Chapter Text
The sky is grey
The trees are pink
It's almost Spring
and I can't wait
and I can't think
As the BAU flew back into Washington without Emily Prentiss, the sting of cold air and shocks of barren branches backlit by streetlights against dreary skies felt appropriate. It was the months after that the reality of her loss truly set in, when the cherry blossoms began to peek out of their buds and the chatter of fifth-grade field trips filled the sidewalks near the nation’s capitol. Emily was notorious for welcoming the first crisp and clear day of the year with open arms; Spring hadn't sprung until she was making rounds in the bullpen to encourage (or beg) her colleagues to take their lunches outside with her. It served a dual purpose that anyone who wasn't a professional behavioral analyst would overlook — as much as she inherently enjoyed the excuse for frivolity, she made a point of seizing any opportunity to get the team’s minds off of the atrocities of their workload.
To say that each member of their unit had taken the loss differently would be an understatement. The shockwaves of the loss had transformed them, twisting and gnarling their dynamics and selves in ways that made the group at times unrecognizable to each other. Still, every day as they came into work, they walked past Emily’s smiling portrait and the sight of her canonized among those they had lost in the line of duty fortified their resolve to honor the goddamn exceptional agent, person, friend, who suffered the ultimate consequence.
The day finally came that, right at 4:55PM, Garcia ceremoniously proclaimed that her office sweater would be going into her desk drawer until further notice, banished from the back of her chair on account of the glorious tidings of the sun. It served as a class bell of sorts, with work immediately ceasing in favor of packing up belongings for imminent departure. The occasion mandated drinks on the patio of whichever bar had the latest happy hour in town, with the unspoken agreement all of their glasses would be raised for Emily.
It wasn't until she went to supervisor Aaron Hotchner's office to spread the good tidings that she was met with friction. Hotch's hesitation at the invitation, followed by the vague and quiet excuse of “I have work that I need to get done before I leave today”, caught Penelope so off-guard that she didn’t have so much as a quip to attempt to sway him. It was all she could muster to say “okay, well, don’t stay too late” and softly shut his office door behind herself. She looked at her colleagues, who were standing at the ready while she grabbed the last straggler, and simply shook her head.
As soon as the shock and silence began to feel weighted, Derek Morgan broke it, his jaw twitching only slightly as he loudly retorted “alright, if boss man is too busy to sit in the sun and have a fruity drink with a little umbrella, all the more for me, let’s go.” He turned on his heel and briskly walk to the elevators, giving a wave for his peers to follow.
“It’s funny,” Spencer began with a half-skipped step to catch up, eager for any opportunity to change the subject and reignite the team’s excitement. “When comparing alcoholic drinks, higher relative sugar contents are slower to metabolize, meaning that the intoxication effects are prolonged, therefore leading to worse hangovers, which doesn’t really seem like how you’d want to wake up if you’re anticipating weather more conducive to going out or partying—”
For Hotch, the TED talk was ended only by elevator doors closing. The eerie quiet that followed made it clear how thoroughly alone he now was as the ticking of the wooden clock on his desk scolded every second past 5:01. He sighed and rested his head in his hands, pressing his thumbs firmly into his temples. It should be easier, he thought, to be in his position. It was a privilege to be the only person in the BAU wondering if Emily Prentiss was okay.
One moment he had been in the lobby of Boston Memorial waiting with his team for an update, the next he was being briefed on Emily's condition and signing off on whatever was needed. It would be hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, but the inter-agency cover-up could eventually tick into the millions. Pocket change, really, to give her a chance at a life where Ian Doyle wouldn’t be chasing her or his team to the end of the Earth. The guilt that ate at him for lying to his team was only assuaged enough for him to sleep by the hope that she would be able to find any semblance of peace or happiness. It didn’t curb the ache that plummeted to the bottom of his chest on days like today, when he'd maybe believe he felt her ghost if he didn't know better.
His personal life had always been guarded, but it felt like a lie of omission that he couldn't admit he’d felt a shift in his dynamic with Emily in the weeks and months before they lost her. Sharing his hesitant interpretation of the ways she seemed to gravitate towards him would have undermined him as an unbiased leader before, but especially now that he had the upper hand in treading the waters of grief, he couldn’t handle their sympathies. Still, he couldn't write off the particular softness of her smile at him, her detailed check-ins about his son, or the slightly-too-quick offers to join him in particular when the team needed to split up in the field. She was sharp. She was kind. She was beautiful in a way that was so obvious as to not need acknowledged…
He reclined in his chair and swiped to the weather app on his phone, already opened to the list of favorite locations. One sleepless night, after a glass or three of scotch to take the edge off, he’d saved a spatter of major cities from across the EU for ease of access. He hadn’t pressed for any further information about Emily's whereabouts for the sake of her safety, so all he knew was that she was taking up a new identity in Europe and maintaining contact with a handler from another agency. Checking in on something as mundane as the spectrum of forecasts gave the illusion of an update, which was more than he could otherwise expect
There was a chance that she was somewhere warm today. The high had been 76 in Florence, 78 in Istanbul, 72 in Lisbon… He frowned slightly as he saw that Paris had barely reached 60 and most of the Nordic towns fared even worse. She should have been out getting drinks with the team, teasing Derek for the frivolous garnishes on his house-specialty cocktails and tucking a stray cherry blossom into Spencer’s hair.
Instead, he found himself hoping she is asleep in a town where no one knows the woman behind the identity crafted to keep her as mundane and unnoticed as possible — there was no comfort to be found in any wish less practical.
Hotch slid his phone into his pocket and stood, tucking the files from the surface of his desk into his bag to preserve the illusion of staying behind to get work done. Emily Prentiss is gone, which is distinctly different from dead, but they had to be the same to him. He let the moment pass on the breeze the moment he stepped outside, steeling himself to go home and prepare for another day at work the following morning.
There were two things that were borderline merciful about the budget cuts that partially split up the BAU. First was Hotch’s ability to negotiate his leave to a temporary assignment, keeping him as the Unit Chief in name but allowing his salary to be drawn from a separate budget line for the counter-terrorism work to be done in Pakistan. The second was that he was deployed in mid-January, less than two months before the anniversary of Emily’s “death”, which spared him the guilt of being directly alongside the team as they navigated the agony only anniversaries can bring. The selfishness of the thought wasn’t lost on him, but he'd shown his hand as they bore witness to the aftermath of losing Haley. Pulling off continuous and smooth betrayal of the best behavioral analysts in the game was out of the question.
Part of him had clung to the hope that the cover-up would have ended well before the one year mark. No criminal is perfect, and while Ian Doyle was a deeply calculated killer, he was also an arrogant and cocky bastard who would crack the case open and seal his own fate with the slightest misstep. Hotch couldn't authorize any follow-up investigations, but Morgan and Garcia would occasionally be seen before he left going to a conference room with a case file just after business hours and out of earshot, and Rossi would occasionally throw out theories about Doyle’s possible long game as part of casual conversation. Although they certainly wouldn’t have jurisdiction or official resources towards their efforts, it was relieving to know that there were still eyes on Doyle's trail. He avoided any intervention with the trust that concrete intel they found would be brought to him.
Now, as his days burned away in the middle of the desert, the rest of the team would be each others’ main support. He was left to pour himself into documents and intel and interpreted conversations with locals who had every right to distrust the tall pale man in American fatigues asking questions about their neighbors. In spite of the people who had used his same uniform to commit atrocities and further their own desperate cling to the only power they'd ever felt, his work was to build enough understanding and trust to get information that would help protect both the local and international communities. It was a dark mirror of his time as a prosecutor, using his skills and the background at his disposal to elicit more truth and whittle down information to finely-honed and actionable fact. Somehow it felt easier than going about the same day-to-day in the same office he'd occupied since before his life had morphed itself into something incomprehensible so many times over. It was like he had become more other than self as he adjusted himself to accommodate the wounds he’d accumulated over the years. He could only imagine how Emily felt.
March 5 was a brutally hot day spent at a satellite base — he found himself busy reviewing building schematics for potential hideouts in nearby towns, cross-referencing interview notes with profiles of known dangerous entities, and trying to get the sand out of the supplies that had blown over while they were unloading their MRAP. The whole setup was no-frills, and while he would have done just-shy-of-illegal things for a shower, laying down at the end of the day was still as much of a relief as it ever.
Finally, he was able to look at his personal phone and be greeted by the text and selfie with Jack that Jessica had sent about an hour before. They were at the Tidal Basin, and pink blossoms enshrouded the parts of the frame that weren't filled with their beaming smiles. “Almost got rained out, but we made it before peak bloom is over! Jack says he loves you and hopes they don’t make you eat the 'yucky dry chicken stuff' again.” The swell of pride from seeing his son was immediate, followed by a flicker of grief that already he looked just a little bigger. It was the sense of humor, however, that drove the stinging at the back of his eyes. Haley’s dying request that their son know him as someone who can laugh had become a singular mission for him, and it was moments like these that gave him the most fragile proof he was doing something right.
He could have set his phone down and fallen asleep happy if he'd left well enough alone, but his thoughts drifted to the fact that they had already reached peak bloom, it was just February, when is it normally, what day is it now, March….? He opened his lock screen again and as soon as he saw the month written in plain text, he was snapped to the memory of the dreary day where he’d lingered behind his colleagues to study Emily’s name, birthday, and legacy carved into marble. It felt uncanny to see such objective truth looming over fresh soil, only to be followed by the day that her life was taken from her in a more visceral way than the fellow mourners could imagine.
March 7. Two days from now. How had it gotten so close without him realizing? Almost a year without her. A year of lying to his team. A year of European weather reports being the only fucking solace he can get. The pit in his stomach felt like it could swallow him whole. As he stared at the ceiling and clenched his jaw in bitter defiance of the threat of tears in the corner of his eyes, he almost wished it would. It wasn’t until his phone had been vibrating long enough for the soldier in the next bed over to growl “answer it or turn it off, damn it” that he realized he'd fallen asleep.
He reflexively pressed the “off” button, but before he could begin to check who had called, it was buzzing again and Penelope Garcia's name lit up the screen. He quickly accepted and stumbled out of the tent, the muggy air thick enough that it seemed to hold up the moonless sky. The first sound on the other end of the line was hiccuping sobs. “Garcia, what’s going on, are you okay?”
“Sir, I know it’s late there, and — and I didn’t want to wake you up because it technically doesn’t change anything, but I wanted to make sure you knew, and — I —”
“Penelope, are you safe?” His heart felt like it was pounding in his throat.
“Yes, sir, and — I — I was going through security camera feeds near where Doyle lived with Emily, uh, Lauren, I guess, and I had — a feeling that he was going to revisit, and there were a few red flags that seemed to confirm it, and — I’msorryI’mrambling, I just, I saw him on a feed and I was sure it was him and I put in an anonymous tip to Interpol and gave his location, and, and then I used a backdoor to log into their lead management system and artificially escalate my tip to make sure they actually did something about it, which I know is all misappropriation of resources and you can fire me if you want Idon’tevencare, because they finally arrested Ian Doyle and they’re going to lock him up and throw away the key and all I needed for the past year was for Emily to get justice and — and — sir, we might actually get it.”
As the sobs took over and Penelope slipped back into indecipherability, Derek could be heard in the background murmuring comforts. At least she's in good company, Hotch thought as he regrouped himself, focusing on combing through the onslaught of information to make sense of it.
Garcia found solid leads and, without seeking approval, used resources in ways that violated protocol. Not the best.
The Interpol tip wasn't tied to the team, and Penelope not only referred it to an appropriate jurisdiction, but she made sure it was taken care of. Net positive?
Ian Doyle is in custody.
It felt impossible to fathom those words strung together in that order, but there they were, heralded by the person he trusted most to, in her words, find a 'needle in a stack of needles'.
Ian Doyle is in custody.
If they could manage to adequately secure him, he wouldn't be a threat to Emily's safety. She could live, maybe freely — a flooding relief swept through him, almost eliciting a laugh.
“—Hotch? Are you there?” Penelope’s voice, wavering and choked, snapped him to attention.
“I’m here, sorry, I’m — You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m so sure, like, statistically impossibly sure, it’s him.”
“That’s great news, Garcia. I… Have you called J.J.?”
“J.J.?” Her voice wobbled in confusion. “No sir, I called you first, I mean, Derek is h— Derek knows already, but— I love J.J., I do, but I thought the team should know first, and maybe from someone that can hold it together for like a half second to finish their story, which is part of why I wanted to maybe pass that baton to you.” The thought is punctuated by the sound of her loudly blowing her nose, followed by a soft ‘thank you’ to Derek, presumably for a tissue.
“You’re right, that was the right call,” he soothed. Of course she had no idea how J.J. played into this; as far as she knew, the delivery of justice was the end of the road. He became aware of the looming weight of the tasks that would need to be undertaken. “Thank you for calling, I can take it from here, I… there are a few things I need to handle but I’m going to see what I can do about getting to Washington, at least temporarily, so I can make the announcement. Both of you, try to get some sleep and I’ll update you as soon as I have a better timeline.”
“Thanks, Hotch,” Derek sighed with a relieved sincerity, and as Garcia echoed her agreement, the call ended. Aaron was once again alone.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and as he tipped his head up to let out the short and breathy laugh that had been trapped under his breastbone, he was greeted by a symphonic swell of stars. He lowered himself to sit in the sand, allowing a singular moment of awestruck admiration before he got to work.