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Emily doesn't really do fear—not exactly.
Okay, scratch that. Sometimes she's absolutely terrified, but it's so ingrained in her badge, so stitched into the fabric of her job, it registers as little more than a knot of anxiety in her gut. Usually, it's nothing. But there are moments—moments like this—when something's just not right.
This old lady who stops her in front of an antique store, right in the middle of a freaking manhunt for a suspect she just lost sight of.
She hands Emily a necklace, and it's wrapped up in gnarled fingers. She's got a lovely scarf tied around her neck, and when she smiles... no teeth in sight. "A present for the birthday girl," she says.
Emily blinks. How could she know it's her birthday? But still, she fumbles with the stone on the necklace, trying to play it cool, offering a stiff smile. And then, she can't help it—her face twists, a reflex. "It's not my birthday." It could've been a wild guess. She does it herself all the time with people. But right now, Emily's feeling distinctly unreadable, like she's in the wrong place at the wrong time. "But thanks."
The old woman's smile deepens. "Now that you've touched it, you'll have to wear it. Every day will be unlucky until you put it around your neck. And on that day, it will be your lucky day."
Oh.
Oh—uh, what? The door slams shut behind the old lady as she shuffles back into the store. Excuse you, what?
-
Oh, she doesn't really believe in that stuff—nope. But hey, if her pockets have the room, why not? Doesn't hurt to keep it around, right? Right.
-
Emily groans, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as she pulls off her seatbelt. Dinner had been a nice thought. It's late, and she's already in her pajamas—flannel bottoms and a thin sweater that's not quite cutting it against the autumn chill. Her plan was simple: stop by the little 24-hour diner near the hotel for a quick meal before crashing. But her car has other plans.
She flicks her headlights off. No gas. Zero, zilch, zip. That's impossible—she was only at half a tank earlier. Wasn't she?
"Come on, seriously?" she mutters, peering at the gauge as if it's going to change its mind. No luck. With a sigh, she checks the clock. It's past midnight. Of course. The streets are quiet. She glances around—no cars, no sign of life, just long, empty blocks lit by flickering streetlamps.
Emily rubs her temple. "Screw it." Grabbing her phone and slipping it into her pocket, she slams the door shut, locking it with an annoying click. The diner isn't that far. Maybe a fifteen-minute walk? Tops.
She tugs the sleeves of her sweater over her fingers, the night air biting at her skin as she trudges down the sidewalk. Why did she think this was a good idea again? Oh, right—because she's stubborn. A night like this, where everything feels a little bit strange, doesn't exactly send her scurrying for cover.
Halfway down the block, the wind picks up, cutting through her like needles. Emily ducks her head, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Should've brought a jacket. And actual shoes. The diner's neon sign is just a smudge of color in the distance, but getting there feels like an eternity.
Then, why not—her foot catches on a crack in the pavement. She stumbles forward, arms flailing as she tries to catch her balance. Her slipper—thin, worn-out—gives up the ghost, the left one flipping sideways and landing in a pathetic heap on the sidewalk.
"Of course. Of course," she mutters under her breath, hopping on one foot before giving in and planting herself on the curb. She picks up the slipper, staring at the frayed edge—it personally offends her.
"Alright, I see."
She glances back at her car—just a tiny shape now, farther than she'd like it to be.
Emily breathes in deep, exhales, and resumes her march toward the diner, limping along with one bare foot.
One unlucky day. Fine. But that's all it is.
-
Morning's a mess before Emily even sets foot in the building, practically held together by the crumbs of sleep she managed to scrape together after last night's little misadventure. So, when she trudges through the glass doors of the BAU, she's banking on one thing to save her: coffee.
It's a ritual. JJ's the team's caffeine supplier, the lifeline that hauls Emily out of her groggy fog and into something resembling functionality. But today...
No steaming cup waiting for her at her desk. No telltale waft of freshly brewed espresso with that hint of hazelnut JJ swears she can only get from the café down the street.
Emily slumps into her chair, eyeing the empty spot like it owes her an explanation. There's note. She sees it now. 'Spilled your coffee in the elevator, sorry! I'll owe you one later.'
Of course. Emily lets out a soft, sardonic laugh. Of course. This day's already off to a roaring start.
She settles back in her seat, tapping a pencil against the edge of her desk, half-dazed and distinctly un-caffeinated. The bullpen buzzes around her, voices blending into a low murmur.
And then—thud. A heavy mug lands on her desk, the faint clink of ceramic on wood snapping her out of her daze. Emily glances up, and there's Hotch, already turning on his heel, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her.
"Uh—Hotch?"
Because that's—well, that's nice. Too nice, actually. The words barely make it past the lump in her throat as she stares down at the mug, fingers just shy of gripping it like it's so fragile. Which, she guesses, it sort of is. God, she's pathetic. Can't even hold the damn thing without a headache thrumming at her temples, or the faintest hint of a stomachache curling in her stomach.
"Let's call this my fashionably late happy birthday."
It's just coffee, Emily. But still—something about it's got her all twisted up, flooded with... ugh, pining-related jitters.
Too nice, for a guy who usually communicates in frowns and directives. "Thank you?" It comes out like a question, half-garbled in her confusion, but she tries to pour some semblance of sincerity into it.
Hotch doesn't stop. Doesn't even turn around. He's already mid-stride, long-legged, heading back to his office.
"Yeah, sure, anytime," she murmurs to herself, wincing as her voice falls flat in the empty space he's left behind.
-
This isn't bad luck now, is it? Hah.
-
Too soon?
Emily's vision narrows, the corners of her sight blurring like she's staring down a tunnel. Sweat prickles at the back of her neck, cold and unwelcome, as Reid steps up to deliver the profile presentation. She swallows hard, the motion mechanical, fighting down the rising wave of nausea that's suddenly threatening to claw its way up her throat.
Oh god. She's going to throw up. Or faint. Or both. She needs a chair, like, right now.
She's barely hanging on when Hotch sidesteps closer, eyes scanning her with that laser focus of his. "What's wrong with you?" His voice is pitched low, just between them, but there's no hiding the sharp edge of concern.
"I don't know," she snaps, or tries to—her voice is a ragged whisper, fuming with self-aimed frustration as she swallows down the bile.
It tastes sour, gross. "I'm fine." So fine.
"Yeah, that's convincing," Hotch murmurs, sliding a hand to her elbow, a touch gentle enough to be a lifeline.
"I'm gonna be sick."
"What did you eat today?"
The question's so innocuous, his voice also sounds good and nice and irritating that it makes her want to purr.
But it hits her: she hasn't eaten anything. Not since—hell, since last night. Coffee this morning, but food? She blinks, mouth working uselessly.
It's already three in the afternoon.
Jesus. No wonder her body's flipping out. Not even a scrap of fuel left to burn.
Maybe the radio silence as a response is the green light Hotch needs to give her that look—then, just, no more questions.
"Rossi, watch Prentiss. I'll be right back."
-
Both headed for the same destination—he's behind the wheel, she's in the passenger seat, munching on tacos he picked up for her. "So," he begins, voice smooth, as she struggles not to hum appreciatively around the bite she's just taken. "Sketch matched the little you saw of our suspect yesterday. We'll run with that."
Emily nods, eyes lingering on him a beat too long—long enough for Hotch to catch the drip on her chin. No second thoughts, his thumb sweeps up to catch it, brushing the edge of her lip like it's no big deal. And then—shit—he licks it clean himself.
Emily's heart slams so hard she can barely sit still, head jerking to the window as she fights to steady her breath.
"You feeling better yet?" he asks, tone casual.
"Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'm good," she manages.
-
A series of things happen to Emily—little annoyances that build into something like a typhoon cloud over her day.
First, she misplaces her badge. Not the end of the world, just annoying. Except she'd swear it was clipped to her belt an hour ago. When she finally finds it—underneath a pile of files on Reid's desk, because that makes so much sense—she's already running late for the briefing.
Then, during the debrief, the PowerPoint goes haywire. Half the slides are missing, the font's all jumbled, and what should've been a straightforward presentation ends up looking like a ten-year-old's art project. She can see Morgan biting back a grin in her peripheral vision, and it's all she can do not to lob her clicker at his head.
And of course, the capper of it all: she's the one who spills her second coffee all over herself. Burning hot liquid down her front, soaking into her favorite blouse.
Awesome. Just awesome.
Emily's convinced that if one more thing goes wrong, she's going to snap. Maybe that's why, when she spots a figure ducking into a side alley, she makes the call on instinct, taking off without backup.
It's a mistake. She knows it the second she rounds the corner, chest heaving as she catches sight of him turning to face her. The alley's narrow, stacked with trash cans and debris. A bottleneck. A tactical nightmare.
And he's got a gun.
The seconds tick by in slow motion—adrenaline buzzing in her veins—and then there's the thunderous crack of a shot.
For one disjointed second, she's sure she's been hit—every nerve in her body flaring with the phantom pain of expectation. But she's still standing, gun steady, and she hears the voice before she registers the presence behind her.
"Prentiss, get down!"
Hotch's barked order yanks her back to reality. The suspect's trying to break left, but there's no room—no escape. Hotch takes him down, clean and precise, and Emily... Emily's breath is coming too fast, her vision swimming in and out of focus.
"Prentiss?" Hotch is in front of her now, blocking the alley's exit, a frown creasing his forehead. "You good?"
"Yeah, fine." The words sound hollow, detached, even to her own ears. She pushes herself to her feet, ignoring the protest from her leg. "Just—"
It gives out under her, pain blooming sharp and sudden, and she hits the ground hard. When she glances down, she sees it: blood seeping through her pants, staining the fabric dark. Her brain struggles to catch up. She's been shot. When the hell did that happen?
Hotch approaches, steadying her, his hands firm at her sides. "Hold still. We need to get you to a hospital."
"'S just a graze," she mutters, but the words are more slurred than she'd like, and Hotch isn't buying it. He's hovering, eyes narrowed.
-
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I got shot in the leg," she grumbles, pushing herself up against the hospital bed.
"Cute."
Emily's brow furrows. "Some old lady handed me this weird necklace yesterday. Said I'd have bad luck until I wore it. And now I get shot. Crazy, right?"
"Necklace?"
Emily sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. "It's ridiculous."
His expression shifts—almost imperceptibly, but enough for her to catch it. Then, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Where is it now?"
"I don't know. Where are my clothes?"
For a moment, he just watches her, the silence stretching long and heavy. And then—"I'm gonna go find it. You should wear it."
She blinks. "What?"
"Wear it," he repeats. "If it'll give you one less thing to worry about."
"Looks to me like you're the one stressing about it."
"Yeah, well, guilty."
It's the last thing she expects to hear from him—ever—but there's no mistaking the seriousness in his gaze.
"Okay," she says finally, mouth quirking in a half-smile. "If you insist, Hotch."
He nods, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Good."
-
Emily wakes up from her nap, the necklace now sitting around her neck. Hotch is lazily tracing spirals on her knuckles—okay, that already feels like some kind of cosmic luck. "You're a little superstitious," she teases.
"You've got nothing to lose by wearing it," he says, matter-of-fact. She threads their hands together, feeling her pulse stutter. "Do you need anything else?"
If there's ever a moment, it's right now, right here.
"It's... you know," she starts, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "Look, I know you just signed your divorce papers, and—"
"Emily," he sighs, not unkind, but sharp enough to hit where it hurts—like a sucker punch to the gut, breaking her heart before it even stood a chance."
She drops her head, embarrassed, aching.
"Well, at least now you know," she mumbles.
"Already knew," he admits. Great. Just twist the knife a little deeper, why don't you?
"I want so much from you," he whispers, voice cracking. "Sometimes I think this isn't a good idea."
Wait.
Wait, what?
For a second, she doesn't dare look at him—but then she does. And there they are, those big brown eyes of his, steady and unflinching.
"Whatever you want," Hotch says quietly, "it's yours."
No time to play this properly—nope, because Morgan and Reid are already walking through the door, and Hotch lets go of her hand, smooth and fast. Not smooth enough to fool two profilers, though, is he? She clears her throat, laughing it off as Morgan hands her a scratch ticket. "Hotch told me today was your lucky day."
She takes a shaky breath, her smile unsteady—not forced, just wobbly. "Hotch said that?"
"Alright, guys, give her some space. She needs rest." Hotch steps in smoothly, leaning down to press a kiss to her brow. She licks her lips, heart racing, and tips forward, brushing her fingers under his chin, urging him closer. Just a soft, small kiss—barely there, but enough to make her whole body quivery. Whatever she wants, right? And she wants this.
He pulls away with a half-smile, leaving her heart pounding in her chest.
"You gonna be okay with these two?" he asks, all casual.
"Quick with it," she whispers, her breath hitching. "So I can kiss you again."