was going to need more details about that bet.
“So you can’t be the first one to turn my mark?” She asked, trying and failing not to sound a little put out about it. She’d pour one out for eighteen-year-old Emily, when all was said and done.
He must’ve caught on, or at least partway - “I don’t think you’ll be waiting much longer either way,” he assured, palm hovering just an inch from the small of her back as they stepped onto the rigged up stairs which led to the door. “But, for what it’s worth, I’m the blue line,” he explained, almost remorsefully: it might be about the fairly obvious symbolism in him being the blue of their group, but privately, Emily thought it had more to do with the bet. “We left yellow at Quantico - that’s Penelope Garcia, our technical analyst. It’ll make sense once you meet her.”
“Beyond that, as far as introductions go - “ Her first thought was that the jet was far nicer than it had any right to be: since when had the FBI had a budget like this, and why weren’t they using it on halfway decent breakroom coffee? Her next was that the team was far more attractive than they had any right to be.
The blonde who’d interrupted them sat with furrowed brows - maybe because of the case on her lap, maybe because of the heels that just had to pinch in all the wrong ways, but damn, were they worth it. A dorky, sweet-looking man in what might have been honest-to-god tweed sat across from her, and even the old-man clothes didn’t disguise how clearly young he was. She filed it away as a question for later: he looked fresh out of college, if that, but no one else batted an eye. At the table sat a black man with spread legs and a henley just a touch too tight.
“You’ve met Agent Gideon. That leaves agents Jennifer Jareau and Derek Morgan,” Hotch introduced, and both lifted a hand obligingly, “and Dr. Spencer Reid.” Doctor? This, too, would be a question for later. “This is Agent Emily Prentiss - she’ll be joining us for this case, I expect you’ll help her acclimate.”
It was damn impressive how professional he’d managed to make himself on the short walk. Emily almost wanted to grab his wrist and reassure herself she’d stained it.
“A little faith, Hotch. We’ll take good care of her.” Morgan grinned, a wicked thing, and Emily barked out a laugh.
“Don’t tell me - he’s the red line?”
“What gave me away?” Morgan took the news in stride, all faux-coyness and an easy laugh. Jennifer, on the other hand, sat forward, eyes bright with interest. The wrinkle in her brow was long gone.
“You saw, then?” Then she remembered herself, in a pattern Emily was all too familiar with, and pinked. “I mean - it’s a pleasure to have you. Please, call me JJ.”
“JJ,” Emily echoed with a nod and a grin, “and yes, I did. Part of his apology tour for doubting my honor.”
Morgan jumped on the opportunity, turning to Hotch with a teasing look and a cross of his arms. “And you were worried about us?”
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted dryly.
“I’m going to want the details on that,” JJ insisted, “but for now - did he…?” She gestured eagerly in the general direction of Emily’s wrist. Emily could swear she heard a muttered ‘better not have’ from Morgan’s general vicinity, but when she raised an eyebrow, he played at perfect innocence.
“No, no. I’m told there was a bet?” This got a laugh from everyone, except the recalcitrant Dr. Reid. “All I know so far is that I’m orange, and apparently, he’s blue?”
“And I’m red,” Morgan added, to a nod from her end.
“And Morgan’s red. Which makes you…” Emily tilted her head, made a show of considering the two colors left at her disposal. “You, I need a little more time with.” If there was an edge of flirtation there, it was unintentional. Mostly. Partly.
“I think I could be persuaded.”
“Yeah? And you, Dr. Reid, are - ”
“ Busy ? You’re right, I am. I’d think you would be too - or is your guessing game more entertaining to you than tracking down the two psychopaths loose in St. Louis?” The bite in his voice was unexpected and jarring. A quick glance around the cabin showed it wasn’t just her: this wasn’t normal for him, then.
“Reid,” Morgan admonished, but he was the only one: Gideon and Hotch shared a silent look, and then their leader was squaring his shoulders, clearly picking his next words carefully, but Emily didn’t give him the chance.
“No, he’s right,” she admitted. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. For now - St. Louis needs us. We should focus up.”
“Right.” Hotch’s tone brooked no further argument. “What do we know about distinct killers operating in sync?”
There’s only so much the lush accommodations of the jet could do for the mood after that, but it was a short flight and far from the most awkward Emily’d ever survived: if nothing else, it provided an excellent opportunity to watch. Gideon was stiff - an untrained eye might call Hotch the same. If Emily couldn’t still feel that unsteady pulse under her thumb, she might’ve been tricked, too. Dr. Reid was brilliant in a way that answered several of those questions she didn’t get to ask: it was in the cadence of his voice, the content of his speech. More than that, it was in the way his team unblinkingly accepted his words as pure fact, even as he spouted off facts so obscure Emily could’ve studied for months and not stumbled into them, much less managed to commit them to memory.
There were eyes on her, too, and it was hard to pretend there weren’t - but not impossible. Reid was snippy, but right. There was a city out there that needed their help, and once the conversation turned to it, it was surprisingly easy not to let it turn back. The announcement of their descent caught her off-guard.
Hotch straightened, then, if it was possible: he hadn’t relaxed, not once over the two-hour flight, but there was a palpable difference in the front he put on for them and for what awaited them, and Emily couldn’t help but regret it. “I want us to hit the ground running,” he announced. “Morgan, Prentiss - you’ll go to the Hollow Man’s latest dump site. Gideon and I will take Mill Creek. JJ, Reid, you’ll head to the station: this is going to be all hands, and the sooner we can get the locals on our side, the better.”
As if Reid was the obvious option, when it came to charming the locals? Emily schooled her face, didn’t raise the only-semi-joking eyebrow she wanted to, and looked over him again: she could see it, she guessed, an odd sort of charm.
There wasn’t much time to contemplate it - they were on the ground before she knew it, and there really wasn’t a minute to lose. Three imposing black SUVs waited for them, and their teams were already divided. The only question left was who was going to drive, and Morgan answered that before she had the chance, with a cocksure grin and toss of the keys from one hand to the other that should have been far more irritating.
“Not a chance, Princess. Maybe when you’re off probation.”
“Princess?” she echoed, even as she obligingly crossed to the passenger side. “I might be on probation, but you do know I’m still cleared to carry?”
Morgan laughed at this, full-chested as he climbed into the driver’s seat, and it was warmer than Emily wanted it to be. “She’s got kick, good to know.” When they were both situated, he admitted, “Honestly, it’s nothing personal. Takes a while for me to be comfortable in the passenger seat with someone - try not to read into it.”
“I can respect that,” she agreed, level and open, “but Morgan?”
“Yeah?”
“Call me princess again, and I will shoot you.”
Another deep, warm laugh, and he grinned, though Emily hadn’t entirely decided whether or not she was kidding. “Deal.”
With that settled, the drive should have been companionable and easy - but it was the second time in 24 hours that Emily found herself sitting in the passenger seat, choking on a question she wanted to ask as badly as she wanted to never have to face, and really, it was starting to become a worrying precedent.
Only one thing to do about it.
“Did I do something to Dr. Reid?” she hesitated, but the question hung, and she couldn’t let it. “Did I - I don’t know, say something? Offend him?”
It was entirely possible he was the private type - not everyone approved of openly discussing the marks, much less openly wearing them. Her own cuff was still firmly in place, but maybe she’d inadvertently drawn his attention to the way his matches liked to wear theirs like a badge of honor? She could see the contention now: by brandishing theirs, they showed his with it, a piece of himself he had no interest in giving the world. It made sense that it would be a sore spot, especially if his modesty had religious backing.
She’d pegged his odd style as a sort of lovable dorkiness, a determination to be a curmudgeonly old professor several decades before his time, but it could just as easily be an awkward, Mormon-esque edict. That’d be an easy enough fix: he’d understand that she hadn’t meant anything by it, and however tenuous her relationship with a higher power had gotten, she could still quote the good book with the best of them. Maybe something from the Book of Matthew…
“Prentiss? You there?” Morgan’s voice drew her back to the conversation at hand.
“Yeah. Sorry, did you say something?” His posture had gone strange, his jaw set firm. The laughter of just a few minutes prior faded entirely.
“Where’d you go just now?” he asked, by way of answering, and she gave a remorseful little smile in response.
“I haven’t been here twenty-four hours, and I’ve already managed to give two of my matches the worst possible impression of me. Not my best work.”
"Spencer’s not one of ours.”
Emily blanched.
“But - “ She might not have been a profiler long - maybe she wasn’t technically one at all, not yet - but she couldn’t have read the situation that wrongly. She thought back to the jet, before she’d opened her mouth: thought of the way JJ had settled on the arm of Reid’s seat, the easy way they occupied each other’s space. Reid wasn’t someone that closeness came easily to, that much she could read from a mile off - whether because he didn’t want it, or because he didn’t know how to accept it, Emily couldn’t say, but this much, she was sure of. And there was the fond way Hotch had looked out toward his team, when she’d mentioned being able to rattle off the facts better than anyone - he’d been looking for Spencer, he must have been. That ease, that gravity-like awareness of each other, it didn’t come from nowhere.
“Yeah.” Winded was putting it kindly, the way Morgan looked at her now. Behind them, a car honked, jarring them into motion. Emily was almost grateful. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could handle those eyes on her.
“Hotch should’ve told you - “ But there wasn’t any resentment in Morgan’s tone, just resignation. “It’s not any of our favorite talking points.” He shifted, drumming his fingers tensely against the leather.
“I thought…” She trailed off. Morgan knew what she’d thought - she’d bet anything he’d thought it once, himself.
“You’re not the first,” he assured, grim and tired, “that’s not even what he’s mad about, not really.” She gave a sound of interest: anything would be better than talking about that particular thread. Had she really thought, not an hour ago, that Spencer was only passably attractive, charming if she squinted? She’d been lying to herself, that much was clear - it wouldn’t ache so plainly if some part of her hadn’t wanted him.
“The girl that left - the spot you’re filling - she wasn’t one of ours, either.” And maybe this was implied, because if she had been, how could she have left? Emily didn’t know the story, but it was plain to see there was one. “She and Reid…” Derek trailed, choosing his next words carefully. “I don’t know. They bonded over it, maybe.”
“It wasn’t a clean break, either. It dragged. We saw some shit.”
The job was ‘seeing some shit.’ Whatever it’d been, if it had been enough to drive this agent away… Emily nodded, terse and silent. She understood.
“Reid doesn’t like change much, and he doesn’t take people leaving well.” The sigh he let out loosed the tension like a deflating balloon. “He’ll get over it. Just…give it some time.”
“Time.” Emily echoed. “I can do that.” And if she couldn’t, she’d have to figure out how: she might’ve misread the bond, but there was no misunderstanding how important Reid was to the team.
There wasn’t time to ponder it either way. They’d arrived at the dump site, and this was where the work really began.
It felt like an eternity before they climbed back into the car and rejoined JJ and Reid at the station, but they were the first ones to make it back - Gideon and Hotch were still in the field, and Emily could only hope they’d found something workable. Tensions at the station were high: JJ grabbed Morgan almost immediately, leaving a hapless sergeant to lead Emily to their makeshift office, a conference room Reid had already taken over with whiteboards and files.
He was deep in thought, leaning on the table edge while he squinted at one of the boards - though not the one she would’ve expected. The map, stretched out and covered in pushpin markers, sat abandoned to the side, off-kilter like it’d been pushed away in frustration.
“I thought geographic profiling was your specialty?” she asked, curious and bridging on conversational - as much as one could be conversational, surrounded by death.
“Everything’s my specialty.” He wasn’t cocky: he was barely even paying attention, head tilted almost comically in thought. He meant it, and stranger still, Emily believed it.
“...Right. What are you working on now, then? Could help to bounce it around.”
“The dataset for this type of dynamic is incredibly limited,” Reid explained, still not even looking her way. She almost wondered if he even realized who joined him. “There are cases of killers working in sync in the same general area - there was another serial in New York while Son of Sam was active, but Berkowitz was in a psychotic break. Even if he was aware of the other entity, he wasn’t processing it, not fully.” He pursed his lips, played his thumb over the marker cap as he spoke. “There’s no evidence of that here – it’d be impossible for one to miss the other, the Hollow Man went out of his way to make sure of it.”
“Alright, so they’re aware of each other. What does that tell us?” Morgan cut in, standing in the doorway with arms crossed over his chest. He was used to this, following Spencer’s rambling thoughts - he seemed almost relieved by it, like he was finding his footing again.
“That’s the thing - “ Reid was excited, in an odd sort of way, “I’d expect antagonism - we know we’re dealing with at least one socially awkward loner lashing out. He wouldn’t move well in a pack, he should be…defending his territory, devolving into rage, something, but he’s not.” Emily settled on the lip of the table beside him, staring at the board, but even beginning to understand what he’d laid out was futile. “They’re not in a pack, they’re too distinct, and they’re not antagonizing each other - it’s something else, and if I could figure out what it is…”
“You will.” Morgan seems certain of it.
“I have to,” Reid amended, but the cap was still on the Expo marker, and he didn't move for the board. “We can’t profile either of them until we understand this.”
“You will,” he insisted, “how about you step back? Take a second?”
“Maybe…” But the way Reid trailed off told another story.
“Come back to it with a clear head. We know what it’s not - even if all we’re working with is negative space, that’s not nothing,” Emily piped in, a touch more enthusiastic than she was aiming for. “We can use it.”
“Negative space.” This knocked something loose: Spencer was at the board, scribbling faster than Emily could think, and scratching things off just as quickly. ‘Pack’ was the first to go, but ‘familial’ and ‘enemy’ followed quickly behind. He continued like this, pausing every so often to lean back and run through something, mouthing half-formed words to himself, until all that was left on the list was ‘mentor/mentee’ and ‘compatriot.’
The team had filed in somewhere in his frenzy: like Morgan, they seem acclimated, though that sergeant was hanging in the background looking around like he expected a camera to pop out and tell him he was on a bad reality show. The exchange of ideas was bright and addictive, the back and forth vibrant and alive. It was none of what Emily expected from her transfer, and everything she didn’t know to want.
Hotch fixed her with an evaluating look, and she answered with a nod. It was hard to smile here, dead bodies pinned up everywhere she turned, but it was something: a quiet acknowledgement of each other.
“They’re communicating.” Spencer realized, sitting back with an air of finality.
“Communicating?” Her tone was all disbelief: at least in part because it was an incredible, awful thing to consider, but a little because she had no idea how he got to that conclusion.
“It’s the only explanation,” Spencer nodded, deflating now that he had his answer. “The only question left is how.”
“I’ll call Garcia. If they’re talking, it’s not likely they’re doing it face to face - there might be a paper trail,” Morgan piped up, and it was like a switch was flipped: they fell back into subsets, the room full of quiet, muted conversations. The revelation had the power to change everything, but until they found out something more concrete, it was just that - a power. It was nothing they could act on, and they were right back where they started.
Spencer, despite all the work he’d done, seemed every bit as put out as he’d been when Emily first walked into the room. The room cleared in stages, teams going off on their own, but her de-facto partner had stepped out, phone pressed to his ear and baby girl on his lips, and it was as close to a good opportunity as she was going to get.
“Dr. Reid?” she tried, tentative and friendly. His brows furrowed, but he wasn't locked in on anything in particular, and he actually glanced her way this time.
“Spencer works.” He was tense, lips pursed. It wasn’t much in the way of olive branches, but Emily damn near grinned anyway.
“Spencer, then.” she chuffed, ducked her head. “I just - I wanted to apologize for earlier. I shouldn’t have assumed, I didn’t mean to - “
“I know what you meant to do.” In the right tone of voice, maybe it could’ve been an acceptance, but he was terse and distant - his eyes had fallen away from her again and Emily felt the rebuff like a blow. “If you don’t mind, I need to focus.” It was a kinder dismissal than she’d gotten on the jet, but a dismissal nonetheless, and she nodded.
“Of course.” The humiliation simmered hot in her gut, and she spun on her heel - just in time to catch Hotch watching them through the flimsy, cracked blinds.
The case wrapped up quickly enough after that: not before another two bodies were found, another two families lost in grief, and one woman scarred for life, bound to a future full of what ifs and the eyes of the Mill Creek Killer. It was no surprise that the team didn't want to linger. They could stay, sleep it off on motel beds and fly out at first light - it’d make more sense. They wouldn’t land in Virginia until far too late, met only by questionable fast food and street lights. Those who had someone to come home to would sneak in, tiptoeing around sleeping bodies. Those who didn’t will split off, going home in pairs, the way they always did on the better days - and lately, on the worse.
Hotch was, as ever, the last one to pack up. There was paperwork to handle, hands to shake, detectives to thank and ghosts that needed laying to rest. He’d manage at least some of it, before he left. He was frowning, adding one more manila folder to a box already teeming with misery, when Morgan decided to join him. He couldn’t know how bad of a time it was - Hotch bent over backwards to make sure his team didn't.
“He’s not being fair to her,” Morgan started, apropos of nothing, and Hotch sighed, hands tense on either side of the box.
“I know,” he agreed without looking up.
“She’s a good addition to the team, I know you saw that.”
“She is,” Hotch agreed, and still his tone didn’t waver.
“And it’s not her fault she’s matched.” And he wasn’t, Morgan didn’t say. They both heard it anyway, and the silence hung, stale and noxious.
“I know.”
“So? You’re just going to let him?”
Finally, Aaron looked up, exhausted and worn, and tense for it. “What would you have me do, Derek?” The sound of the box dropping to the table punctuated the question. “Honestly. He hasn’t done anything wrong, not officially - should I pull him into my office, tell him to be nice to her - what, because she’s mine?”
“I didn’t mean..” Morgan trailed off. It wasn’t often he backed down so quickly, but then, it wasn’t often he was stuck in a situation like this, nothing and no one to really direct his anger at. There was everything to rage against and no one to blame, and it was this, more than anything else, that made Aaron want to get the hell home.
‘If he crosses the line, I’ll handle it.” Hotch’s word was final, unwavering. “In the meantime?” Here, he cracked, if only fractionally. “There’s nothing I can do.”
Derek wasn’t looking at him, not anymore. For a second, Aaron assumed it was more misplaced upset, that the other man couldn’t stand to face him, and he missed Dave with a sudden, dizzying acuity. Aaron wouldn’t have to explain this to him: they’d share a look, and a drink, and that would be that. It occurred to him now, far too late, that he hadn't even updated Dave on Emily’s appearance - their conversation was sparse and spread out these days, but he’d reported steadfastly for years now on what was waiting for Dave if - when - he came back.
Derek’s distraction was a boon of sorts: it gave Aaron a chance to process that particular shock. He was sick of reopening old wounds, of walking around with phantom limb pain, and it didn’t matter. Someone had to do it. Derek wore a twin ache on his face, and maybe that was the worst of it - Aaron followed his eyeline, trying to find the source, trying to think of something to say to make this better, and came up empty-handed on both fronts. There was nothing to be done for the latter, but he walked around the conference room table and tried to match Derek’s vantage - and promptly wished he hadn’t.
Their team was gathered by the door, JJ and Emily with packed bags strapped over their shoulders, laughing about something. Even Gideon was reluctantly smiling, and for a second Aaron thought this must be it, but the angle didn’t quite match…and then he caught it. Spencer was to the side, not far enough to be blatant but not close enough to be coincidental. It was impossible to know from here if the distance was his doing, or theirs. What Aaron could see was the frenetic way he was picking at the strap of his bag.
“It wasn’t fair,” Derek repeated, deflated, and what else was there to say? They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, and if the space between them disappeared, the only thing between them the sturdy fabric of Aaron’s suit jacket, neither of them mentioned it.
They couldn’t stay like that forever, side by side and breathing a little easier for it, and eventually, in unspoken agreement, they pulled apart. The jet was waiting for them - Garcia would make a token joke about how it was actually the missing link they’d been looking for, and Hotch almost smiled at the thought. It’d be good for Derek to get home, to get back to her.
Hotch made quick work of getting himself together and heading for the door, and Derek did the same. Neither of them wanted to drag this out. He was at the door when he remembered the logistical nightmare this part presented: they always tried to narrow down the number of cars taken on their way out, it made it easier for everyone involved, but as ever, their team was an awkward number. There was one too many people to cram in together, and they’d have to split. Deciding who went with who, who was the odd man out, normally it didn’t matter: they’d all be back together in a minute. Today it felt a little heavier, a little more, in ways he was far too tired to face…not that he had a choice.
He squared his shoulders, grabbed his set of keys (this much was a given), but it didn’t matter. Spencer was already holding the other pair, dangling the ring from his pointer finger. “Let’s get out of here,” Spencer said, hopeful and tired, and the team hummed their approval.
“I’ll ride with Spence,” JJ offered, knocking shoulders against Reid’s. It was the closest any of them had been to him since the briefing, and Spencer smiled, brief and rueful.
The drive to the airfield was quick and uneventful, at least compared to their trip there. Hotch couldn’t help but glance in the rearview every few moments - Morgan and Emily climbed in together, leaving JJ and Spencer on their own, and he was grateful on more levels than one.
When they parked, Hotch lingered, thumbing over his phone - he should call home, let Haley know he’d be back before sun up. He was gathering himself when Morgan’s knuckles rapped on the window. Everyone else had already filed onto the jet, and Morgan jerked his head in that direction, holding out Hotch’s go-bag in offering. He climbed out of the car, muttering his thanks as he grabbed the bag.
“You should sit with us for the ride,” Morgan invited, and Hotch cast a look over the jet before shaking his head.
“I have work to do.” It was a weak protest, token at best, and Morgan could easily bat it down, but he didn’t.
“You sure?” He asked instead. Hotch nodded, and they left it at that.
The team had already settled into their places by the time Hotch entered the cabin: JJ and Emily sat across from each other, Emily spinning a pack of cards between her fingers, and Gideon had picked a seat opposite them, alone and frowning in the general direction of the window. He was doing that more and more lately - Aaron wanted to ask, but it was a problem neither of them could solve, and he wasn’t sure he could handle one more of those on his plate right now. Morgan dropped down in the empty seat beside JJ, nudged the last spot in the quartet in invitation, but Aaron shook his head once more.
Spencer was curled up on the couch behind them, back to the team. Maybe this should be worrying, but Aaron was struck instead by the mismatch of his socks: he’d already lost his sneakers, and there was something hopelessly endearing about the little sewn Captain America shields opposite the green stripes. His feet were on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest - he was already locked in on a book, mouthing something to himself as he read. He was deep enough in it that he didn’t think to shy away from Aaron until he was already seated at the other end of the couch and for one, easy second, they occupied the same space.
Aaron busied himself for a beat, pulling a file out of his briefcase and settling into his spot. “Good book?” He asked, then, glancing at the cover in his periphery. For a second, he thought there was something in his eye, but then Spencer spoke, and he should’ve known.
“ Дневник лишнего человека ,” Spencer answered, and Aaron was used to this enough that he just waited - but Emily tensed, a whole-body reaction. He couldn’t see her face from here, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to: he met eyes instead with JJ, who looked out over her hand of cards, and that said more than enough.
“It’s - “ Spencer stalled, caught himself in the beginnings of a ramble, and smiled sheepishly. Aaron couldn’t help it - the corner of his mouth lifted too. “Yeah. It’s good.”
The jet itself seemed to exhale, the tension abated, at least for now, and they sank into their respective pursuits. Aaron hadn’t been lying about the work, even if it could, technically, have waited, and he lost himself in it, though he stopped every so often to glance over the cabin, checking on his team. JJ and Emily had settled into an easy rhythm, though it wasn’t any surprise: there was nothing left he hadn’t doubted, not after so many years in the unit, but the bond had a way of reassuring him every time he wavered.
When he was sure everyone was okay, or as close to it as could be expected, Aaron truly settled. They were almost home, no more than a half an hour left before they got there, when a dramatic, wounded noise from Morgan pulled his attention back.
“Don’t listen to him,” JJ insisted, a lilting smoothness to her voice they didn’t see often: the side of JJ they got was so polished, so carefully constructed. He couldn’t resent it - he understood putting on a face for the job, maybe better than any of them. Still, Aaron loved these glimpses, and he couldn’t help but close the file in his lap.
“Hotch told you about the bet, didn’t he?” She continued, and the cards had been abandoned. “Did he mention who won it?”
“You cheated,” Morgan protested, vehement. Even Spencer had to smile at this - it was an old, tired argument, and it never failed to get a laugh.
“I didn’t cheat,” JJ grinned, “and I don’t appreciate this slander, either.” She laid her cards on the table, leaning forward, and Emily wasn’t the only one who followed her lead like a magnetic draw. “Don’t tell me you believe him?”
Emily cast a dubious look over Morgan. “Never.” Hotch had to imagine her grin was every bit as wicked as JJ’s.
“Are you hearing this, Hotch?” Morgan groaned, “Do you see what I put up with?”
“Play nice,” Aaron intoned.
“ Cruel ,” he insisted, hand to his heart. “Are we there yet? My baby girl would never do me like this, where’s Garcia when you need her?”
“At home,” JJ offered helpfully, “getting ready for dinner - with us.” She turned away from Morgan’s stricken expression. A manicured hand met Emily’s across the table, fingertips brushing the edge of her cuff. “How do you feel about sushi?”