Chapter Text
Understanding Hanahaki Disease:
Hanahaki Disease: A rare condition that occurs when a person experiences intense, unrequited romantic love. The illness causes the growth of flower-like structures within the respiratory system.
Symptoms: It starts with mild chest pain and the occasional coughing up of blood stained petals. It then progresses on to violent, frequent coughing fits, leading to vomiting larger amounts of flowers, roots, and eventually whole blooms. And in its final stages, the flowers clog the airways, causing suffocation and death unless the love is reciprocated.
Treatment: There are only 2 known treatments of this disease. Reciprocation, where the love becomes mutual and the flowers wither away, thereby curing the patient. And surgery, where the flowers are surgically removed, however this procedure permanently removes the patient’s romantic feelings for the individual involved.
If left untreated, Hanahaki Disease has a 100% fatality rate.
If you believe you may be experiencing symptoms, please speak with a member of our medical staff.
- Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
Staring at the brochure in her hands, Emily wonders what it would be like to stop feeling.
There would be no ache in her chest when she sees their perfect happy family.
There would be no longing when she hears her laugh from across the bullpen.
There would be no forbidden lust when she sees her apprehend the unsub.
No petals.
No death.
The surgery would be her saving grace.
And yet…
The words terrify her.
“Permanently removes the patient’s romantic feelings for the individual involved.”
The idea feels wrong.
Would she still smile whenever JJ enters the room?
Would she still feel that instinctive pull to stand closer, to watch her in the field, to memorize the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking?
Or would JJ become… just another coworker.
Still a friend.
Still her closest confidant.
But nothing more.
— — —
Across the room, JJ is leaning over Morgan’s desk, gesturing animatedly about something. Her wedding ring catches the light when she moves her hand. The small glint might as well be a knife.
Emily forces her eyes away.
Perfect happy family, she had thought earlier.
Will. Henry. JJ.
A life Emily has never once tried to interfere with.
Another tight cough climbs up her throat before she can stop it. She pushes back from her chair quickly.
“Bathroom,” she mutters, though no one asked.
She walks fast but not quite running down the hallway, one hand pressed lightly against her chest. The pressure is building now, her lungs contracting in uneven spasms as the flowers try to force their way out.
By the time she reaches the restroom door, the coughs are tearing out of her.
The sink barely breaks her fall as she doubles over it.
The first burst comes violently. Emily coughs hard enough that her vision blurs, throat burning as something thick and fragile forces its way up. She spits instinctively into the basin. Petals scatter across the white porcelain.
Small.
Soft.
Crimson.
For a moment she can only stare.
They look almost beautiful—thin silk-like petals curled at the edges, darkened with streaks of blood. One sticks stubbornly to the side of the sink, trembling under the faucet’s drip.
Another cough rips through her chest.
This time a thin green stem follows, slick with red.
Emily grips the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening as another spasm wracks her body. The roots inside her lungs tug painfully, like something being pulled loose from deep within her chest.
“God—”
The word dissolves into another cough. More petals fall. Some are still attached to fragile veins of stem. It feels endless for several seconds—her lungs convulsing, throat raw, eyes watering until tears blur the flowers scattered beneath her.
Finally the spasms begin to ease.
Emily sags forward slightly, breathing in shallow, shaky pulls. Each inhale still scrapes against the tangled growth inside her chest, but the worst of the pressure has passed.
For now.
She reaches for the faucet with trembling fingers and turns it on full blast. Water rushes over the petals, carrying streaks of diluted blood toward the drain. The flowers cling stubbornly for a moment, swirling lazily before slipping out of sight.
Emily watches until the last one disappears.
Her reflection in the mirror looks pale.
She reaches into her pocket.
The brochure unfolds easily, the paper already soft from being handled too many times.
At the top, bold letters read:
Hanahaki Disease — Patient Information
Emily’s eyes drift down to the line she’s memorized without meaning to.
The flowers are surgically removed, however this procedure permanently removes the patient’s romantic feelings for the individual involved.
Her chest tightens again.
Not from the roots.
From the thought of it.
Because if the surgery works, this ache—the unbearable, relentless love she carries for JJ—will vanish. (And finally, she’ll be at peace.)
She should feel horrified.
Instead, she exhales slowly.
And for the first time in weeks—
The idea of forgetting almost feels like relief.
— — —
The surgery is scheduled for Thursday.
Emily tells no one.
Not Rossi.
Not Hotch.
Not Derek.
And definitely not JJ.
Officially, she’s taking medical leave for a “minor respiratory procedure.” It isn’t a complete lie.
— — —
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital smells like antiseptic and recycled air.
Emily sits on the edge of the hospital bed wearing a thin gown that does nothing to stop the chill crawling along her skin. A nurse checks her vitals while the surgeon reviews the chart.
“Miss Prentiss,” the doctor says gently, “I want to confirm you understand the side effects of the procedure.”
Emily nods.
The doctor continues anyway. “The surgery will remove the floral growths from your lungs and airway. However, because the disease is tied to emotional attachment, the procedure severs the neurological association connected to that individual.”
Emily exhales slowly.
“In plain English,” the doctor says, “you will no longer feel romantic love toward the person involved.”
“I know.”
“Some patients experience memory shifts around emotionally significant moments,” the doctor adds. “You’ll remember events, but the emotional weight may feel… different.”
Different.
Emily thinks about JJ smiling.
JJ holding Henry.
JJ resting her head on Emily’s shoulder on the jet.
Different.
“That’s fine,” Emily says quietly.
Because the only other alternative is dying on a bathroom floor choking on roses.
— — —
The operating room lights are painfully bright.
Cold air seeps under the blanket covering her legs.
A mask is fitted over her nose and mouth.
“Count backwards from ten,” the anesthesiologist says.
Emily stares at the ceiling.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
(For a brief moment, JJ’s face flashes through her mind.)
Seven.
(Her laugh.)
Six.
(The way she says Em when she’s worried.)
Five.
(The wedding ring catching the light.)
Four.
(The life she never asked for but wanted anyway.)
Three.
Emily exhales.
Two.
(JJ. Perfect, pretty JJ.)
One.
Darkness swallows everything.
— — —
When Emily wakes up, her chest feels hollow.
Not empty.
Just… clear.
The constant pressure is gone.
No roots. No petals. No ache.
Emily inhales carefully.
Air flows smoothly.
And for the first time in months, breathing doesn’t hurt.
— — —
She tries to think of JJ.
Jennifer Jareau. BAU communications liaison. Former State Department. Married to Will LaMontagne. Two children. Emily knows all of that the way she knows any other fact about a colleague. Her mind supplies the information neatly, clinically.
But the feeling that used to come with it—
is gone.
Emily frowns faintly. She tries again, closing her eyes.
JJ laughing in the bullpen.
JJ’s hand brushing hers on the jet.
JJ smiling across a crowded room.
The memories are there.
But they feel… distant. Like photographs from someone else’s life. She can see them, describe them, even remember exactly what happened—but the warm pull in her chest that used to accompany those images has vanished completely.
Emily exhales slowly. The hollow sensation in her lungs spreads upward, settling somewhere behind her ribs.
The doctor wasn’t lying.
For better or for worse, it worked.
— — —
Three weeks later, she walks back into the BAU bullpen.
“Prentiss!” Morgan calls.
“Look who’s alive,” Rossi adds.
Reid looks relieved enough that it’s almost painful.
JJ stands from her desk.
For a split second their eyes meet.
Emily smiles automatically.
“Hey.”
JJ crosses the room and pulls her into a hug.
Emily hugs her back.
It feels… normal. Comfortable and familiar. Like hugging a friend you’ve known for years.
And for the first time, there is no twisting in her chest. No spark. No quiet longing that lingers after they separate.
Just warmth.
Just JJ.
And nothing more.